"It's one coin," I whispered. My voice came out thin. "Why— why is that enough to—"
Myrina's hand dropped onto my shoulder, firm, grounding me whether I wanted it or not.
"One coin," she said low, "and I can patch the roof properly. No more buckets when it rains."
My throat tightened.
"One coin," she continued, "and you get real schooling. Not Nanda's class twice a week when she remembers."
Her gloved fingers squeezed my shoulder like she was sealing the thought into place.
"One coin," she said, "and you don't have to be an errand boy forever."
My stomach turned.
"And maybe," she added, softer, "we move closer to the capital. Three walls. Real guards. No pirates playing hero on the docks."
I stared at her glove like it was holding my world together—
and also like it was about to tear it apart.
"My life here is already good," I said, and I hated how small it sounded in a room full of steel and money.
For a flicker, her eyes softened.
Then the stubborn returned, bright and terrifying. "And it can be better."
Before I could find words sharp enough to cut through her certainty, a familiar voice shouted over the crowd.
"Myrina!"
I turned too fast.
Finn stood near the edge of the hall, waving like his arm might detach. Beside him was a man dressed too neatly for this place—clean coat, rings, hair that looked like it had never met sea wind.
His hands were smooth. Confident.
Hands that moved coins and made other people lift crates.
Behind them stood a tall butler with posture so straight it made soldiers look lazy.
Finn's father smiled at Myrina like they'd shared secrets in another life. "Myrina Austere," he said warmly. "Still standing tall."
Myrina's grin turned real this time. "Marcen Halwick. You show up in the weirdest moments."
Marcen spread his hands. "Opportunity has a scent. I simply have a refined nose."
Finn puffed his cheeks like he was personally offended by the sentence.
"Morning, Finn," Myrina said.
Finn tried to scowl and failed. "Morning."
Marcen's eyes slid to me. "And this must be the famous brother."
My throat locked.
I watched his hands.
They didn't fidget. They didn't shake.
They belonged to a world where people didn't worry about leaking roofs.
Myrina hooked a thumb toward me. "Trey. This is Marcen Halwick. Merchant. Loud mouth. Surprisingly hard to kill."
Marcen laughed. "She kept my wagons from being eaten back when I had two carts and a prayer."
"You paid," Myrina said.
"And you earned it." Marcen's smile stayed easy, but his eyes stayed sharp. "When I was starting out, she was the only adventurer who didn't treat me like a walking purse."
Finn rolled his eyes. "He still is a walking purse."
Marcen flicked Finn's forehead without looking. Finn yelped.
"Business," Marcen said cheerfully, "requires dignity."
"It requires you letting me go to the dungeon," Finn snapped, rubbing his forehead.
Myrina's brows lifted. "You're going?"
Marcen's smile didn't move, but his eyes narrowed. "I am. Not as a fighter."
He leaned in slightly, like he was sharing a trick. "Supply group. Food, rope, lamp oil. The things heroes forget until they're starving in the dark."
"That's…" Myrina nodded slowly. "Actually smart."
Marcen's eyes gleamed. "Merchants are like snowballs. You roll them through enough opportunity, and they don't stay small for long. This expedition? This is the hill."
Finn groaned like he'd heard the speech a thousand times. "He says that to bread."
Marcen ignored him. "I'm not a great merchant yet. But this—" He gestured toward the platform, the crowded hall, the heavy air. "—this is how you stop being small."
Finn grabbed his father's sleeve. "Then let me come!"
Marcen's smile turned sweet.
It was terrifying.
"No."
Finn's face crumpled. "What do you mean no?"
"I mean," Marcen said pleasantly, "I prefer you alive."
"That's not fair!"
Marcen turned to Myrina like Finn was a passing breeze. "I'll need fish salted for travel. Azuris dock market has the best stock. My son is… emotionally attached to the idea of being useful."
"I'm attached to the idea of being legendary!" Finn snapped.
Marcen continued smoothly. "Trey, would you accompany Finn to the market? I'll pay for the order."
A new adult. A request. Too many eyes.
My throat tightened until panic filled the space where words were supposed to go.
"I— I…"
Myrina leaned close to my ear. "Go," she whispered. "It keeps you out of trouble. And it keeps you from staring holes into the floor."
"That's not—"
"It is," she murmured.
Marcen tilted his head, still smiling. "No pressure. But it would help."
I swallowed hard. "…O-okay."
Finn stared at me like I'd personally betrayed his destiny.
"Wonderful," Myrina said, suddenly too bright. "Trey's never been to the docks properly. He should see where the city breathes."
"I know where the city breathes," Finn muttered.
Myrina's grin sharpened. "Then you can show him. Like a good citizen."
Finn opened his mouth to argue—
Marcen didn't let him.
"Bram," Marcen said.
The butler stepped forward in one smooth motion. "Yes, sir."
His voice was polite.
His presence felt like a locked door.
"Escort them," Marcen said. "Finn buys fish. Trey helps. And Finn does not run off and join a noble expedition like an idiot."
"I'm not an idiot!" Finn sputtered.
Bram inclined his head to me. "Young Master Trey. If you would follow."
My stomach jumped at the title.
"I—" My head started to nod again. I caught myself mid-motion like it was a crime. "Y-yes."
Finn crossed his arms and planted his feet. "I'm not going."
Bram didn't argue.
He bent down, scooped Finn up in one clean motion, and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
Finn yelped.
"PUT ME DOWN!" he shouted, flopping like a fish in a net. "I'M AN ADVENTURER! I'M GOING TO THE GREAT DUNGEON!"
"Yes, young master," Bram replied calmly. "Of course."
He started walking.
Finn kept flopping. His hands slapped Bram's back.
Bram didn't wobble.
Not once.
Finn's voice echoed through the hall, dramatic and doomed. "FATHER! THIS IS OPPRESSION!"
Marcen waved like he'd sent Finn off to school. "Bring him back with all limbs."
I stood frozen, watching Finn's shoes kick air.
Myrina nudged me. "Go before Bram decides you're luggage too."
My stomach lurched.
I turned back to Myrina.
Behind her, Garrand kept speaking, and the hall stayed full of steel and nobles and decisions I didn't understand.
But I couldn't hear any of it anymore.
All I could see was my sister—standing like she'd already stepped onto those endless stairs.
"I don't…" My voice cracked, and I hated it. "Just… come back."
Myrina's grin softened. "I will."
"You don't know that," I whispered.
Her eyes narrowed. "Hey."
She flicked my forehead—quick, sharp, familiar.
"Stop making that bathwater face," she said.
My throat tightened so hard it hurt.
And then I did something I hadn't planned.
I stepped forward and hugged her.
Her armor creaked. She froze for a heartbeat—then wrapped an arm around me and squeezed, tight enough to be a promise.
I spoke into her shoulder. "Bring me something."
Myrina snorted. "A souvenir?"
"Yeah," I mumbled. "So I know you actually went."
She pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were sharp again—but not cruel.
"Fine." Her grin turned awful. "I'll bring you a dungeon rock. A pebble. I'll carve I survived into it."
I huffed a laugh despite myself. "That's… lame."
"I'm your sister," she said, and flicked my forehead again. "Lame is my blood."
I rubbed my forehead, trying not to cry like an idiot in a crowded hall.
"Go," she said, softer. "And eat something greasy. Orders from your superior officer."
"Yes, ma'am," I muttered.
She smirked. "Look at you. So respectful."
I forced myself to turn away before my face betrayed me completely.
***
Outside, Bram was already halfway down the street, Finn still over his shoulder, still kicking and shouting at the sky.
"I WILL REMEMBER THIS DAY!" Finn bellowed. "THIS IS HOW VILLAINS ARE MADE!"
"Yes, young master," Bram replied politely.
"Stop saying yes like that!"
Bram did not stop walking.
I hurried after them, clutching my guild cord under my shirt like it could anchor me to something solid.
As we passed the line of carriages, something made my skin prickle.
Soldiers were loading crates onto the wagons.
Not barrels.
Not food.
Crates bound in iron, stamped with sigils that made my eyes want to slide away—like looking at them too directly would invite attention.
A faint smell leaked from one seam—sharp and cold, like the air right before a storm breaks.
"Careful," one soldier barked. "Don't drop the anti-miasma devices."
Another muttered, "They cost more than your life."
My stomach went hollow.
Bram didn't slow. Finn didn't even notice—too busy screaming about destiny.
And I followed them toward the market…
while behind me, the guild hall swallowed my sister into a crowd of steel, nobles, and a depth that didn't care who came back.