Chapter 29 —

  Minra had learned, over many winters, that fear rarely arrived as panic.

  It came instead as repetition.

  The same thought returning at the wrong moments. The same absence of explanation gnawing at the edges of otherwise clean logic. The same name rising unbidden, unwanted, like a word remembered from a dream and carried into waking.

  Dreadmaw strider.

  She hated how easily the thought surfaced now.

  Not as belief—no, she refused that—but as a possibility that refused to die. It lingered beneath her reasoning, staining conclusions she had already reached, forcing her to circle back and justify them again. Every loss demanded explanation. Every disruption invited the same shadow.

  It was inefficient.

  She walked through the warehouse as if she owed it.

  In truth, she nearly did.

  The vast space breathed with quiet industry—crates stacked with deliberate precision, ropes coiled neatly, lanterns placed where they cast light without waste. The smell of salt, tar, and old wood clung to everything. Once, this place had belonged wholly to Korr. His name had carried weight here.

  Now, he rarely came.

  And when he did, the workers’ eyes followed Minra first.

  They straightened when she passed. Made room without being told. Work did not slow—but it adjusted, subtly, unconsciously, to her presence. Loyalty did not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it showed in habits, in instinct.

  In that sense, the warehouse was already hers.

  Footsteps approached from her left. Measured. Confident. A man who did not rush, because he was never rushed.

  He was tall, thin almost to the point of sharpness, with neatly cut blond hair and the faint stiffness of age settling into his posture. His smile was narrow, unsettling—one that suggested he enjoyed unpleasant tasks far more than he admitted.

  “You called for me, ma’am?” he asked.

  Minra did not answer immediately.

  She reached into her cloak and withdrew two pouches. One heavy with gold, its weight unmistakable. The other smaller, lighter, faintly cold to the touch—pale blue ore, its surface dull but unmistakable even in low light.

  She placed both into his hands.

  “Yes,” she said calmly. “This settles the debt of the three Broken Brutes at the Inn of the Seagull.”

  The man’s smile widened just slightly.

  “Give it to them,” Minra continued, her voice even, almost bored. “Promise them more pay. Steady work. Generous work.”

  She met his eyes.

  “On one condition.”

  His fingers tightened around the pouches. “Of course.”

  “They beat up, shake down, or kill anyone I tell them to,” she said. “You will not mention my name. You will refer to me only as your employer.”

  A pause.

  Then the man inclined his head. “Of course, ma’am.”

  Minra waved him off without ceremony. He turned and disappeared between the stacked crates, already thinking about how best to enjoy the task.

  She did not watch him go.

  Instead, her attention shifted to the mouth of the warehouse, where a boy stood staring out toward the sea. He was too young to belong here properly, too thin, his clothes a patchwork of borrowed fabric and old favors. He tried very hard not to look like he was waiting for someone.

  Minra pressed her unease deep, where it belonged, and approached him.

  “Hedrin sent you?” she asked.

  The boy startled visibly, then flushed when he recognized her. “Y—yes,” he stammered. “The beggar said… said the captain wants to meet.”

  “Tell the beggar,” Minra said, thinking aloud, “in the street of washing—no, the other one. Never mind. He’ll know it.”

  She crouched slightly to meet the boy’s eyes.

  “There will be a lady dressed in blue,” she continued. “She will meet the captain.”

  The boy nodded too quickly.

  Before he could run, Minra placed three coins into his hand.

  “One for you,” she said softly. “Two for the beggar.”

  Her smile sharpened just a touch.

  “Don’t steal from me, young man. The Marsh Teeth isn’t the only thing that can eat you.”

  She winked.

  Fear flashed across his face before he smothered it beneath an awkward, grateful grin. He nodded again and fled, coins clutched tightly as if they might vanish.

  Minra straightened and watched the sea for a moment longer.

  If the meeting with the Varissian fleet captain went as planned, her foothold over Liera Voss would deepen considerably. Control of animal imports alone would shift the balance—let alone ore, tariffs, and dock authority. Power did not need to be seized loudly. It only needed to grow steadily, roots spreading beneath stone until the structure above cracked under its own weight.

  Liera’s empire was impressive.

  Minra intended to grow one sturdier.

  Gunter remained elusive, but that was only a matter of time. Everyone had a weakness. Some simply hid theirs better.

  She turned back into the warehouse, inspecting it with a critical eye. The changes pleased her. New partitions. Better sightlines. Storage arranged for speed rather than tradition.

  Deep within, partially concealed by stacked timber and canvas screens, a small construction team worked in near silence. Picks struck stone with cloth-wrapped heads. Dirt was hauled away carefully, bucket by bucket.

  Hidden tunnels.

  Progress was slow.

  Silence, she had learned, was expensive. Skilled labor even more so. And her cut of the games—while growing—was not yet enough to accelerate the work without attracting attention.

  She thought of the northern hunters, bringing in the White Scythes. Dangerous creatures. Valuable ones.

  They should arrive in a fortnight.

  Maybe longer.

  Her gaze lingered on the shadowed back wall of the warehouse, where the stone seemed darker, heavier.

  Unbidden, her thoughts returned to the dreadmaw strider.

  To collapse. To silence. To the kind of destruction that did not care for ledgers or plans or loyalty.

  She forced the image away.

  Her empire was still standing.

  And she would not let a monster—real or imagined—decide otherwise.

  Numbers had always calmed her.

  Columns aligned. Debts accounted for. Percentages shaved thin enough to be invisible to anyone who did not know where to look. Korr’s ledgers were crude but serviceable; she corrected them without emotion, turning inefficiency into profit with the flick of a charcoal stick. When she finished, she drew up revised game structures for the arrival of the White Scythes—containment costs, handler incentives, audience restrictions, staged escalation.

  Violence sold best when it appeared barely controlled.

  By the time the ink dried, her pulse had slowed.

  She rose and dressed with intent. A large, dull, creamy cloak swallowed her shape, its fabric common enough to disappear in a crowd. Beneath it, a light blue dress clung to her curves—beautiful, deliberate, cut to suggest wealth without excess. In her pocket rested a ring: royal red stone, veined faintly with emerald green, set in heavy gold. It did not whisper status.

  It screamed it.

  She left the warehouse and walked toward the city’s lower heart, through salt-heavy air and narrowing streets, until she reached Brineveil Row—not the Street of Washing, but the one people mistook for it when they didn’t belong.

  The financial institute stood there like a patient animal: wide stone steps, narrow windows, guards who watched without seeming to. Minra requested a private room and a financial advisor.

  When the door closed behind them, she slid four sapphire-blue ores across the table.

  “Wait by the privy,” she said. “Until I leave.”

  The advisor hesitated—briefly. Then nodded, gathered the ore, and departed without further questions. The bribe was sufficient to silence curiosity.

  Minra removed her cloak, slipped the ring onto her finger, and sat.

  She did not wait long.

  The first man entered with the confidence of inherited wealth. Fat, heavily bearded, dressed in layered silks that strained at the seams. His eyes roamed her openly, skepticism sharpening his expression.

  “I was told—” he began.

  “I can procure two Aurochs placements in the next games,” Minra said smoothly, cutting him off. “With your name attached. Mister…?”

  He cleared his throat. “Zahredan Vol Marrik.”

  “Two are yours, Mister Vol Marrik,” she said. “Five percent of the revenue.”

  His face brightened immediately. He leaned back, already counting. “That is generous. And the duration of my rights?”

  “For four hundred and eighty blue sapphires,” Minra replied, “one game.”

  His smile faltered.

  “But,” she continued gently, “for a loyal supporter such as yourself—four thousand blue sapphires. Twelve games.”

  He frowned, calculating. Silence stretched.

  Then he nodded.

  She slid the contract across the table, sealed it with wax bearing a mark he did not recognize but respected all the same. Zahredan Vol Marrik left smiling, convinced he had outplayed her.

  Minra exhaled softly.

  The next man was older, thinner, dressed well but not richly. His hands shook when he spoke. He wanted Tricksters—his name on clever birds, crowd favorites. She gave him a deal.

  Not a good one.

  He took it anyway.

  Then the third arrived.

  Muscular. Tall. His beard was neatly kept, his clothes foreign but immaculate. He carried himself with deliberate formality—the posture of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Not young. Not old. Experienced.

  She had been expecting him.

  “Strange place to meet,” he said calmly, eyes flicking around the room. “Why not your own office? Unless you’re more bark than bite.”

  Minra did not answer.

  “Two hundred thousand,” she said instead, meeting his gaze. “For the small freckled one.”

  His expression did not change.

  “That is the only offer you will receive,” she continued evenly. “Consider it considerate, since you—and only you—will have a Tyrant in the games.”

  A pause.

  “And how,” he asked carefully, “can I be assured of this?”

  She slid the contract across the table.

  “As collateral,” she said, placing another document atop it, “I put up one of my smaller ships.”

  The title bore her name.

  It was forged beautifully.

  He studied it for a long moment.

  “And the beast?” he asked. “He will perform. He will win.”

  “Guaranteed,” Minra said, her tone flat and absolute.

  The man nodded once, signed, then knocked sharply on the inside of the door.

  One of his men entered, dragging a heavy chest across the stone floor.

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” the opium merchant said. “A show of good faith.”

  Minra stood, inclined her head, then sat again only once they were gone.

  That alone covered the hunters’ expenses.

  It more than covered compensation for the dead swamp scourges.

  The memory of the half-eaten carcass flashed unbidden—mud, bone, torn scale. A chill slid down her spine, brief but sharp.

  She crushed it.

  The day blurred into transactions. Merchant after merchant. Noble after noble. All foreign. All hungry. None of them knew the real structure beneath the city. None of them knew her name.

  They knew only Korr.

  And his games.

  As the sun dipped low, Minra removed the ring and buried it deep in her pocket. She folded the brown cloak carefully over her arm. The advisor returned, pale and obedient, and secured the gold and ore in her personal vault without a word.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She stepped back into the street, evening air cooling her skin.

  Now for the captain, she thought.

  And she walked on.

  The lamps were being lit as Minra walked.

  One by one, small flames bloomed along the street, turning dusk into a soft amber haze. The street itself was dull—too wide to feel intimate, too narrow to host trade. People passed through it rather than stopping: dockhands heading home, messengers weaving between bodies, clerks with tired eyes and ink-stained fingers. Feet moved constantly, but little changed hands. It was a street for transit, not business.

  She liked it for that reason.

  Noise without scrutiny.

  She turned down a side lane where the stones grew uneven and the buildings cheapened rapidly. Timber patched with scrap iron. Clay walls repaired with whatever could be found. Near the end stood a squat little house that leaned slightly to one side, as if tired of standing. A faint smell of poorly distilled liquor seeped from its doorway.

  A small man sometimes sold drink from here.

  Tonight, he was not the most important guest.

  The captain of the Varissian fleet sat on a low stool just outside the door, a cheap cup in hand, his posture relaxed in the careless way of someone who believed himself unobserved. He was broad-shouldered, dark-haired, his coat worn but once fine. Salt had worked its way into his beard.

  Minra approached without hesitation.

  “I am Korr’s assistant,” she said pleasantly.

  The man looked up, eyes narrowing briefly—then flicking to the blue of her dress as the cloak shifted.

  “Captain Arvesso Dain,” he said after a beat.

  She smiled. “A pleasure.”

  She turned and began walking, not checking to see if he followed.

  After a moment’s pause, he did.

  She led him down a narrow alley beside the liquor house, then another, then into a tightening maze of buildings pressed too close together. The air grew still. Sounds dulled. The city folded inward on itself.

  Finally, she stopped before a hut that appeared abandoned—its door warped, its windows dark and uninviting.

  She gestured.

  Captain Dain hesitated. His eyes scanned the shadows, his hand drifting closer to the knife at his belt.

  Then he stepped inside.

  Minra followed.

  Inside, Hedwin waited.

  She lit a small lamp as they entered, its glow warm and steady. The room was bare but clean—a table, a few crates, nothing worth stealing. Hedwin moved without speaking, already preparing.

  The captain looked Minra over more carefully now.

  She took a seat.

  Hedwin poured two cups of good beer—deep, solid cups, the kind made to last. Stonewake Veil brew. Expensive. Intentional. She placed them on the table and stepped back into the shadows.

  Minra slid the ring onto her finger once more.

  With the ringed hand, she lifted her cup and extended it toward the captain.

  “Let’s drink,” she said, “to peaceful sleep, successful deals, and copious profits. Then we talk.”

  Captain Dain scoffed softly—but raised his cup.

  They drank.

  Minra set her cup down first.

  “We hear old Liera doesn’t want to pay more for the opium you bring,” she said calmly. “We also hear she wants even more of it.”

  She paused, took another sip, watched him think.

  Before he could speak, she continued.

  “We also hear you’re stretched. Struggling to keep up.” She clicked her tongue lightly. “If that continues, you’ll fall out sooner rather than later.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “I don’t know where you get your information,” he said sternly, “but I’m not so stretched that I’d betray Liera. If that’s what you’re implying.”

  Minra smiled faintly.

  “Stretched enough to meet,” she said, lifting her cup again, “for the promise of a better deal.”

  He snorted. “Exactly that. Better deals are never a sin. Doesn’t mean I’m desperate—or willing to do the unthinkable. Who says I can’t help myself and Liera at the same time?”

  “Well,” Minra said smoothly, “lucky for you, we would never dream of offering anything else.”

  She lifted her shoulders slightly, a reassuring gesture.

  “We only want to help you stay financially above water—and firmly in Liera’s good books. We would hate to make an enemy of her in any way.”

  Captain Dain frowned, cautious now. Confused.

  “And what,” he asked, “do you gain from helping me?”

  Minra leaned back in her chair, resting one boot against a broken crate.

  “We want a friend with ships,” she said easily. “We have cargo that needs transport. Animals. Feed. Some fancy overseas straw.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing large. Nothing illegal. Nothing that draws attention.”

  She met his eyes.

  “And who better than a man with an entire fleet?”

  She continued without pause.

  “Besides—Liera doesn’t need to know everything you transport, does she? It doesn’t hurt her. It doesn’t hurt you. And you make new friends with Korr, who is becoming substantially wealthier by the week.”

  She sat back, lifting her cup again, taking small, careful sips. She preferred sweeter ale. This was strong, biting—but it served its purpose.

  The captain drank deeply.

  His brow furrowed. Then slowly, he nodded.

  “It sounds good,” he said. “Maybe I am interested. But how exactly do you help me?”

  Minra smiled—friendly, wicked.

  “We pay the increase in opium costs,” she said simply. “On Liera’s behalf. She gets her supply. You get your money. We get a friend and a few slots on your ships.”

  His face shifted—surprise, then disbelief.

  “That’s a lot of fucking money,” he said, laughing nervously. “Does Korr really have that kind of wealth all of a sudden?”

  Minra shrugged.

  “The games are generous.”

  That did it.

  Captain Dain nodded, smiling now, already calculating. “Then you can tell your master we have a deal.” He winked. “And compliment him on sending such a beautiful negotiator.”

  Minra smiled, content.

  They drank more. She spilled more than she consumed, keeping her mind sharp while his dulled. They spoke of routes, manifests, ports. By his fifth cup, his words slurred slightly.

  Time to end it.

  They stood. He shook her hand with excessive gratitude, bowing clumsily.

  As he turned to leave, Minra stopped him.

  “One more thing,” she said, pointing to Hedwin, who stood silent in the lamplight. “She will bring five new crew members to your ships tomorrow morning. They’re part of the deal.”

  He hesitated—just a second—then waved it off.

  “Fine. No problem at all.”

  And he left, humming a tune as he disappeared into the night.

  Hedwin turned to Minra, smiling approvingly.

  “With your body in that dress and a voice like a mermaid,” she said lightly, “anyone would submit to your deals. Good or bad.”

  Minra shifted, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face.

  “Hedwin,” she said gently, “you helped a great deal. I couldn’t have done this without you. We make a good team, my friend.”

  Hedwin blushed.

  Minra told her to finish the beer if she wished, then stepped back into the street.

  The lamps burned steadily.

  And Minra walked on—to her next task.

  By the time Minra got to the streets, exhaustion clung to her bones like damp wool.

  The beer had done nothing to soften her thoughts. If anything, it had sharpened them—peeled away the polite lies she told herself when busy. The night air was cool, almost kind, but the streets were not. Lanterns burned low and far apart, leaving long stretches of shadow where knives, debts, and desperate men thrived.

  She kept to those shadows anyway. It was safer to move unseen than to pretend authority protected her.

  The warehouse loomed ahead, dark and familiar, its outline cutting into the night like a held breath. Once inside, she wasted no time. A message had to be sent—quickly, quietly, and without intelligence behind it.

  She chose a fool.

  The beggar arrived wrapped in rags that might once have been a cloak, eyes hollow but hopeful at the smell of food. She fed him first. Properly. Watched his hands stop shaking before she spoke.

  There was a bucket—small, sealed with linen and wax. Unremarkable. Deadly.

  “Take this to Harlic,” she told him calmly. “Tell him to mix it into the feed of the new swamp scourges. All of it. No questions.”

  The poison inside was slow. Subtle. It would take a week before the animals weakened, another before they began to die. Time enough for hunger to set in. Time enough for instinct to rise.

  Whatever had torn through the last group of scourges would not stay away forever.

  Predators always returned to easy meat.

  “If anyone asks,” she added, “you lie. Say it’s special feed. Nothing more.”

  The beggar nodded too eagerly. She paid him well anyway. Fear worked better when fed properly.

  Once he was gone, the warehouse felt colder.

  Her thoughts returned—again, inevitably—to the dreadmaw striders.

  Too large to ignore. Too rare to dismiss. Territorial. Patient. They did not rampage blindly; they waited, learned routes, tested defenses. If one had come this far inland…

  But there were other possibilities.

  She sifted through memory like pages she had once been forbidden to dog-ear. Creatures of marsh and ruin. Pack hunters drawn to rot. Solitary titans driven by old wounds. She remembered diagrams, marginal notes, warnings written by hands long dead.

  Knowledge had once been her cage.

  Now it was her blade.

  By the time she reached her new quarters above the warehouse, her limbs ached with a fatigue that sleep alone would not cure. She sat on the edge of her finer bed—linen clean, mattress soft—and almost lay down.

  Almost.

  Instead, she stood abruptly and wrote a list by lamplight. Titles. Fragments. Scrolls she half-remembered but knew mattered. When she finished, she folded the paper once and went back down.

  The worker quarters were quiet. She found the woman she was looking for easily.

  Big. Broad-shouldered. Eyes small and thoughtful. Shy to the point of near silence. The kind of woman who listened more than she spoke—and remembered everything.

  Minra handed her the list.

  “In the old docks first,” she said gently. “Then the western traders. After that… anywhere that smells like dust and stubbornness.”

  The woman nodded, already committing the task to heart.

  “I need these,” Minra added softly. “Take your time—but don’t stop.”

  That was all it took. Precision recognized its own.

  Back in her quarters, Minra finally closed the door behind her.

  She undressed slowly, methodically. In the small mirror by the wall, she studied herself—short, curved, compact strength rather than softness. Her light orange-red hair fell loose over bare shoulders, curling slightly over her pink nipples, catching the lamplight like embers.

  She lifted her chin and whispered, barely audible even to herself:

  “You are a mastermind. A beautiful queen. No obstacle too big. No threat too dangerous. The game is yours.”

  Her smile came easily.

  This life—this chosen life—pleased her.

  Not trapped behind shelves and silence. Not borrowing power from ink and permission. This was movement. Risk. Hunger answered with hunger.

  And she intended to take everything.

  Minra lay down, extinguished the lamp, and let the dark close in—already dreaming of control.