A strange wave swept over Ogefil Island.
It was not the kind of wave that came from the sea, not the kind that men watched from the shore with hands raised and voices lifted in warning. It was the kind that moved through the streets, through the taverns, through the places where men gathered to drink and boast and forget. It was the kind that changed things without anyone noticing until the change was already there, already settled, already the thing that had always been and would always be.
Many changes rippled through the daily chaos—some small, some significant. But two transformations towered above the rest.
First: The brothels.
Men visited more frequently. Stayed longer. Returned sooner. The women who worked there, who had learned to read the faces of the men who came to them, found themselves reading faces that were different now.
The cause? A peculiar object called a "condom"—worn over their "main thing," as the whispers described it. Word spread among peers. Curiosity drew crowds. Soon, brothels faced an unprecedented problem: not enough women to meet demand.
"Seriously, mate. You should try it."
"Right, right! Nothing's gonna happen to your little thing!"
"My thing isn't little! I'll try it if you pay!"
Conversations like these filled taverns nightly—crass, eager, and endlessly repeated.
Second: The children.
The orphaned population—those gaunt, feral creatures that haunted every alley—began to vanish. Their usual spots sat empty. Their begging bowls collected dust.
"Hey, where'd all the little shits go?"
"Heard the Toric crew's been taking them in. Feeding them."
"All of them?"
"Crazy, right? Where they getting coin? They've got some of the Master's old business, sure, but that's still under the old man's thumb."
A shrug. A dismissal. "Forget it. Let's hit the brothel." "Your tab."
.....
In Solna's chamber...
"Bitch!"
The fat merchant's voice cracked like a whip. His right hand clenched into a meaty fist. His eyes blazed with the particular fury of a man denied what he had been promised. "Three months! It's been three months! How much longer do you expect me to wait?"
Solna's expression remained composed. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her chilim.
"I want that spiral-marked condom." Each word dripped with demand. "Or I cut supply of my merchandise. Permanently."
Behind Solna, guards shifted. Hands drifted toward sword hilts. Eyes hardened.
This fat bastard. Solna's thoughts churned behind calm features. I can't afford to lose him. He controls too many suppliers. But I can't give what I don't have.
"I'll try to produce it." Her voice was carefully placid. "Please be patient."
"PATIENT?" The merchant's face purpled. "I've been patient! Three months of patient! My friends mock me! They say the condom doesn't exist! That I imagined it! After all the boasting I did about my experience—"
He caught himself. Breathed. Controlled the explosion. "One week. I'll return in one week. If you want to continue doing business—with me, with my friends, with everyone I introduce you to—you will have that condom waiting."
He stood. His guards flanked him. "And remember: if you lose me, you lose everything. My dealers are your dealers. They all want to try that particular condom now. Thanks to my enthusiastic... recommendations."
Spit.
He left.
Solna stared at the closed door. "FUCK!"
The curse exploded into silence. Her composed mask shattered—frustration, anger, and something approaching panic flickering across her features.
Guards kept their heads down.
"Can we still not reproduce it?" The question came through gritted teeth. "The spiral-marked one?"
The scar-faced guard answered without looking up. "Our workers follow your instructions exactly. The process you gave them. But they cannot recreate that particular condom. Not even a simple mark. It's... it's like it resists copying."
"Useless!"
Heads sank lower.
Solna grabbed her chilim. Lit it. Drew deep. Smoke filled her lungs. Calm returned—forced, but present.
Before her lay the three-month ledger. Reports. Numbers. Results.
The condom transformed everything.
Rentals: up fifty percent. More men, more often, for longer.
Tips: up thirty percent. Satisfied customers pay extra.
Monthly revenue: up sixty percent overall.
But the real victory—the real victory—is efficiency.
Pregnancy rates: down seventy percent. Out of ten women, only three fall pregnant now. Sometimes two. And even those who do? They can keep working during pregnancy, using condoms for the jobs that don't risk the baby.
The invention saved my business. Made it thrive.
More smoke curled upward.
But that fat fucker. That merchant. I don't know what he experienced with that spiral-marked condom, but it hooked him. Now he's hooked his whole network. If I can't deliver...
Her head throbbed.
"What are those two doing now? The brat and his dog?"
"About them." The guard's voice was cautious. "They're... collecting orphans. Feeding them. Training some. A few have even started working the market stalls."
Solna's eyes narrowed.
The spiral marks. The free information. The production process he gave so willingly.
He played me.
I knew something was wrong. Felt it in my bones. But I dismissed it. I told myself he was just a child.
The spiral-marked ones are the real product. The enhanced version. The bait.
She rose. "We're going to meet them."
"Mistress, let me summon them. You shouldn't—"
"No." The word cut like glass. "I'll meet him myself."
Her eyes, reflected in a polished surface, held a new understanding. That child isn't a child. He's a predator. Laying perfect bait. Waiting for the prey to walk into his trap.
And I walked right in.