They left the inn just after midmorning, when Old Port Landa had finished waking but hadn't yet decided what kind of day it would be. The lobby smelled faintly of damp stone and boiled grain. The innkeeper leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching Matthew.
"You leaving already?" she asked, tone light, eyes anything but.
"For now," Matthew replied. "Wouldn't want to wear out our welcome."
She smiled, unabashed. "That would take effort."
Matthew returned the smile easily, the kind that suggested experience rather than intent. "Then we'll save it for later."
Shane waited by the door, back turned, attention fixed on the street beyond the threshold. He heard the exchange anyway. He always did. Matthew had been continuing this nonsense with that woman the entire time of their stay. It had its benefits. She did share any information she gathered, free of charge.
"Careful," the woman added. "City's been restless."
Matthew dipped his head. "Cities always are. People just notice when they get honest about it."
She laughed softly at that and stepped back as they passed.
Outside, the street was already filling, vendors setting up, dock workers drifting inland for food, voices overlapping without direction. Shane took two steps before something caught his attention.
A young woman crossed the street ahead of them, head lowered, white and gold robes pulled close against the chill. A single arm band circled her sleeve.
She moved carefully, keeping to the edges of foot traffic, eyes alert despite the softness of her posture. Green eyes, briefly visible as she glanced back toward the inn before turning away.
Shane slowed a fraction. He had seen her before. Somewhere narrow. Somewhere dim. The memory refused to settle into detail.
Matthew noticed the hesitation. "Rebecca," he said absently, adjusting his coat.
Shane looked at him. "What?"
"The girl," Matthew replied. "Inn helper. The sweet one. Church keeps her busy. We met her multiple times now."
Shane grunted. "You talk to everyone."
Matthew smiled. "Someone has to."
They continued on, the Church girl disappearing into the flow of the street, white and gold swallowed by stone and shadow. Shane didn't look back. But the name stayed with him longer than it should have.
They had learned the rhythm of Port Landa by attrition. They went by the churches again today, just observing, hoping to witness anything. Again, nothing. No new leads. No evidence Erin was even here. When Matthew grew hungry he guided Shane towards the cafe they frequented. They chose this café because it sat in the seam between districts.
Not quite dockside, not quite civic, close enough to the port that the air carried a permanent salt-metal tang, far enough inland that people still pretended politics mattered. The building itself had been retrofitted twice over, old stone bones wrapped in steel supports, glass panels bolted where windows once were. A place that had survived by adapting, not improving.
Tables spilled out onto the street beneath a patched awning, metal surfaces scarred by years of fists, tools, and spilled drinks. Each was bolted down, not for aesthetics but necessity. Public screens hung overhead, suspended from cable and rusted brackets, cycling through shipping schedules, Republic advisories, and carefully neutral headlines that said everything by omission.
Shane sat with his back to the wall, eyes on the street. He always did.
The wrapped bundle leaned against the bench beside him, cloth wound tight and weathered, its shape unmistakable even without detail. It altered the flow of the café in subtle ways. No one stared. They adjusted instead, chairs angled slightly away, footsteps curving wider than necessary. Shane was unsure if it was fear, or caution. Maybe both.
The waitress approached without hesitation. She moved differently than humans. Shane noticed it immediately, not because it was strange, but because it was precise. Every step measured. Every shift of weight deliberate, like someone constantly compensating for rules gravity had written for others, not for her. Mermaid.
Reinforced trousers hugged close around muscle meant for propulsion, not walking, the fabric cut to allow the backward angle of her ankles. She never rushed. Did not need to. The floor adjusted to her pace, not the other way around.
Her skin carried faint scale-patterns at the wrists and throat, catching the light when she leaned forward to set the cups down. Not decoration. Texture. Shane had seen similar patterns on dockworkers who spent more time in the water than out of it.
Her ears flared slightly as she turned her head, thin, fin-like fans instead of cartilage, translucent at the edges. They twitched once, subtle, as conversation rose behind them.
Her eyes were the real difference. Too dark. Too still. Built for depth and shadow, not daylight. They didn't flicker or wander the way human eyes did. When she looked at something, she measured it. She glanced at the wrapped bundle beside Shane's leg. Didn't comment. Didn't ask. Just adjusted her stance half a step farther away, instinctive and practiced, the way people did when they understood boundaries without needing them explained.
Her hair was loud, color dragged straight from the coast and refused to apologize for it. Braided tight to keep it out of the way, functional despite the defiance of the shade.
"What can I get you?"
Matthew answered. Shane watched the way her webbed hands moved instead, strong, quick, built to push through resistance, not lift weight.
"Two," Matthew replied calmly. "Hot. Whatever won't kill us."
She snorted once, a quick, breathy sound, and set about her work.
As she poured, her gaze flicked, not to Matthew. She leaned in slightly as she set the cups down.
"Zao ship docked a week ago," she said quietly. "Didn't stay long. Didn't unload like civilian freight. Too fast."
Shane's focus sharpened, though he didn't move.
"One of my boys said several gangs were nearby when it came in," she continued. "The ones people say work with the church."
Matthew's fingers stilled against the rim of his cup. "Name?"
She shook her head. "Wasn't posted. Republic registry flagged it as civilian trade." A pause. "Dock workers say otherwise. It was Zao. No question. Probably the weapons you're looking for."
She straightened slightly, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Crates moved at night. Heavy. Reinforced. No markings. The kind you don't open unless you're paid not to ask."
Matthew reached into his coat without looking.
"Appreciated," he said, sliding folded currency beneath the saucer.
Her eyes flicked down, then back up, expression unchanged. "Careful," she added. "The gangs are jumpy right now. Everyone's on edge. Don't approach unless you're ready for it."
She turned away as another patron waved her over, the moment sealing itself cleanly.
Around them, the café resumed its rhythm.
At the next table, two dockworkers spoke openly now, irritation edging their voices.
"Republic inspections again," one said. "Every other week now. Like Kalindor isn't already carrying half the damn trade on its back."
"They don't trust strength," the other replied. "Never have. Soon as someone proves they can hold a border and move freight without begging, the Republic tightens the leash."
A woman at the counter scoffed. "And Old Port Landa gets nothing. No repairs. No infrastructure. No aid. They pour everything into the northern ports and call it progress."
"That's city council for you," another voice added. "All polished scales and promises. None of them live down here."
"They show up for speeches," a man muttered. "Then disappear back behind glass towers."
Conversation shifted as a trio of clerks leaned closer together.
"You hear a prince was spotted last week?" one asked.
"Yeah. Prince Erik. He was seen near the Police headquarters."
"And what did that do for us?" another replied flatly. "Wave, leave, write reports?"
"Monarchy talks duty," the first said. "But duty doesn't fix collapsed piers or idle cranes."
"And even if he came to give help, if the city council keeps the purse, then it will not come our way."
A pause, heavier now.
"Still better than the Republic," someone else said. "At least Kalindor remembers whose land this is."
Shane listened without appearing to.
Outside, two dock foremen argued beneath a glowing logistics board, schedules shifting in real time.
"Look at that," Shane said quietly, eyes on the cranes in the distance. Too many idle. Too many routes rerouted without corresponding arrivals. "They're choking the southern flow to justify more oversight."
Matthew followed his gaze. "You think it's intentional?"
"Doesn't matter," Shane replied. "Result's the same. Starve one sector, then blame it for falling behind. Centralize the profit, externalize the damage."
Matthew studied him for a moment.
"This place is starting to look familiar," Shane added.
"Meaning?" Matthew asked.
"Meaning it's starting to look like a Zao city right before everyone agrees not to notice the cracks."
Matthew watched a foreman argue with a dockhand beneath a glowing logistics board, numbers shifting in real time, rerouting labor without discussion, without appeal.
"It's efficient," Matthew said at last.
"And brittle. It's what happens when a nation ignores too many problems," Shane scoffed. "They want to believe this place is special, but they ignore what truly matters."
"Spoken like a man that leads," Matthew smiled. "Looks like you actually learned something from your father."
"Enough," Shane snapped. "That isn't what I am meant to be anymore."
The screens overhead flickered.
A deep, dull thump rolled through the street, vibrating cups and cutlery. Not sharp. Not close. But heavy enough that the café went quiet in a single breath. Screens changed almost instantly.
Reports came on claiming a bomb went off somewhere in central Port Landa, still waiting on police to respond.
Shane was already standing.
"That was quite large," Matthew said.
"Yeah," Shane replied. "That was important."
They stepped outside as Port Landa did what it always did, redirected. Traffic lights shifted. Pedestrians altered course without complaint. Sirens threaded in from elsewhere, disciplined and distant. A large plume of smoke drifted skyward near the river. That was where he needed to be.
Then Shane saw the truck.
A flatbed moved against the redirected flow, its route pre-cleared. That was what caught his eye first, the way the city made space for it. Crates stacked high, reinforced, unmarked. Just like what the mermaid said.
Men in black and greys drove it. Unhurried. Shane's attention sharpened. They appeared to wear tactical gear. Masks on their faces. Weapons barely visible. At the rear of the truck stood a lone figure.
White robes and a red sash wrapped at the waist and trailing down one leg, deliberate and ceremonial. He stood easily among the cargo, one hand resting on a crate as if it belonged to him. A sword belted at his side. Shane felt the world constrict.
"That's him," he said quietly.
Matthew followed his gaze. He didn't ask how Shane knew.
The truck turned inland, away from the docks, toward older stone districts.
"We have to follow that truck," Shane snapped and hurried after it. Matthew kept pace.
They followed at a distance, blending into foot traffic, never closing enough to be noticed. The vehicle travelled towards the old civic district, towards a familiar plaza. The roads were less crowded than normal, even foot traffic was light. Everyone's attention was on the black cloud rising above the city.
The truck took them right to the Church of Saint's plaza, right where Shane felt it was going. The truck hopped the curb and stopped right at the base of the steps. White clad church members appeared before the truck finished moving.
The hierarchy was obvious if you knew how to look. Those with multiple arm bands stood near the entrance, positioned where they could see everything without being seen as in the way. Others deferred to them instinctively. Once the truck stopped moving, the lower ranked members immediately began to unload the crates.
Shane's eyes skimmed faces automatically, habit more than intent. One of them made him hesitate. The human girl. She did not help, but watched with a group of others at the entrance to church.
One figure stood apart.
Taller than most. Wrapped head to toe in layered fabric, dark robes over pale bandaging. A smooth mask concealed the face entirely. Even the others with authority deferred slightly, turning toward him when decisions were needed, waiting for his nod.
He did not rush. He watched.
The crates were unloaded carefully, carried not through the main doors but into a side passage partially concealed by decorative stonework.
The volunteers did not approach the crates.
They shifted instead, subtly redirecting foot traffic, offering water here, conversation there. Soft barriers. Shane watched the green-eyed woman step neatly into the path of an onlooker who had drifted too close, her smile gentle, her body angled just enough to turn him away without confrontation.
Once the truck was unloaded the men clad in black talked with the masked man. Shane knew that he was the leader of this operation. The man clad in white with the red sash jumped to the pavement now that his guarding duties were complete. He shifted his gaze towards the side of the street that Shane and Matthew stood watching.
Shane felt a cold thread of recognition settle behind his ribs as their eyes met. It felt too much like fate to be a coincidence. A flicker of recognition on his brother's face. Then something like satisfaction. He smiled.
Two years since their eyes met. Two years since all was erased and all lost. Shane felt the hate swell. It bubbled and grew. His sole focus was on the source of his hate.
Shane moved.
Matthew caught him instantly, hauling him back behind a vendor stall as Shane snarled, the sound ripped from somewhere deep and ugly.
"Don't," Matthew said sharply, low. "Not here."
Inside Shane's skull, something answered the rage. A presence he thought long controlled and hidden away. It twisted and pushed.
Heat bloomed along the wrapped bundle. A pressure like breath held too long. A presence that did not speak but urged.
Release me.
Shane's Vigor surged. Power filled him as steam burst from under his clothes. His burn was crisp and hot. He wanted blood.
The cloth blackened and fell away as fire erupted. The blade ignited from within, crystal blazing, internal veins of molten color racing through it. Flame clung to the surface without smoke or ash, heat bending the air as the Pyra Anima sang in fierce, wordless triumph.
Matthew swore once and tightened his grip.
"Shane," he said, steady despite the heat. "Look at me."
The sword pulsed, hungry.
Attack. Kill.
"If you use that here," Matthew continued, voice ironed flat, "you don't just kill him. There are too many for you to fight."
Shane's breath came ragged. The fire reflected in his eyes. Slowly, agonizingly, he forced the Vigor down and stopped his burn. A vast emptiness filled him as his rage turned to an ember instead of a blaze. The flames withdrew, leaving the blade dark again, warm and thrumming in his grip.
The sword grumbled as it went dormant again. Shane could feel it in the back of his mind. It's longing to burn bright and fierce. To devour.
Across the street, the man in white turned away and followed the masked figure and the others into the church. The doors closed behind them without urgency.
Shane sagged slightly, fury still coiled tight.
"He knew," Shane said.
"Yes," Matthew replied. "And he wanted you to know that he knew."
Shane stared at the closed doors, at the dove above them, peace carved into stone over a descent into darkness.
Hatred settled back into place. Not blinding. Directional. Port Landa hadn't noticed what just passed beneath it. Shane had. And now he knew where the city would bleed next.