Saalia

[Location: The Rusty Locket bar, Rudingham State, States of Revalette | Time: 21:24, Wednesday]

Pipe smoke and secrets choked the air in "The Rusty Locket," clinging to Saalia's skin like damp velvet as she nursed her ale. She hated the bitter aftertaste—like licking a copper coin—but tonight, she needed its dulling edge. Her dagger-hand traced the grain of the worn oak bartop while the other shredded a bread crust into tiny fragments. Around her, the guild's new recruits laughed too loudly, tossing coins at serving girls who flinched as metal struck their aprons.

Crunch. A man with oil-slicked hair slammed his tankard nearby, splattering foam across her forearm. She didn't flinch. She watched the droplets slide down her skin and vanish into her dark sleeve. Her pink eyes, half-hidden beneath lowered lashes, noted everything: his swollen purse, the fresh scabs on his knuckles, and the way his gaze lingered too long on a young barmaid delivering stew. The old guard would've broken those fingers for less.

She rubbed the rough ceramic rim of her mug. A memory surfaced—her first week, old Kaelen sliding her a honey cake after she'd lifted three silvers from a slaver's belt. "We don't steal from strugglers, lass. We balance scales." Now Kaelen's chair sat empty by the firepit, replaced by men who'd sell their mothers for a heavier coin purse.

She pushed her plate away, breadcrumbs scattering like tiny graves. Scritch-scritch-scratch. Her fingertips found the single gold coin in her pocket—lifted tonight from a merchant who'd poisoned whole blocks with tainted grain. She rolled it silently, feeling its ridges. Beneath the bar's din, its pure, faint ring became the only honest sound left.

Rain battered the shuttered windows outside. Inside, the laughter turned sour. Saalia's shoulders tightened; every muscle readied itself to melt into shadow. She breathed slow and deep. Just finish the drink. Then move. But the ale tasted like rust, and the gold in her pocket burned colder than winter.

[Location: Jailcells of Rudingham, States of Revalette. | Time: 02:12, Monday.]

The chill of rough-hewn stone seeped into Saalia’s back, a stark contrast to her sweat-damp tunic. Zariqum suns, this place reeks. Dank air, thick with mould, stagnant water, and a faint, metallic tang—old blood, perhaps—clawed at her throat. Dim light filtered through a high, barred window, barely illuminating the cramped cell. Three strides long. Two wide. Enough room to pace, if pacing didn’t make her feel like a caged animal.

She shifted against the cold wall, muscles protesting hours spent on the unforgiving stone after her capture. Her dark bob, matted at the temples, clung to her skin. Pink eyes scanned the cell with detached precision. No visible lock mechanism on the heavy oak door. Solid iron hinges. Window bars: thick, set deep, no rust. No weaknesses. Her hands, bound tightly behind her back with coarse rope, flexed futilely. Her boots were similarly restrained. Thorough. Professional. Not city watch. Someone with resources.

A slow drip echoed down the corridor—a maddening metronome. Saalia focused on it, anchoring her thoughts. How? The job was routine. Merchant Caradin. Dockworker cheat, grain-waterer. His coffers deserved lightening. It should have been clean: manse memorized, guard rotations clocked, locks picked smooth as silk. Yet they’d been waiting. Ambushed. Two large men in nondescript leathers, moves efficient, economical. Too efficient. Like they knew. Exactly when and where.

Cold dread washed over her, deeper than the cell’s chill. The Guild. The new Guild, greed widening, targets shifting. Caradin wasn’t just corrupt; he was connected. Had he paid off the Guild for protection? A bounty? Or worse… was this the Guild, tidying loose ends? She, clinging to the Old Code, was inconvenient. A dissonant note.

Her thumb rubbed reflexively against her bound finger, mimicking the ghost-feel of a coin. Smooth metal, faintest whisper. Futile. They’d stripped her: concealed daggers, lockpicks—slender slivers of steel worth gold now—the coin pouch meant for the orphanage. The thought of the children, expecting anonymous bread tomorrow, tightened her jaw.

[Location: Rudingham (outskirts), States of Revalette. | Time: 23:32, Friday.]

The humid air of Rudingham's outskirts—one of the several microstates within the States of Revalette—clung to Saalia's skin as she crouched on the clay-tiled roof overlooking Vorlan the Grain-Shaper’s villa. Moonlight glinted off the brass fittings of the second-story window—the one she’d spent three nights loosening. Vorlan’s ledgers, she thought, her fingers brushing the lockpicks at her belt. Proof he’s bribing tax assessors while dockworkers starve. Below, a guard’s boot scraped gravel. She froze, counting his footsteps: nine paces, pivot, nine paces back. Routine. Predictable. Easy.

A small shadow darted from the oleander bushes near the kitchen entrance. Saalia’s breath caught. A child, stick-thin and shivering, stretched trembling fingers toward a crate of overripe peaches by the servants' door. Stupid. Brave. The crate shifted with a dry rattle. Instantly, the guard’s lamp swung toward the sound. "Thief!" The shout ripped through the night. The child stumbled back, clutching a single bruised peach.

Saalia moved without thought. Her dagger slid silently from its sheath as she dropped from the roof, landing in a muffled crouch behind the guard. She slammed the flat of her blade against his temple. He crumpled soundlessly. Whirling, she seized the child’s arm—alarmingly thin beneath frayed wool—and yanked them both into the ink-black alley. Distant shouts echoed from the villa. Too many voices. Too close.

Pressed against damp brickwork, the child shoved a crumpled scrap of burlap into Saalia’s hand. A map, Saalia realized, tracing charcoal lines in the gloom—a warren of dockside alleys marked with a clumsy ‘X’. But wedged in the child’s pocket, something else caught the faint light: a pewter pendant shaped like twin coins. Saalia’s gut tightened. It was the Guild’s recruitment token, stamped with their new motto: Take Everything. They were teaching children this poison now. The Guildmaster is encouraging this? The stolen peach lay between them on the cobbles.

The thief was so focused on trying to comprehend the Guild's new recruitment methods she didn't hear the footsteps approaching the alley. Someone was about to find them. Saalia reached for the peach and offered it to the child.

[Location: City of Rudingham (Capital of the State of Rudingham), States of Revalette. | Time: 06:12, Sunday.]

The first traces of dawn streaked the grey stone wall opposite the window with pale gold. Saalia stirred, warmth seeping through the thin blanket. She wasn't alone. The person behind her radiated comforting heat, their arm draped loosely over her waist. The air held the sleepy scent of shared breath and lingering warmth beneath the rough woolen sheets.

Her eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim light. Pink irises fixed on dust motes dancing in the slanted rays. For a moment, the weight of her reality lifted—the Guild, the creeping corruption, the gnawing dissonance. There was only the other person's rhythmic breathing against her back, the quiet city not yet awake, and the rare luxury of not being cold or alone. She shifted minutely, pressing back into his embrace, savoring its solid comfort. Her hand found his forearm; her fingers traced idle patterns on his skin.

But a lifetime in the shadows bred hard habits. Even here, her senses widened. She tuned her ears past his steady breath: a distant cart clattering on cobblestones, a gull's cry near the docks, and the faint creak of settling timbers. Her gaze flicked automatically to the door, then the shuttered window. Secured. Good. Always check the exits.

A small sigh escaped her lips. The warmth was a balm against her perpetual chill of uncertainty. Yet beneath the surface calm, familiar questions stirred: Was this comfort paid for with ill-gotten coin? Was the Guild she served becoming indistinguishable from the parasites she hunted? The thought brought a twist of disgust low in her belly, warring with the simple pleasure of human contact. Her fingers stopped tracing, tensing almost imperceptibly.

Reaching without looking, her other hand found the single copper coin she’d left on the floorboard by the cot. Her thumb and forefinger rubbed the worn metal—a faint rasp vibrating against her calloused skin. A sound of authenticity. A grounding point in a world full of hollow things. Revalette Mint, Year of the Iron Crane, she identified silently. The ritual complete, she placed it back carefully.

The scent of leather from her discarded belt and daggers nearby, bundled with her dark tunic and leggings, mingled with the room's warmth. It smelled like necessity. Readiness. Like a life lived on a knife’s edge, even as the blade felt heavier and more tarnished every day. The thrum of the waking city outside grew louder, a reminder her sanctuary couldn’t last. Clink. The coin settled back on the floorboard. A small anchor.