Morning came.
Heat stayed in the stone. The room was warm and still, air used up by the night. Salt from the port hung in it. Sweat had dried on skin and cloth and lingered in the sheets.
The witcher lay awake.
The bed held two bodies. Linen was twisted and damp. The mattress dipped under the weight and had not risen back. When he shifted, it creaked and went quiet.
A woman slept beside him.
Her breathing was deep and even. One leg was curled over his thigh, the foot hooked loosely behind his knee. The weight of it held without tension, left there and forgotten. An arm lay across his side where it had fallen. He did not look at her.
The room kept the marks of the night. Warmth in the sheets. A faint smell that had nowhere else to go. Silence where there had been sound before.
Outside, the port started up. Rope pulled against wood. Something was dragged and set down. Gulls cried overhead.
He sat up.
The floor was cool under his feet. Stone drew heat out of him at once. He stayed there for a moment, listening.
Cloth went on. He stood and pulled on his boots.
—
The door closed behind him without sound.
He went down. The room below was already thinning of night and filling with work. Benches were being set straight. Ash was swept up and carried away. The smell was the same as the evening before, just flatter.
He took the same place he had the evening before.
The woman came over without being called. She set bread down and a bowl beside it. Something hot. A cup followed. She didn't comment. Neither did he.
He ate without pause, the bowl warming his hands. Around him, the room gathered itself—boots on stone, a chair dragged back, a voice raised and lowered again.
When the bowl was empty, he drank once and set the cup aside. Coin went down where it would be found.
He stood and went out into the street.
—
The street was already awake.
He walked past stacked barrels and open sheds where nets hung stiff from drying. The docks were busy in the way they always were at this hour—work starting before voices had fully risen. Rope rasped. Wood knocked and settled. Water slapped low against hulls.
Voices cut through the work.
"Take the slack."
"Watch your hands."
"Set it there."
Men shifted and adjusted without stopping what they were doing. Hands stayed busy. Work went on.
He stopped near the edge and looked out. Wind crossed the surface unevenly. Ships rode it at different angles, lines pulling and slackening as the water shifted beneath them.
He moved away from the water.
—
As the morning carried on, the streets narrowed. Shutters lifted a little at a time. Boards were laid across barrels. Cloth was shaken out and weighted at the corners. Fish were split open on tables, knives working fast, the smell sharp in the cooler air.
He passed through it.
Calls overlapped and broke apart.
"Fresh."
"Careful there."
"Don't touch unless you're buying."
Coin clicked. Someone argued the price and paid it anyway.
"Still not through," a man said behind a stall, dragging a crate into place.
"Since when?"
"Dawn."
Someone shifted a basket aside with their foot.
"Bridge again?"
"Island run's starting."
The crate was levered up and set down hard.
"Aretuza's pulling early."
That was the end of it. Someone called a price. A knife struck wood and kept going.
He found a stretch of wall where the stone still held shade and stopped there.
Bells rang farther off, closer to the water.
He waited there.
The market held its shape.
—
The sun climbed. Shade shortened and pulled back against the wall. Carts edged closer together and stayed there. Voices carried longer, less space left between them.
He pushed off the wall.
He took the narrower way, where the street thinned. Oil and worked hide cut through the smell of fish and stone.
The leatherworker's place was open.
The gear waited where he'd left it.
He put it on without hurry. Piece by piece. The weight returned in layers and stayed where it was set. He rolled one shoulder. Nothing pulled.
"How is it?" the man asked.
"Good enough," the witcher said.
Outside, the street felt different with the weight back on him.
—
The street widened again. The forge stood ahead with its doors open.
Heat rolled out low and steady, pressed into brick and iron. Inside, the hammer fell in a measured rhythm, each strike placed and finished before the next began.
He stopped just inside the shade.
The smith finished the line he was on before setting the hammer down. Steam lifted faintly where hot metal met water.
"On the bench," the man said, already turning away.
The steel sword lay where the light caught along the edge. Clean. Straight. He lifted it, tested the balance once, then slid it home. The weight settled without complaint.
The silver came next. Wrapped, then bare. He checked the edge and the guard, then set it where it belonged.
"Took time," the smith said. "But it's right now."
The witcher nodded.
No coin changed hands. That had already been done.
Outside, the street pressed harder than before. Heat sat in the stone and stayed there. With the steel on his back and the leather set, the weight was complete again.
He went to the yard where the horse was tied.
The animal lifted its head when he came close, then settled. He checked the tack, tightened what needed it, and loaded what he'd bought along the way—bread wrapped tight, dried meat, oats measured light. Enough to move. Not enough to linger.
When it was done, the pouch at his belt hung lean.
He led the horse out into the street and turned toward the gate.
The city did not slow for him. Noise stayed where it was. Work went on.
He left it behind.