The docks tried to steal my nose before they stole anything else.
Salt hit first—sharp and wet—then fish and tar and smoke piled on top like the city had decided breathing should be earned. Every inhale tasted like iron hooks and sea spray, and somehow it still felt cleaner than the guild hall.
Bram didn't slow.
Finn didn't slow either—mostly because he was still on Bram's shoulder, kicking the air like a trapped eel with opinions.
"This is kidnapping!" Finn shouted, voice cracking with indignation.
"Yes, young master," Bram replied, calm as a priest.
"Stop saying yes like that! Say something normal!"
"Yes, young master."
Finn made a noise that didn't qualify as language.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Laughing felt dangerous—like it would invite the world to notice me.
My eyes did what they always did when my thoughts got messy.
Hands.
Bram's grip never shifted. Even with Finn flailing, Bram's fingers stayed effortless—steady, controlled, like he'd been built to hold chaos without letting it spill.
The street widened as we neared the water. Buildings changed too—tidy stone shops gave way to salt-stained timber, patched awnings, and ropes strung overhead like the whole district had been stitched together by sailors who didn't believe in straight lines.
Then the market opened up.
It wasn't just stalls.
It was alive.
Crates thudded like a heartbeat. Knives slapped boards in quick, angry rhythms. Vendors shouted prices like they were picking fights. Gulls screamed above, bold enough to dive between people and steal food right out of hands that weren't paying attention.
A fisherman barreled past with a basket on his back. I flattened myself against a post at the last second.
Finn's shoe swung close to my face as he kicked again.
"Watch it," I blurted before I could stop myself.
Finn twisted to look at me upside down, hair hanging like seaweed. His eyes were sharp even like that.
"You should watch where you stand," he snapped—then immediately looked away, like the words had escaped without permission.
Bram stopped at a stall with a long table covered in fish laid over crushed iceweed. The iceweed misted faintly under the sun, cold fog curling around silvery bodies like they were still breathing.
Bram set Finn down.
Not gently.
Not cruelly.
Just… efficiently, like placing something where it belonged.
Finn staggered, straightened his coat with offended dignity, and drew in a dramatic inhale like he could rebuild his pride using oxygen.
"I hate you," he told Bram.
Bram bowed slightly. "That is acceptable, young master."
Finn's face twisted. "It's not acceptable! You're supposed to feel bad!"
"I am a butler," Bram said evenly. "I feel bad on schedule."
A laugh slipped out of me—half cough, half real.
Finn's head snapped toward me. "Don't encourage him."
Bram turned just enough to address me, voice smooth. "You may laugh."
I froze like he'd handed me a weapon I didn't know how to hold.
"Th-thank you," I managed.
Finn groaned. "He's giving you permission to breathe."
The fishmonger behind the table had forearms like rope and a beard damp with sea spray. He grinned at Bram like they were old enemies.
"Halwick order?" he called.
Bram dipped his head. "Yes."
The fishmonger's gaze flicked over me, then Finn. "Little boss coming with you today?"
Finn lifted his chin. "I'm not little."
The fishmonger barked a laugh. "Sure you're not."
Finn's mouth opened—then shut, like he'd decided arguing was a waste of breath.
Instead, he stepped closer to the table.
And something in him changed.
His shoulders squared. His eyes sharpened. The tantrum fell off him like a coat tossed onto a chair.
"Two casks salted," Finn said, voice clipped and strangely adult. "One fresh, packed in iceweed. And I want the brine strength written on the slip."
The fishmonger blinked.
Bram said nothing—just stood behind Finn like a wall that knew how to nod politely.
The fishmonger recovered with a grin. "Look at you. Practicing your father's voice."
Finn's ears went red, but he didn't retreat. "Practice makes money."
I stared.
That wasn't a kid talking.
That was someone who'd been forced to learn the difference between waste and survival.
"Salted mackerel?" the fishmonger asked, already reaching. "Your father likes it."
"Not mackerel." Finn's tone didn't wobble. "Sardine and river eel. Mackerel spoils faster once opened."
The fishmonger's grin faltered—then turned impressed. "Well. You're learning."
Finn didn't look pleased. Just focused, like he was balancing on a narrow beam and refusing to look down.
He lifted two fingers, pointing at a fish without touching it. "Show me the gills."
The fishmonger arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
"If they're brown, I don't buy," Finn said, flat as stone. "If the eyes are cloudy, I don't buy. If you try to sell me yesterday's catch, I tell my father you cheat."
The air tightened.
Then the fishmonger snorted, amused and a little offended, and lifted a fish by its head, pulling the gill flap open wide.
"Red enough for you?"
Finn leaned closer, inspecting without laying a finger on it. Like touching meant agreeing.
"Red," Finn said. "And wet. Good."
My throat tightened for reasons I couldn't name.
Watching someone my age talk like the world would listen felt like staring at a door I didn't know I was allowed to open.
The fishmonger slid a paper across the table. "Sign here."
Bram didn't pull out a quill.
He produced a stamp.
Ink. Press. Lift.
A crisp crest bloomed on the paper like magic that didn't pretend to be magic.
I blinked before I could stop myself.
Finn caught my stare. "What?"
"Th-that stamp…" I started, then my throat tightened and the sentence died.
"For deliveries," Finn said like it was obvious. "So people don't pretend our order is theirs."
The fishmonger leaned forward with a sly grin. "See? Robbed."
Finn's eyes stayed flat. "If you don't track it, you're already robbed."
The line landed like a slap.
Finn turned to me, abrupt. "You know how to count, right?"
Heat crawled up my neck. "I c-can."
Finn grimaced. "Not like that."
"Not like what?" I blurted, too sharp.
Finn opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away. "Forget it."
Bram looked between us like he was watching two small animals decide whether to bite.
Finn's voice lowered—curious, not kind, not cruel. "Why are you staring at hands all the time?"
My stomach dropped.
He noticed.
"I'm… not," I lied.
Finn squinted. "You are."
Bram's calm voice slid in. "Young master Trey."
I jolted. "Yes—"
"Not 'yes,'" Bram corrected gently. "You may call me Bram."
The word felt too familiar on my tongue. "M-mister Bram."
"Not mister," he said. "Bram."
"…Bram," I repeated, and it still tasted wrong.
Finn rolled his eyes. "His name is Brambo. Bram is what normal people say because 'Brambo' sounds like a dog that guards barrels."
Bram remained neutral. "My name is Brambo."
Finn pointed triumphantly. "See?"
"Bram is acceptable," Brambo continued smoothly. "Brambo is correct."
Finn's triumph deflated like a punctured sail.
A laugh tried to climb out of me again.
Finn caught it. "What?"
"N-nothing," I said.
"Liar."
Behind us, the fishmonger shouted, "Order delivered by noon! Halwick seal confirmed!"
Bramb—Brambo—inclined his head. "Now," he said, "we return home."
Finn snapped toward the street that led back to the guild. "No. We go back. I want to see the—"
"Young master will go home," Brambo said, tone unchanged.
"I can go wherever I want."
Brambo took one step closer.
Finn stiffened like a cat catching a shadow. "You wouldn't."
Brambo lifted an eyebrow. "I already did."
Finn turned to me like he needed a witness. "Trey. Tell him."
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like the docks vanished beneath my feet.
Finn's fists were clenched.
Brambo's hands were relaxed.
The answer was obvious.
Saying it was not.
"I… I think," I stuttered, forcing air into my lungs, "I think you should… go home."
Finn stared at me like I'd stabbed him.
Then his face twisted into dramatic betrayal. "You're on his side too?"
"I— I'm sorry."
"Everyone is against me."
Brambo inclined his head. "Correct."
Finn made another noise that didn't qualify as language.
Then, smaller—quieter—he said, "I just… wanted to see it."
He didn't say dungeon.
He didn't have to.
My chest tightened. "You were really good back there," I said, words scraping out of me. "With the fish. The numbers."
Finn blinked like praise was a foreign object thrown at his face.
"It's not hard," he muttered.
"It is," I said, too fast. "F-for me."
Finn's eyes flicked away. "My father makes me do it. Over and over. If I get a number wrong, I do it again."
"That sounds…" I swallowed. "Awful."
Finn's jaw tightened. "It's normal."
Brambo spoke quietly, almost kind. "Master Marcen believes mistakes multiply."
Finn shot him a glare. "He believes everything is a lesson."
I hesitated, then asked the question that had been scratching at me since the guild.
"Do you… like it?"
Finn opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked toward the water—endless and too big.
"I like being useful," he said finally. "I like when my father looks at me like I'm… not just a child in the way."
His voice tightened.
"And I like when people stop calling me 'merchant brat' like it's an insult," he added.
That hit me in the ribs, because I knew what it felt like to be turned into a word.
"I get called… errand boy," I said, quiet.
Finn looked at me, sharp but not cruel. "They're idiots."
My throat tightened again.
"That's what my sister says," I murmured.
Finn's brows lifted. "Your sister talks like that?"
I hesitated. "She… flips people off a lot."
Finn blinked.
Then he laughed—short, surprised.
"Your sister is terrifying," he declared.
"She is," I agreed, and for once it felt good to say it.
Finn's laugh faded. His gaze slid back toward the city. Softer now.
"Is she… going?"
My stomach dropped all over again.
"…Yeah," I said. "She went."
Finn's mouth tightened. "Mine isn't. He'd rather chain me to the shop."
Bramb—Brambo—corrected gently. "Master Marcen would not chain you. The chain would ruin your posture."
"Bram," Finn snapped.
"Yes, young master."
Finn exhaled hard, then jabbed his chin at me like he had to hide caring under annoyance.
"If your sister is going, then the fish matters," he said. "Food matters. People don't win fights on empty stomachs."
It wasn't comforting.
But it was real.
"Th-thanks," I whispered.
Finn's ears turned red. "Don't thank me. It's just facts."
Brambo turned. "It is time."
Finn glared once toward the guild direction. Then at Brambo. Then, like he made a bargain with himself, he huffed.
"Fine. I'm going home," he snapped. "But I'm going to the guild again later."
Brambo's tone stayed polite. "No."
Finn's jaw clenched. "Yes."
Brambo stepped closer.
Finn threw both hands up. "All right! Don't touch me!"
Brambo nodded. "Thank you."
Finn pointed at me like it was my fault. "This isn't over."
"O-okay."
Finn scowled at my stutter, then sighed like he was tired of being angry. "Whatever. See you in class."
My chest did something stupid again.
"See you," I managed.
Brambo inclined his head to me. "Trey, then."
"Th-thank you," I said.
Something softened in his eyes—barely. "You are welcome."
Finn tried to walk.
He made it three steps before Brambo's hand landed on his shoulder.
Finn stiffened. "What are you doing?"
Brambo lifted him.
Just… lifted.
Finn's feet left the ground. His coat flapped. His pride died.
"PUT ME DOWN!" Finn shouted, flailing. "I AGREED TO WALK!"
Brambo hoisted him onto his shoulder like habit. "Young master agreed to go home. Young master did not specify the method."
Finn screamed something about oppression and fish and destiny as Brambo carried him away.
Then they were swallowed by the market.
I stood there, breathing salt and noise, feeling like I'd walked through a storm and somehow stayed dry.
My stomach growled.
Myrina's voice echoed in my head.
Eat something greasy.
I turned toward the food stalls.