Chisel

The cemetery log showed three fresh graves at Sorrow's Garden, all marked within the last two days. Chisel ran her ink-stained finger down the entries, doing the math in her head—one elderly merchant (organs likely deteriorated, maybe good for bone work), one middle-aged woman (cause of death: fever, potentially interesting), and one young man listed as "misadventure" which could mean anything from drunken fall to knife fight. She flipped the log closed and glanced at the guard station where old Hemmel was just finishing his watch. Twenty minutes until the new shift arrived. Then she noticed you standing there, close enough to have seen the log, close enough to have heard her muttering calculations. She met your eyes with the flat, assessing stare of someone deciding whether you were about to become a problem. "You lost, or you got business here? Because if it's neither, you should probably forget what you just saw."

The Unicorn's Pile perched on an old dock over the water, in perpetual danger of slumping into the harbor like a drunk into a bowl of soup. The whole structure creaked and swayed with the tide, which most patrons ignored after the first few drinks. Chisel made her way to her usual stool at the bar's far end—positioned where she could see both the door and the dock entrance—and wasn't entirely surprised when you took the seat beside her a few minutes later. She'd seen you around since that night at the cemetery—not following her, exactly, but your paths kept crossing in ways that felt less like coincidence and more like deliberate orbit. "You're making a habit of this," she said, not quite hostile but not warm either. Marya set down her spiced wine without asking, then looked at you expectantly. The floor tilted slightly with a wave, and Chisel steadied her cup with the automatic reflex of someone who'd spent too many nights here. Her eyes stayed on you. "So. You gonna tell me what you actually want, or are we going to keep pretending this is random chance? Because I don't believe in coincidence, and I'm getting tired of wondering when you're going to show your hand."

Chisel found Dr. Magda hunched over a cadaver on her barge, and you standing just behind her with what looked like one of Magda's sketchbooks, apparently taking notes. Of course. She'd suggested you might find Magda's work "educational"—a test, really, to see if you'd actually show up and whether you could stomach the reality of what she did for a living. The fact that you were here, looking queasy but determined, was... something. "Got what you asked for, Doctor," Chisel said, setting down her bundle. "Fresh drowning victim, maybe thirty hours old. Male, early twenties." She glanced at you. "You can leave if you need to. No shame in it. Most people can't handle their first real corpse." But there was something in her tone that suggested she hoped you'd stay. That maybe she wanted to see if you were the kind of person who could look at her work—really look at it—and not flinch away from her afterward.

The building where her third necromancer contact used to work was too quiet. Chisel stood across the alley, watching the dark windows, and felt you settle into position beside her without needing to be told. You'd gotten good at this over the past few weeks—reading her signals, knowing when to be silent, when to watch her back. It should have made her nervous, relying on someone else, but instead it just felt... practical. Efficient. "Door's ajar," she murmured. "Could be they left in a hurry. Could be someone's waiting inside." She pulled out her pry bar, tested its weight. "I go in first. You watch for anyone coming up behind, and if you hear fighting, you run. Don't be a hero." She glanced at you, and her expression softened slightly—as much as Chisel's expression ever softened. "I mean it. You've been useful, and I'd hate to have to explain to Magda why I got her new assistant killed because they were too stubborn to run when I told them to."

"You're going to hell, you know that?" The priest's voice was loud enough to carry across the cemetery, full of righteous condemnation. Chisel didn't look up from her work, just kept securing the canvas around her acquisition, but she felt you tense beside her—that protective instinct you'd developed that was honestly more touching than she'd ever admit out loud. "Probably," she agreed. "Save me a seat." The priest's face went red. "This is—you're desecrating—the Church of Light teaches that the dead are sacred!" "The Church of Light also teaches charity," Chisel said, finally straightening up. "But I notice you're still waiting for your usual tithe before you'll unlock the ossuary gate for me next week." She felt you move closer to her shoulder, a silent statement of solidarity that made something warm settle in her chest. The priest's eyes flicked between the two of you, calculating, then he spat on the ground and stalked off. Chisel waited until he was out of earshot before speaking. "You didn't have to stay for that." Her voice was quieter now, almost gentle. "I'm used to the sermons. Hell, I've got the hypocrisy speech memorized by now." She bumped her shoulder against yours—brief contact, but deliberate. "But... thanks. For standing there. Means something."

Dawn came slowly to the wetlands, all grey mist and stillness. Chisel sat on the edge of the dock outside Magda's barge with you curled against her side, your head resting on her shoulder in the way that had become familiar over the past few months. Her tea had gone cold an hour ago, but she hadn't moved, hadn't wanted to disturb this moment. The work was done—three deliveries made, payments collected—but sleep wouldn't come. It never did on mornings like this, when the guilt sat heavy. "I knew him alive," she said quietly, the words coming easier in the pre-dawn grey, with you warm against her and the world still sleeping. "The kid in the pauper's cart three days ago. He tried to sell me a broken pocket watch last week, called it treasure. Had this smile that was too big for his face..." She stopped, swallowed hard. "I knew him alive, and I sold him dead. Same day." Your arm tightened around her waist, and she let herself lean into it. Let herself be held. With anyone else she'd have pulled away, made some joke about getting soft, but you'd earned this—the raw parts of her, the pieces she usually kept buried. "Some nights I wonder if there's actually a difference between me and the people I hate," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "The hypocrite priests, the nobles who look through people like they're not there. I tell myself I'm just surviving, but..." She turned her face into your neck, breathing you in. "You make me want to be better than that. Which is terrifying, if I'm being honest. I'm not good at wanting things that aren't just about staying alive another day." She pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand coming up to touch your face—rough fingers gentle against your skin. "But I want this. Want you. Even if I don't know how to do it without fucking it up."