The "Disposal Order" was pink.
It sat on Silas's desk like a wound in the grey morning light—a single, garish sheet of paper amidst the stacks of white and beige manifests. In the Records Office, pink meant Urgent. Pink meant Spoilage.
Silas stared at it. The ink was still fresh, the signature a sharp, aggressive scrawl he recognized instantly. Halven Voss.
Subject: Rihl, Taren. Grade: B (Standard). Destination: Plaza Holding Cells (The Pit). Action: Verify & Transfer.
Silas felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He didn't touch the paper. He didn't have to. He'd already memorized the details.
Grade B, he thought. Standard.
It was a meat-market classification. Grade A was high-value political prisoners—nobles, dissenters, people who needed to die with a speech. Grade C was the dregs—sick, broken, or boring. Grade B was the working class. Healthy enough to look good on the block, irrelevant enough to be forgotten by sunset.
"Mora."
Silas didn't jump. He turned slowly, pitching his face into the mask of the terrified clerk.
A guard stood at the end of the row. He was a Hawk—one of Calder's elite, not the local militia. His armor was polished to a mirror shine, the silver hawk on his breastplate gleaming.
"Director Voss wants that processed," the guard said, his voice bored. "Now. The Warden is waiting."
Silas picked up the pink sheet. It felt heavy, like holding a loaded gun.
"I... I usually handle the ore manifests, sir," Silas stammered, clutching his clipboard. "I've never done a... biological transfer."
The guard sneered. "Ore, meat. It's all inventory, clerk. Just sign the damn paper and walk it down to the Pit. Unless you want to explain to the Director why his schedule is slipping?"
"No! No, sir," Silas said quickly, standing up. He grabbed his coat. "I'm going. Right now."
He hurried out of the office, clutching the pink paper to his chest like a shield.
The walk to the Plaza was a descent into noise.
Stoneveil was waking up, but it wasn't the cheerful bustle of a market morning. It was the tense, rhythmic thrum of a city preparing for violence.
Silas kept his head down, navigating the crowds with the fluid anonymity of a man who didn't exist. He passed the eel stall. It was empty. Jessa wasn't there.
Smart, he thought. Stay underground until the storm breaks.
He reached the Plaza.
The guillotine platform loomed over the square, a massive structure of dark wood and iron. It was being cleaned. Two workers were scrubbing the deck with stiff brushes, the water running pink into the gutters.
Silas didn't look up. He looked down.
To the left of the platform, a heavy iron grate was set into the cobblestones. A set of stairs spiraled down into the dark.
The Pit.
A massive figure blocked the entrance. Warden Kael.
Silas knew the name from the files, but the reality was worse. Kael was a slab of muscle wrapped in stained leather. He had no neck, just a seamless transition from jaw to shoulder. He was eating an apple with a knife, slicing chunks off and stabbing them into his mouth.
Silas approached, holding the pink paper out like a white flag.
"Transfer order," Silas squeaked. "From Director Voss."
Kael stopped chewing. He looked at the paper, then at Silas. His eyes were small, piggish, and entirely devoid of mercy.
"You're new," Kael grunted. A piece of apple sprayed onto Silas's coat.
"Mora. Arlen Mora. I'm... I'm the new auditor."
"Auditor?" Kael laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound. "Voss is sending auditors for the meat now? Is he worried I'm skimming off the top?"
He stepped closer, looming over Silas. He smelled of stale beer and old blood.
"I don't need a clerk to tell me how to count heads," Kael growled. "Give me the paper and get lost."
He reached for the order.
Silas didn't let go.
It was a risk. A massive one. But Arlen Mora wasn't just a coward; he was a bureaucrat. And bureaucrats feared procedure more than violence.
"I can't, sir," Silas said, his voice trembling but his grip firm. "The Director... he was very specific. He wants verification. 'Grade B condition check.' He said... he said the last batch was 'bruised' and it looked bad for Lord Calder."
Kael paused. His hand hovered over the paper.
Bruised. It was a half-truth, polished for Kael's ears. Voss was a perfectionist. He treated executions like theater.
"Voss said that?" Kael asked, his eyes narrowing.
"He said if the prisoners are damaged, the Warden pays for the replacement," Silas lied, shrinking back as if terrified of his own words.
Kael stared at him for a long second. Then he spat on the ground.
"Fine," Kael grunted. "You want to inspect the stock? Be my guest. But if you puke on my floor, you're cleaning it up with your tongue."
He stepped aside and unlocked the grate.
Silas stepped past him, into the dark.
The Pit didn't smell like a prison. It smelled like a stable.
The air was thick with the scent of ammonia, damp straw, and unwashed bodies. The only light came from torches set into the walls, casting flickering shadows that danced across the iron bars.
Silas walked down the central corridor. The cells were small, cramped cages carved directly into the rock. Most were empty. Friday's condemned were still scattered across the cells.
He stopped at Cell 4.
A man was sitting on the floor, his back against the cold stone. He looked ordinary. Roughspun trousers, a torn shirt, hands calloused from dock work. He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't a rebel leader. He was just a guy.
Taren Rihl.
Silas checked the clipboard he'd pulled from his coat.
"Subject 404," Silas said, his voice echoing in the quiet corridor. "Stand up for inspection."
Taren looked up. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut. He moved slowly, stiffly, as if his joints were rusted.
"I didn't do it," Taren rasped. His voice was cracked, dry. "I didn't steal the crates. I told them."
"Stand up," Silas repeated, colder this time.
Taren struggled to his feet. He swayed slightly.
Silas stepped up to the bars. He pulled a measuring tape from his pocket—a prop, but a convincing one. He held it up, pretending to measure Taren's height through the bars.
"Turn around," Silas ordered.
Taren obeyed.
Silas leaned in, his face inches from the iron.
"Listen to me," Silas whispered. The sound was barely a breath, lost under the crackle of the torches.
Taren froze.
"Don't react," Silas hissed. "Jessa sent me. I'm working on getting you out."
Taren's shoulders tensed. He started to turn.
"Don't turn," Silas ordered, his voice rising back to the bureaucratic tenor. "Dorsal condition... acceptable. No major lacerations."
"Who..." Taren breathed.
"I'm the audit," Silas said. "Now cough."
Taren coughed. It was a wet, rattling sound.
"Lungs... congested," Silas noted loudly, scribbling on his paper. "Grade B verified. But barely."
He stepped back. He had seen enough. Taren was alive. He was mobile. And now, he was warned.
Silas signed the pink sheet with a flourish.
"He'll do," Silas said to the empty air.
He walked back to the entrance. Kael was waiting at the top of the stairs, picking his teeth with the knife.
"Well?" Kael asked. "Is the meat pretty enough for the Director?"
"Acceptable," Silas said, handing him the signed order. "But feed him some water. He's dehydrated. Voss hates it when they faint before the blade drops."
Kael snatched the paper. "Get out of here, clerk."
Silas scrambled up the stairs, bursting back into the grey light of the Plaza.
He took a deep breath, scrubbing the smell of the Pit from his lungs. He had done it. He had walked into the lion's den and walked out with its teeth.
He turned to head back to the office.
Then he stopped.
A rumble shook the cobblestones. Heavy wheels on stone.
Silas looked toward the main gate. A convoy of armored wagons was moving through the square. They were heavy, reinforced transport wains, flanked by a dozen Hawk Guards.
The Shipment, Silas thought. The Grade A Cargo.
But they weren't heading for the main gate. They weren't heading for the trade road.
They were turning right. Toward the East Docks. Toward Warehouse 4.
Silas watched them go. The manifest he'd stolen said Warehouse 4. But seeing it... seeing the sheer amount of steel guarding those rocks...
Varis isn't just selling it, Silas realized. He's evacuating it.
He turned and walked away, his mind racing.
Friday wasn't just an execution. It was a liquidation sale. And Silas was the only one who knew the price.
But knowing wasn't enough. He was one man against a fortress. He couldn't get close to Varis. He couldn't stop the shipment alone.
I need a lever, he thought. A big one.
His mind drifted back to the ship. To Jed Roone, bleeding out in the cabin. Sparkweave, Jed had said over stew. The spark of hope.
He remembered the Plaza execution. The third prisoner—Garran, who had grabbed the axe. Jessa had been there. She had been close. Too close. And she had stayed calm until the blade fell.
And now her brother is Grade B Spoilage.
The pieces clicked together. The combat grip on the knife. The lack of fear. How she'd been right there when Garran died.
She's not just a sister. He noted that. She's part of the resistance. Or she knows people who are.
If Jessa Rihl was connected to Sparkweave, she had the manpower he lacked. And he had the one thing she needed: the key to her brother's cell.
Silas turned away from the wagons. He wasn't going back to the office.
Time to negotiate, he thought.
The eel stall was empty.
The charcoal brazier was cold, the ash turned to grey sludge by the rain. But the smell lingered—a faint, ghostly trace of pepper and burnt fat clinging to the wet wood.
Silas stood under the awning, the water dripping from the brim of his hat. He scanned the mud around the stall. The rain was washing tracks away, but not fast enough.
He saw the footprints. Faint, hurried scuffs in the slush, leading away from the stall. They were small, light. Jessa. But they didn't head toward the Docks or the residential warrens. They headed toward the Tannery District.
Of course, Silas thought. The smell.
The Tannery was the only place in Stoneveil that smelled worse than the slaughterhouse. It was a chemical dead zone of lye, urine, and curing salts. Perfect for hiding a scent. Perfect for hiding a person.
He followed the trail.
The Tannery building was a massive, rotting barn that loomed out of the fog like a beached whale. The windows were boarded up. The air around it stung the eyes.
Silas slipped through a side door, the hinges screaming in protest.
Inside, it was a forest of dead skin.
Thousands of hides hung from the rafters on iron hooks—cow, sheep, and things that looked disturbingly reptilian. They formed a maze of leather walls, damp and stiff. The sound of dripping water echoed in the dark, a constant, rhythmic plip-plip-plip.
"I know you're here, Jessa," Silas said.
His voice was calm, pitched to carry through the heavy air without shouting.
"I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here to trade."
Silence answered him. Just the dripping water.
Silas took a step forward, pushing aside a stiff cowhide.
"I saw the wagons," he said. "Warehouse 4. They're moving everything. Fast. That's not a routine shipment—that's an evacuation."
Movement to his left. A shadow detaching itself from the leather.
Silas turned, his hand drifting to his belt.
But she was faster.
Cold steel pressed against his throat. A hand grabbed his collar, slamming him back against a vat of brine. The impact knocked the wind out of him.
Jessa was there, her face inches from his. Her eyes were wild, rimmed with red, but the hand holding the knife was rock steady.
"Give me one reason," she hissed, "why I shouldn't open your throat right now, clerk."
Silas didn't struggle. He felt the blade bite into his skin, a razor-thin line of pain.
"Because I know where Taren is," Silas choked out.
The knife didn't move. "Everyone knows where he is. The Pit."
"Cell 4," Silas said. "North corridor. Third lock from the gate. It's a standard tumbler, rusted on the bottom pin. And he's alive. Dehydrated, bruised ribs, but mobile."
Jessa's eyes widened slightly. The knife wavered, just a fraction of an inch.
"How do you know that?" she whispered.
"Because I put him there," Silas said.
It was the wrong thing to say.
Jessa snarled, her grip tightening. She shoved the knife harder against his windpipe. "You signed the order? You sent him to the block?"
"I signed the transfer!" Silas gasped, grabbing her wrist. He didn't fight back; he just held on. "If I hadn't, Voss would have sent a guard. A guard who wouldn't have checked his health. A guard who wouldn't have told you he's alive!"
He stared into her eyes, willing her to see the logic through the rage.
"I bought him time, Jessa! And I bought you the intel!"
Jessa stared at him, her chest heaving. The fury was warring with the desperation. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to save her brother.
Slowly, agonizingly, she lowered the knife.
"You're a monster, Arlen Mora," she spat, stepping back.
"I'm a calculator," Silas said, rubbing his throat. He checked his fingers. Blood. Just a drop. "And right now, the math says Varis Calder wins on Friday unless we stop him."
Jessa laughed. It was a harsh, broken sound. "Stop him? With what? My paring knife? You saw the guards. You saw the armor."
"I saw the fear," Silas corrected. "He's moving the ore because he's scared. He's cashing out. Which means he's vulnerable."
He took a step closer.
"I know about Sparkweave," he said.
The air left the room. Jessa froze. The knife came back up, instantly leveled at his chest.
"Who told you that name?" she whispered. The danger in her voice was different now. It wasn't emotional. It was professional.
"A man named Jed Roone," Silas said. "On the ship over. He died screaming it."
Jessa frowned. The confusion broke her mask.
"Roone?" she muttered. "We don't have a Roone. And we don't scream."
She looked at Silas, really looked at him, searching for the trap.
"If a mercenary knew the name," she said slowly, "then the Crown knows the name. Which means we're already burned."
"Or it means you're growing," Silas said. "And you need friends who can read the Crown's playbook."
He held out his hand.
"I can get you into the Pit. I can get Taren out. But I can't stop the shipment alone. I need bodies. I need a distraction."
Jessa looked at his hand. She looked at the blood on his neck.
"You want to trade a life for a riot," she said.
"I want to trade a life for a regicide," Silas said. "Varis dies on Friday. Or we all do, sooner or later."
Jessa hesitated. Then, she sheathed the knife.
"The Rusty Anchor," she said. "Harbor Quarter. Midnight. Come alone. And bring the transfer order."
"Why?"
"Because if you're lying," Jessa said, turning back into the shadows, "I want to kill you with the paper you signed."
She vanished into the maze of hides.
Silas stood alone in the dark, the smell of lye burning his nose.
He had the meeting. He had the alliance.
Now, he thought, touching the cut on his throat, I just have to survive the interview.