Old Friends, New Flames...?

Graywatch had a way of scrubbing hope from your bones, one cold drop at a time. The kind of rain that didn’t fall so much as settle into you, soaking through your coat, your boots, your skull. It came down like judgment from a tired god, steady and unimpressed. I stood at the edge of the Grand Plaza, collar turned high and mood turned low, watching the city pretend it had its act together.

The Plaza itself was all stone and spectacle, with pillars thick enough to make the dwarves proud and facades polished just enough to reflect the lie. Every major guild had a stake here. Looming monuments to coin, craft, and contracts. The Merchant Consortium, all marble and smugness. The Artisans' Guild with their sculpted archways and gold-inlaid signage. Even the Watchmen's Brotherhood had their little fortress of rules nestled behind iron bars and bureaucratic stink.

And in the center, casting a long wet shadow over it all, stood the statue of Kothar and Khasis, the twin gods of forge and craft. Their hammers raised toward the heavens, cloaks flowing like molten metal frozen mid-pour. Divine smiths, creators of wonders and weapons alike. Patron saints of Graywatch's better ambitions.

I used to look up at them and feel something like pride. Today I just felt wet.

Tucked in the far corner of the plaza, where the shine wore off and the gutter took over, sat a squat little building with a stable yard that smelled of wet straw, horses, and old pipe smoke. No fanfare. No guards. No marble columns screaming for attention. Just a cracked wooden sign hanging crooked on rusted hooks.

The Drayman’s Registry.

Not exactly the crown jewel of the plaza, but make no mistake, they were the ones that kept Graywatch moving. Every carriage, hackney, cab, and freight team answered to them—at least on paper. They didn’t sit on the Guild Council, didn’t throw parties, didn’t line the pockets of nobles. But if you wanted to license a cab, you came here with your hat in your hands and your papers in order.

I adjusted the weight of the coat on my shoulders, gave the gods one last look, then turned toward the unmarked door beneath the sagging awning. I had questions, and if I was lucky, the kind of luck that comes with a stiff drink and a broken nose, I’d find a few answers behind it.

After all, if you want to find ghosts in this city, follow the wheels. Cabs know where the bodies go.

I crossed the Guild Square with the slow certainty of a woman who knew she wouldn’t like what she found but couldn’t resist poking it anyway. In the time it took me to cross the wet stone courtyard, four cabs clattered in and out, iron-shod wheels hissing over the slick cobbles. Six poor souls went into that squat little building at the edge of the square and only five came out, each one looking like their dog had died and the city billed them for the grave.

I didn’t bother knocking.

The rain clung to me like guilt as I shoved open the door with the kind of authority that comes from being nearly seven feet tall and built like a bad decision. I half expected the inside of the Drayman’s Registry to smell like horse sweat and old tobacco, with some crusty stable master behind the desk nursing a cracked mug and a grudge against the world.

What I got instead was... lace curtains. Fragrant candles. A vase of fresh-cut flowers that did not belong in any office tied to Graywatch’s cab trade. The whole place had been scrubbed and dressed up like a maiden trying to impress the preacher. The desk, wide and polished to a suspicious shine, was too new and too nice. And seated behind it, clipboard in hand, lips painted and eyes brighter than the sun dared to be in this city, was a face I hadn’t expected in ten lifetimes.

“Trixie?”

She looked up and grinned like I’d just walked into a trap she spent all morning baiting.

“Well well, if it isn’t my favorite storm cloud in a trench coat,” she purred, setting the clipboard down with a flourish. “You’re a little wet, Lena. Sit too close and I might start sprouting flowers.”

I blinked. “What in the stuttering hells are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” She stood with a stretch that made her blouse sigh and her skirt smirk. “Independent Beacon’s on a… sabbatical. Let’s call it that. The editor’s hiding in some coastal town with a name no one can spell and half the staff scattered like leaves. Turns out when you expose a noble-backed soul-smuggling ring, the nobles don’t send thank-you notes.”

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to smile. “And you landed here?”

“Why not?” she said, walking around the desk with the confidence of a dryad who knew her roots. “Graywatch may be built on secrets and stone, but somebody’s gotta keep track of who rides where, when, and with what unpaid bribes. The Registry was a mess before I got here. Horses were the only things pulling their weight.”

I gave the office another look. “It shows. Smells more like a florist than a cab guild.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, hands on hips, brown eyes daring me to say more. “So what’s the occasion? You tracking a fare gone missing? Or just stopping by to see if I’m still mad about losing my job?”

“Didn’t know you had,” I admitted. “Wasn’t trying to get the paper shut down.”

“I know,” she said, voice softer now. “You did the right thing, Lena. The truth’s messy. Doesn’t mean I regret printing it. Just means I keep my plants in smaller pots now.”

We stood there a second, just two women soaked in different kinds of rain.

“You doing alright here?” I asked.

She smiled that practiced, dangerous smile. “I’m thriving. Got my own desk. Schedule’s mine to ruin. And I get to boss around cabbies without ever smelling like one.”

I snorted. “Still keeping secrets in clipboards?”

“Always.” She tapped it like it was sacred. “You looking for someone?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Got a black cab running quiet through the night. Picking folks up, not dropping them back off. Thought the Registry might’ve heard a whisper or two.”

Trixie’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it got sharper.

“Well then,” she said, turning back toward the inner office. “Let me show you what I’ve been digging up while the rest of this place naps. You’re not the only one who knows how to pull threads.”

And just like that, the florist-turned-gatekeeper of the cab world swept back into her office, clipboard swinging and heels tapping like war drums. Turns out, sometimes the prettiest gardens grow right over a grave.

Trixie disappeared into the back like a breeze slipping through a crack in the window, all sway and shadow, that damn clipboard tucked under one arm like it was a spellbook. The room she entered was all filing cabinets and forgotten corners, lit by a single sullen lamp that hummed with the kind of energy you only hear in places where secrets go to rot. It smelled like dust, paper, and a hint of lilac from whatever perfume she wore that day. Probably something exotic. Everything about Trixie was a little exotic.

I took a beat before following. No rush. Just long enough to take her in from behind and remind myself of a few things.

She wasn’t my type. Not even close. But I wasn’t blind. Trixie was the kind of beautiful that got people in trouble. Her curls bounced when she walked, like they had their own opinions. Her hips knew the power they carried, and her blouse had never met a button it respected. That was the dryad blood in her. Nature’s idea of a practical joke. She looked like springtime and smelled like temptation, but the real danger was north of her neck.

People underestimated her. Always had. I did once. Never again.

Under those soft eyes and that flirty little smile was a mind sharp enough to gut a god and catalog the innards alphabetically. She didn’t just remember everything, she arranged it, filed it, and gave it a cross-reference. She could map a corruption ring while brushing her hair. And maybe she would.

Trixie caught me watching. She didn’t say anything. Just gave me a playful smile that said she knew every thought I wasn’t thinking and probably a few I was.

“You gonna stand there brooding like a thundercloud in boots,” she said, “or are you coming in?”

I grunted and stepped over the threshold.

“I don’t brood,” I said. “I loom. Subtle difference.”

She laughed and kicked a stool toward me with the toe of one very sharp heel. I caught it with the side of my boot and sat down, the wood creaking under me like it had opinions about my weight. The room was cramped. Cozy, if you were being generous. Or trapped, if you’d ever dealt with the Guild of Debt Collectors.

“So,” I said, leaning forward, “what’ve you got, cab queen?”

Trixie dropped the clipboard on the little worktable between us and opened a drawer with more grace than should be legal. She pulled out a stack of reports bound together with a bit of twine and the kind of disdain usually reserved for sewer inspections.

“Black cab,” she said, flipping through the top pages. “No insignia. No lantern sigils. No license plate glyphs. Comes out of nowhere, usually late. Doesn’t wait for a fare, just rolls up and they get in. Some willingly, some not.”

I frowned. “How many?”

“Hard to say. Most of the reports come from the South End. Fens mostly. Place where complaints go to drown. No wall down there. Just swamp and fog and enough mold to start a religion.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

She tapped one page with a long, painted nail. “Seven confirmed sightings, five missing persons, four angry letters from mothers, two drunken ravings, and one dead cat that may or may not be related.”

“Hell of a ledger.”

“And that’s just from the last twelve nights.”

I scratched my jaw. “Names?”

She shook her head. “Nothing solid. Whoever’s driving that thing either doesn’t exist in our records or’s paying someone real good to keep it that way. The Guildmaster thinks it’s an unlicensed rogue operation. Wants to find them, fine them, and milk them dry. I think it’s darker.”

“You always were the romantic type.”

“Guilty,” she said, her eyes dancing as she tilted her head. “I got tasked with looking into it because I’m the ‘fresh eyes’ and ‘less likely to drink on the job’ hire. They didn’t realize I’d already memorized half the complaint archive before I unpacked my desk fern.”

I grinned despite myself. “You and me, Trix… we’ve got the same disease. Mixed blood and bad reputations.”

She leaned in a little, voice softer now. “Maybe. But the difference is I use my lashes. You use your fists.”

“Some folks don’t respond to batting lashes.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but your fists break a lot of furniture.”

“True.” I leaned back and stretched a little. “You’ve done good here, Trix. Real good.”

She smiled, warm and sly. “You saying that ‘cause you mean it, or just because you’re about to ask me to dig deeper?”

“Both.”

Trixie turned to grab another file from the wall cabinet. Her skirt twitched like it heard everything we said.

“Well then,” she said, “let’s go fishing in the muck and see what swims up. But if something bites, Lena, I want first crack at the story.”

I nodded. “Fair’s fair.”

And just like that, we got to work. Two misfits trying to catch a ghost cab riding through the city’s belly. One with a clipboard, the other with a clenched jaw and a gut full of bad hunches. Just another day in Graywatch.

****

Two hours later, the rain had stopped lying about being polite and was now falling with the enthusiasm of a drunk bard in a tavern brawl. My coat was soaked through at the shoulders and the ache in my hip was starting to mutter about retirement, but I kept walking. There were two things pulling me through the wet streets of the Merchant’s Quarter, and one of them was cheese-wrapped salvation.

Hester's Cheese Waffle.

If Graywatch had a patron saint of poor decisions and perfect comfort food, it was Hester, and I’d trade a crown’s ransom for one of her grease-stained beauties. Rumor was she’d moved her cart again, no doubt due to a combination of unpaid permits, fiery arguments with rival vendors, and one notable incident involving an attempted rat unionization. I followed the scent like a bloodhound raised on lactose and heartbreak.

The other reason I was trudging through the puddles involved a name, wrapped in muscle and leather and the kind of charm that Trixie practically purred about between bites of her apple. “Steven,” she’d said, with a wink that curled like smoke. “Not the name you expect on a barbarian, I know, but the man looks like he broke a door just by frowning at it. He’s got questions. About a missing boy. Said he thought the Black Cab might’ve taken him.”

I wasn’t looking for another man in my life. Not now. Not when the ghost of the last one still haunted my shoulders like a memory I hadn’t shaken loose. Agrin. The exiled princeling with the storm-colored eyes and the tragic past. He wanted a queen, or maybe a sword arm with benefits. What he got was me. And I don’t bend for fairy tales. I break them.

So Steven, or whatever his real name was, could be tall, dark, and shirtless in the moonlight for all I cared. If he had a lead on Elira Valehart, then he was worth chasing down. That’s all it was. I kept telling myself that, even as I picked up the pace when I spotted Hester’s cart.

It was parked between a spice merchant’s stall and a fortune-teller’s shack, exactly where it shouldn’t have been. A faint haze of steam and desperation curled from its griddle. Hester herself looked up as I approached, her face a battlefield of sunspots and defiance.

“Well, well,” she said, flipping a wedge of golden perfection. “If it ain’t the quarter-giant girl who eats like three men.”

“Four,” I said, digging into my coin pouch. “It’s been a long week.”

She passed over a slab of magic wrapped in crisp paper. I bit in and let the melted cheese and warm waffle short out whatever was left of my cynicism. For a few brief, holy seconds, I remembered what joy tasted like. Then it was back to work.

The Gray Gull was my destination. Not a dive, not quite respectable. A halfway house for traveling merchants and mercenaries who hadn’t gotten paid yet. Sailors spent their last coin there on hot food and cold beds. I’d never stayed, but I’d heard the walls had ears and the soup had ambition.

By the time I pushed open the door, the sun was playing coy behind a curtain of stormclouds and the wind had picked up its tune again.

The lobby of the Gray Gull smelled like old rope, wet wool, and yesterday’s ale. The floors were wood, scuffed but mopped. A squat brass lantern hung over the front desk, where a tired man with a ledger and a suspicious squint looked up as I stepped in.

He took me in from boots to brow, jaw tightening just a touch.

“Checking in?”

“No,” I said, shaking off the rain like a dog with a grudge. “I’m looking for someone. Goes by Steven. Big. Furry. Probably knocked on your ceiling instead of the door.”

The man scratched his chin, reluctant. I leaned in and smiled the kind of smile that never reached my eyes.

“This isn’t a favor,” I added. “This is a warning. If he’s not dangerous, I am.”

He blinked once, then pointed toward the stairs.

“Second floor. End of the hall.”

I nodded, letting the door swing shut behind me. The scent of saltwater and wet wood trailed me as I headed up, one hand resting on the hilt of my knife. Whatever this Steven knew, I was going to find out. Because I wasn’t chasing ghosts. I was hunting them. And if this barbarian had anything useful, he’d better start talking fast.

I stood outside the door longer than I wanted to admit. The hallway was quiet, except for the groan of the old wood beneath my boots and the murmur of storm winds pressing against the inn’s windows like restless ghosts. It wasn’t the first time I’d found myself outside a stranger’s room with more questions than answers. But it was the first time in a while I felt… off-balance.

I’m not what you’d call shy. Most days I walk into a room like I own the floorboards and the air between them. But something about the way Trixie described this man…this Steven, had me hesitating. She’d said he was my type. Big, broad, dark-eyed and quiet. The kind that carried more than swords across their backs. The kind that didn’t flinch when I stood to full height. The kind that could probably lift me without needing a prayer or a pulley system.

I wasn’t used to being the smaller one. And I didn’t quite know what to do with that thought. So I did what I always do when I don’t know what I feel.

I buried it.

I raised my fist and knocked, three sharp raps that said I wasn’t selling anything and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The door opened and everything Trixie said slammed into reality.

He filled the doorway like a statue made for war. Broad shoulders, dark hair, storm-washed eyes, and a jaw that looked like it could win a bar fight all by itself. The crooked grin he gave me didn’t help either, it was the kind that suggested he wasn’t sure if he wanted to charm you or wrestle you. And he’d probably enjoy both.

He wasn’t wearing his furs. Just a thin leather tunic that clung to him in all the places I told myself not to notice. But the part of me I usually kept locked up somewhere behind sarcasm and cheap whiskey took one look and muttered something embarrassingly hopeful.

I slapped that part of me back down where it belonged. Before he could say a word, I cut in.

“I hear your name is Steven,” I said, deadpan, my voice flat as alley stone. “I also hear that's a stupid name for a barbarian.”

That crooked grin wavered. He blinked once and stepped back. Surprise had that effect on people. Especially men who were used to opening doors and having the room fall in love with them.

That was all the opening I needed.

I brushed past him, shoulder to chest, and even through my soaked coat and his worn shirt, I felt the tension in him. Not the kind that screamed danger. No, this was worse. The kind that whispered promise.

I shut the door behind me, turned to face him, and gave him my best sergeant’s stare, the kind that said I’d seen enough to write the report and was just waiting for the excuse to call in the artillery.

“I hear you’re looking for a boy that’s gone missing,” I said, voice low, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. “I hope for your sake that’s the truth. And that you’re not looking for this boy for the wrong reasons.”

And just like that, the storm was inside the room.

The moment I mentioned the boy, the air went out of him like someone had punched a hole in his chest. He didn’t even try to hide it. Just sagged forward and sat on the edge of the bed like the weight of it all had finally caught up to him. Big man like that, you expect more resistance. But grief’s a clever brawler, it always lands the first hit.

The room was barely big enough for one of us, let alone two walking siege engines. A single bed, warped table, one sad little chair, and a cracked basin on a nightstand that looked like it had seen better decades. The window was more suggestion than ventilation, half-fogged with city grime. It smelled like wet boots and wood smoke.

I claimed the chair with a creak and stretched my legs out to make it look like I belonged. He rubbed his hands together, staring at the floor like it held answers. Eventually, he started talking, voice low, like the walls were listening.

“Name’s Steven,” he muttered. “Mercenary. Was with the Splitfang Company out of Riverstride. You might’ve heard of us.”

I nodded. I had. Bunch of fur-wrapped madmen swinging axes the size of street signs. Reputation for cleaning out bandit nests and starting bar fights they never lost.

“Been gone a few years,” he went on, voice going hoarse with the weight of memory. “Last time I saw home, my brother was barely bigger than a sack of flour. Parents waved me off with pride in their eyes and fear in their hearts. Said I was doing what I was meant to. Chasing coin, cracking skulls, serving a cause. Came back last month to ash and silence. House burned down years ago. Parents didn’t make it. But the boy…”

He looked up at me then. Storm-colored eyes. A little too sharp, a little too wet.

“The boy lived. Thorne. That’s his name.”

I didn’t say anything. Just leaned back, arms folded. Let the silence pull more out of him.

“Took a lot of asking around. Folks said he was passed off, bounced between foster homes like a cursed coin. Finally landed at some monastery just outside Graywatch. Sisters of Galeen. You know her?”

“Smiling goddess of fortunes and fish,” I said. “Loves to roll the dice.”

“Yeah. Well, they took good care of him. Least, that’s what I heard. Said he was thriving. Smart kid. Quiet. Quick hands. But six weeks ago… something happened.”

He stood and began to pace. It made the room feel like it was getting smaller with every step.

“Some scrap with the other orphans. Bigger boy tried throwing weight around, Thorne must’ve pushed back. Then fire. Real one. Fast. Wild. Some kids got hurt. Two didn’t make it.”

He stopped at the window, staring out like he could see the past from there.

“They blamed him. Said it came from his hands. Branded him a wild talent. Guild showed up with cuffs and cold hearts. Took him.”

“And the sisters?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Devastated. Tried to intervene, got stonewalled. Nobody at the Guild would talk. Still won’t. I’ve got coin. Favors. A few broken noses to my name from trying to get answers, but nothing. Best I managed was a junior mage too scared to lie. Said the boy didn’t stay long. Said a black cab picked him up. No markings. Just swallowed him whole.”

He finally turned back to me. His jaw clenched like he was holding back everything he hadn’t let himself feel.

“That’s where the trail ends.”

I let the silence settle in again, like ash after a fire. Then I nodded, just once.

“Thorne,” I said, letting the name settle on my tongue like a coin dropped into a deep well.

Steven looked up, hope clawing at his face like a man drowning in a dream.

“I haven’t met him,” I admitted, “not yet. But I’ve met the type: scared, cuffed, chewed up by a system that grinds kids like him into powder. And I’ve got a feeling this city hasn’t finished with him yet.”

The big man sat still, his breath slow and heavy, like the world might finally be giving him a fighting chance. I leaned forward, elbows on knees, letting the weight of it all press into the space between us.

“I was already chasing one missing kid,” I said. “What’s one more ghost in the fog?”

His storm-gray eyes searched mine, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between us. Not trust. Not yet. But the kind of understanding only two people carved from the same jagged edge of the world could share.

I stood, coat creaking, and nodded once.

“I’ll find your brother, Steven. Or I’ll burn half this rotten city trying.”

He didn’t thank me. Just gave the kind of nod that meant more than words. The kind men save for war and graves. And me? I walked out of that narrow little room already rewriting my list of enemies. The city of Graywatch had stolen a boy, and now it was my problem.

Gods help them.