Steak, Smoke, and Half-Truths

Graywatch never really sleeps. It paces. Stalks. Broods. The kind of city that doesn't do nights and days so much as long stretches of gray broken by rain, unfulfilled promises, and the occasional knife in the dark. By evening, the cobbles sweat and the shadows stretch like they're hunting something. I wasn’t in the mood to be hunted.

I had errands, loose ends that needed tugging, questions to ask the kinds of people who don’t look you in the eye unless you’ve already bloodied their nose. Steven, still a stupid name for a man who looks like he lost a wrestling match with a glacier, had gone off to do whatever muscle-bound mercenaries do to pass the time in cities like this. Probably sharpened something. Probably glowered at things.

We’d agreed to meet later for dinner. Not a date. Not even close. I’d told myself that three times already. I might’ve said it out loud once. Either way, I wasn’t buying my own story.

I pulled my coat tighter around me and started south.

The southern side of Graywatch doesn’t get many songs written about it. It’s where the map smudges, where the stone thins out and the earth starts to rot. The city’s wall curves awkwardly down this way, trying to pretend it has a grip on the Fens. It doesn’t. No one does. The swamps rise and fall with moods of their own, and the fog rolls in like it’s been sent on purpose.

The wall here isn’t much to look at. Dwarven-built, sure, but porous by design, arched with spillways, gaps, and little gate paths that let the bog breathe. The dwarves thought they were being clever, creating something that merged with the land. But like most clever ideas, it aged badly.

Back in the early days, some of the founding families had staked their claims down here. Built mansions like shrines to their own names, with the kind of optimism only old money can afford. They figured power would follow grace, and grace followed blood. They thought wrong.

Turns out, coin has better legs than lineage. While they waited for the city to wrap itself around them, the merchants and guild lords built upward and inward. Power pooled where the deals were made, not where the wine cellars were deepest. The grand homes down here became less and less grand. Paint peeled. Iron gates rusted. Some were sold off, others abandoned. A few remained, kept alive by pride, rot, or both.

Now the southern quarter is a strange place. Mansions with cracked marble columns loom next to collapsed warehouses and forgotten courtyards. Some streets are cobbled. Others are swamp-mud paths pretending to be respectable. Lanterns flicker, not because they’re low on oil, but because the fog chews at the flames.

This is where the black cab had been seen most often. Slipping through the mist like a ghost with a schedule. Picking people up. Never putting them back down.

If I were looking to disappear someone, I’d do it here too.

I paused at a corner, watching a stray dog limp across the street and vanish into the mist. The air smelled like wet copper and mildew. The kind of scent that meant something had died nearby, and the city just hadn’t noticed yet.

I stepped deeper into the neighborhood, eyes scanning doorways, alleys, and carriage tracks. Somewhere in all this quiet rot, answers waited. And tonight, I had questions with teeth.

When I’ve got too much on my mind, or not enough, I walk. Let the streets of Graywatch sort the difference for me. Tonight, like most nights, the city was trying to drown itself. The rain had taken a personal interest in being everywhere. Not a downpour, but a steady, misting curtain that blurred edges and softened lines. It made everything look like a memory.

I paused at a corner where four streets tangled together like they were arguing which direction was worse. The sun hadn’t fully gone down, but you wouldn’t know it. The light was a shade grayer than the dark, which was the closest we got to twilight in this part of town. I adjusted my hat, tugging it lower to keep the worst of the drizzle out of my eyes. The brim sagged with damp, like it was tired of trying.

My hand slid into the inside of my coat, hunting out my flask.

Not there.

I frowned and checked the other side. Nothing but the smooth lining of the pocket and a vague sense of betrayal. That’s when I smelled him.

I say smelled because hearing Murk never came first. The scent always arrived ahead of him, like an overconfident herald. It was never the same twice, sometimes moss, sometimes pipe smoke, sometimes something that reminded me of spiced root tea gone a little sour. Tonight it was woodsmoke and wet cedar, with a dash of peppermint, because of course it was.

I looked down and to the right, where trouble usually walked beside me. There he was. Three feet of grinning mischief in a hooded coat two sizes too big and a satchel that probably held more lies than items. Murk, my self-declared partner, shadow collector, and thief of breath and patience.

“You looking for this?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he tossed me my flask.

I caught it without blinking. “You been picking my pockets again, troll?”

He shrugged like it couldn’t be helped. “Lucky I did. Flask was half out and headed for the gutter. If I hadn’t been there, you’d be mourning its loss with bad whiskey and worse memories.”

I eyed him. “I mourn in silence.”

“Sure you do.”

I unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Burned just enough to remind me I was still alive. I wiped my mouth and narrowed my eyes at him. “So where’ve you been? I thought you vanished back into whatever hole you sleep in when you’re not pestering me.”

“Out,” he said, turning like the question bored him. “Asking questions. Finding threads.”

“And?”

“And I met someone,” he said, then gave me that look. The one with the raised brow and the slight smile, like he was daring me to ask just one more time.

“Who?”

He just tapped the side of his nose, winked, and gestured vaguely down the street with one stubby-fingered hand.

Of course. Murk liked his mysteries aged, wrapped in riddles, and served with a side of smugness.

He started walking, no explanation, no confirmation, just the quiet expectation that I’d follow. Which I did. Eventually. I took one last drink, capped the flask, and shoved it deep into the interior of my coat with a new awareness of how unsafe it truly was in there.

We moved through the district, past houses that had once dreamed of grandeur and now sagged with disappointment. Every corner was draped in shadows, and every puddle looked like it had something to hide. Then he turned into an alley.

Not a street. Not even a lane. Just a wound in the brickwork that smelled of mold and copper.

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At the end of it, behind a heap of trash and old crates, sat a man who looked like he’d made a home out of being forgotten. His boots didn’t match, one iron-toed and the other soft as a slipper. His coat had four different fabrics sewn together like a blind tailor had won a bet. His beard was wiry and long, but patches of it had been braided with bits of twine and… were those chicken bones?

He wasn’t a beggar. Not exactly. And he wasn’t a drunk either, not in the way drunks usually slump. He sat straight, with eyes that were cloudy yet focused, and a stillness that made the skin on the back of my neck twitch.

“Who’s this?” I asked quietly.

Murk just grinned. “Someone who listens when others forget how.”

I stared at the man. There was something about him, something that pulled at the edges of memory. Like a half-heard melody you know but can’t name.

Maybe I’d seen him before. Maybe not. But the air around him felt strange, charged. Like lightning in the distance or the hush before a confession.

Whatever he was, I had the feeling this alley was about to lead somewhere far darker than the shadows promised. And of course, Murk just kept smiling.

He started talking the moment we got close, but it came out in a whisper so faint it barely made it past his whiskers. Wind and fog swallowed the words whole before they reached me.

I sighed, knowing what I had to do. Squatting down in the filth of a Graywatch alley wasn’t exactly how I pictured spending my evening, but it wasn’t the worst place I’d ever knelt. The hem of my coat brushed wet mud and something I didn’t want to identify. Still, I dropped into a crouch, boots planted, knees cracking like old hinges.

The old man grinned wide, a mess of yellow teeth and whiskers. His breath smelled of damp cloth and long-forgotten vegetables. “You’re too tall for proper conversation,” he said, voice wheezy and dry.

“Tell me something I haven’t heard this week,” I muttered.

Too tall. Too strong. Too much. That’s what they always said. I was used to it. Truth be told, I’d rather be too much than not enough.

I leveled a look at him. “Start talking. Who are you, and what do you know?”

He scratched at a patch of scraggly hair on his neck and glanced over my shoulder like the shadows might be listening. “Name’s Justin.”

“That’s a lie,” I said flatly. “But you can keep it if it helps you sleep.”

He gave a chuckle like crumpled parchment. “Fair enough.”

I waited while he meandered through a few vague statements about weather, memory, and the shifting nature of truth. It was clear he was stalling, fishing for something.

I reached into my coat and pulled out two silver coins. Palmed one. Held the other just high enough to catch what little light crept into the alley. His eyes locked onto it like a starving man spotting meat. He licked his lips but didn’t speak.

I tossed him the first coin. He caught it with the reflex of someone who might’ve once been sharp before time and drink dulled the edge.

He rolled it between his fingers, then looked at me with something like focus.

“This alley?” he said, nodding at the filth-streaked stone around us. “Been mine for a little while. Long enough to see patterns where other folks don’t.”

“Patterns like what?” I asked, voice low.

“Black cab. No crest. No lanterns. Rolls through on the third and fifth days. Always just after sundown. Always heading up toward the center of the city. Never seen who gets in. Never seen it come back.”

I frowned. “You’re sure it doesn’t return?”

He shrugged. “Could be it does. But by then I’m either asleep, passed out, or... otherwise occupied.”

“Drunk.”

He grinned again, unashamed. “Most likely.”

I leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You’re not yanking my chain, are you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” His voice was almost sweet.

I studied him for a beat longer. Then reached into my coat and pulled the second coin out to join a third. Pressed both into his open palm.

“That third one’s for the next time you see something. You spot that cab again, take notice. I’ll be back to ask.”

He looked down at the coins, his smile going soft around the edges. “I might be here. Then again, I might not. That’s the thing about the road, isn’t it? You walk it long enough, you forget which places you’re meant to return to.”

Something about the way he said it tugged at a memory. Not a sharp one. Just a whisper in the back of my mind, like a half-remembered melody that didn’t belong to me. I filed it away.

I stood, knees groaning in protest, and turned to where Murk leaned against a broken rain barrel like he owned the alley.

“I’ve got a meeting to get to,” I said. “Don’t want to be late.”

He arched one fuzzy brow. “Hot date?”

“It’s not a date,” I replied a little too quickly. “It’s a meeting.”

“Sure,” he said, puffing on his pipe, the smoke curling like it was laughing too. “And I’m the Queen’s bloody hairdresser.”

I shot him a glare and walked out of the alley without another word.

Because I don’t do dates. I do problems. I do ghosts. I do grit and blood and too many secrets packed into not enough time. But dates? Those are for people who don’t walk through alleys like this one.

****

Almost an hour later I found myself stepping out of a cab and into the kind of twilight that passed for evening in Graywatch. The rain had thinned to a fine mist, enough to bead on your skin and make your coat feel like it weighed twice what it should. I stood outside a place I’d never been before, trying to decide whether I’d just made a mistake.

The Bull and Barrel.

Big carved sign out front with a charging bull wrapped around a keg like it was ready to gore anyone who drank the last pint. A pair of thick iron lanterns flanked the door, glowing warm against the gray. It smelled of hickory smoke and slow-cooked meat, which made me feel halfway normal again.

Steven had picked the place. Said he’d be hungry after whatever business he had to handle. I’d agreed, mostly because I didn’t have a better idea, and partially because… well, I was curious. About him. About what kind of man calls himself a barbarian and then picks a steakhouse that looks like it came with its own war hymn.

The door swung open with a soft chime, and I stepped into something I hadn’t expected.

The inside was warm, thick with the scent of grilled meat and spice-rubbed perfection. Dark beams crisscrossed the ceiling. The walls were decorated with old weapons, not for show but for memory. A massive open kitchen filled the back wall, and somewhere behind it, I could hear the unmistakable sound of a cleaver meeting bone.

“Welcome to The Bull and Barrel,” came a voice like warm honey with a wicked little kick.

She stood just inside the threshold, smiling up at me with wide amber eyes and an expression that could sell secrets. She was tall, maybe a hand shorter than me, and carried herself with a kind of soft poise that only made the horn peeking from her dark curls more striking.

Half-minotaur. That much was obvious. But she wore her bloodline like velvet: graceful, confident, and completely in charge.

“Can I take your coat and hat?” she asked, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

I hesitated. The coat was heavy, familiar. Like armor you wear because it’s been with you through worse. But her smile was disarming, and something about her reminded me that not every kindness was baited. I relented, peeling the coat off slowly and handing it over along with my hat.

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone,” I said. “Big. Broad shoulders. Crooked smile. Might answer to ‘Steven’ if you say it slow enough.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I know exactly who you mean. Right this way.”

She led me through the low hum of clinking silverware and quiet conversation, past tables of guildsmen, merchants, and one or two mercenaries pretending they weren’t watching everything that moved.

And there he was… Steven.

Except he wasn’t Steven the barbarian anymore. Not in the way I’d first met him.

Gone were the wild leathers and travel-worn furs. His hair was tied back in a neat knot, the scruff on his jaw trimmed. He wore a homespun shirt that clung politely to his frame and a pair of breeches that had been brushed free of road dust. Clean, composed, and smiling like he’d just won a duel with fate and gotten a second round on the house.

He stood the second he saw me, that damn crooked grin stretching wide. He moved like he was about to pull my chair out.

I stopped dead and gave him a look sharp enough to shave with. He froze, chuckled under his breath, and settled back into his seat. I slid into the chair opposite him, ignoring the way my pulse reacted like it hadn’t gotten the memo. I was here for a case, not whatever that look in his eyes meant.

A few minutes later the hostess returned, still glowing like lantern light.

“Ready to order?”

“I haven’t even looked at a menu,” I said.

“We don’t really have one,” she replied. “This is a steakhouse. We serve steak. Whatever vegetables are fresh in the market. My father believes in doing one thing better than anyone else.”

“And your father is...?”

“Kolvar,” she said with a touch of pride. “Trained as a chef in the capital after leaving army. He opened this place to prove something. I think he did.”

I nodded slowly. “A minotaur who serves beef. That’s something.”

She laughed. “We get that a lot. He’s a chef first, minotaur second. He says it’s not about the cow, it’s about the cut.”

Steven looked delighted by that. “Medium rare,” he said.

“Same,” I echoed, then added, “Whiskey, neat. Make it a double.”

“Mead for me,” Steven said. “Something cold and strong.”

The hostess bowed her head and turned, leaving us in the flickering warmth of firelight and unspoken questions. He leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on me like I was some kind of puzzle he was enjoying too much to solve.

After the whiskey and mead arrived quickly, I sipped in the silence, let it hang.

He thought this was a date. I didn’t. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

And I never lie to myself.

Except for when I do.