Corgren slipped through the side door as men dragged Hacker’s corpse down the passage. The dead Hartian’s boots scraped stone beyond the pit. A smirk tugged Corgren’s lips—so much for licking boots. He stepped onto the dark street near the Hart River. Trade boats rocked against the wharves a stone’s throw away. Water lapped at their hulls in the stillness, the one he and his brother owned rocking on the river’s current as if beckoning him, poised for another leg of their voyage.


    Minutes stretched too long. Tension coiled in Corgren’s neck—Paugren dawdled past the reasonable time to collect. He turned toward the warehouse to hunt his brother. A shadow shifted near the wall. His hand brushed his knife’s hilt as his pulse quickened. “Who’s there?” His voice rasped into the gloom.


    A cloaked man emerged from the dark. His hood veiled his face, but he raised empty hands. “Easy, friend. I mean no harm.” His tone carried a calm hiding an edge.


    Corgren flicked his gaze beyond the stranger. No ambush waited in the shadows. Distrust still tightened his chest. “What do you want?” His words bit sharp in the darkness.


    The stranger stood taller and met his eyes. “I saw your fight. Well done. You’ve got skill—and luck.” His teeth flashed in the faint streetlamp glow.


    Corgren sniffed at the flattery. “No luck in it. We’re not friends.” His fingers hovered near his blade, ready.


    A smile glinted under the hood. “Not yet. I can help you.” The stranger’s voice slid smoothly, like oil on steel.


    Corgren waved a dismissive hand. His scowl deepened. “For a price, I’d wager. Be gone before my knife finds you.” His threat hung heavily between them.


    The stranger shook his head. “No coin. An offer. You could rise above this river muck.” His words lingered in the damp air.


    “We’ve got enough.” Corgren’s gut twisted. Lucinda had died with nothing, thanks to Hartians.


    “You think so?” The stranger edged closer. “Men will rig your bouts, claim your winnings. Defy them, and they’ll spill your blood.” His tone hardened, a blade beneath silk.


    Corgren leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “That’s old news. How do you know their game?” His mind snagged on Paugren’s absence. Trouble brewed.


    The stranger shrugged. “They’re my men.” His calm cut through the night’s quiet.


    Corgren lunged forward and seized the man’s cloak. He slammed him against the bricks. “What did you do to Paugren? Who are you?” His knife pressed the stranger’s throat. Rage pulsed in his veins.


    The man pried Corgren’s grip loose with uncanny ease. He pushed the blade aside. “My name stays unspoken. Paugren’s fine, just tangled with a woman, likely.” His voice flowed steadily.


    Corgren stepped back, fingers flexing. The stranger’s strength unsettled him. He squinted at the hooded face. “How do you know him?” Suspicion gnawed deeper. Paugren chased whores too freely.


    The stranger sniffed. “She’s mine too.” A low chuckle rumbled from him.


    Corgren tilted his head. His eyebrows rose. “You own everyone here?” His tone dripped doubt.


    “Not so simple.” The stranger adjusted his cloak. “I know my people and their doings.” His words carried quiet weight.


    Corgren turned for the wharves. “I want no part of your schemes.” His boots scuffed the street stones.


    “Don’t be so sure.” The stranger’s voice halted him mid-step.


    “What’s that mean?” Corgren paused. His hand rested on his knife.


    The stranger faced him squarely. “I offer more than ring scraps and river hauls. Money. Power. A chance to crush Hart under Rok’s boot.” His promise gleamed like a honed blade in the dark.


    Corgren crossed his arms again. “What of it?” Hartian blood stained Lucinda’s death—power called to him.


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    “I saw your face.” The stranger tilted his head. “That grudge burns hot.” His gaze pierced the gloom.


    “What do you want from me?” Corgren’s jaw clenched tight.


    “My reach will flood this land for years.” The stranger spread his hands. “I need men like you—skilled, driven.” His voice swelled with purpose.


    Corgren rubbed his neck. “I don’t know.” Shadows clung to the offer—crooked, no doubt. “You want my service.” Hart’s ruin dangled within reach with temptation. “I’ll think on it.”


    His mind churned with the weight of the offer.


    The stranger patted his shoulder. “Wise men weigh their choices.” He turned to leave, then glanced back. “Service to me trumps Hart’s chains—or petty thieves. You won’t always rule the ring.” His cloak melded with the night.


    “How do I find you?” Corgren called into the dark.


    “I’ll find you.” The stranger’s voice faded. Silence swallowed the street.


    Corgren spun at a shuffle behind him. An old man stood under a wide-brimmed hat. He swayed closer. “Watch out, drunk.” Corgren brushed past, eyes on the oldster’s hands—no danger gleamed there.


    “Watch that one.” The old man jabbed a thumb at the vanished stranger. “A trickster. Dangerous.” His voice rasped like wind through dead leaves.


    Corgren whirled. “What’s that? You know him? Who are you?” His pulse thudded hard.


    “I know him.” The old man nodded. “He’ll bleed you dry. Heed my warning.” Blue eyes glinted under the hat in the streetlamp’s haze.


    Corgren bent to see the face. Shadows cloaked it still. “I’ll judge that. Thanks anyway.” He strode to the warehouse door. Paugren wasted too much time.


    “Lucinda wouldn’t trust him.” The old man’s words struck his back like a stabbing blade. “She’d warn you off.” His tone carried her ghost.


    Corgren froze. He spun into the empty street. “What did you say? Where’d you go?” His shout bounced unanswered. No footsteps echoed. Lucinda’s name twisted his gut—how did this stranger know her?


    “What’re you yelling at?” Paugren stumbled from the warehouse. His grin hung loose. A jug swung in his hand. “Drunk already?” Liquor wafted from his breath.


    Corgren scowled at his brother. “Some fool talking foolishness. Where’ve you been?” His tone sliced sharp.


    Paugren halted. His eyes narrowed at Corgren’s edge. “Settling up. Where else?” His jug sloshed with each word.


    “Took too long.” Corgren glared. “Spending my winnings on a woman, no doubt.” His voice rasped with scorn. He led the way toward the wharf and their boat, its wooden prow danced in the jostling current.


    Paugren flinched. His mouth gaped, then shut with a shrug. “Get one yourself.” His tone teased delight.


    Corgren sniffed. “Not those whores.” He strode for their riverboat at the wharf. “Let’s move. Rats’ll sniff out our coin.” His boots thudded on the planks by their boat and he sniffed old fish and fetid water.


    Paugren tugged his shirt straight. He trailed Corgren with a jingle at his hip. “What’s eating you? The win not enough?” His words slurred faintly.


    “Nothing’s wrong.” Corgren snapped over his shoulder. “We’ve lingered. Too many eyes. We can’t fight a greedy mob.” The first stranger’s words echoed with warning across his mood. He reached the boat and untied the mooring ropes.


    They boarded as the current tugged them loose. The town shrank in their wake. Stars gleamed overhead. Paugren stretched on the deck and yawned. His sleeve slid and bared the dragon tattoo in the lamplight.


    Corgren eyed the mark. “Why that tattoo? Looks like that old dragon cult.” He reached for Paugren’s arm—his fingers brushed air.


    Paugren jerked back. He yanked his sleeve down. A smirk flickered on his face. “I like it. Tough symbol.” His voice carried a sly edge.


    Corgren gripped the tiller. “Hartians won’t. Nor anyone else.” His scowl deepened in the starlight.


    Paugren shrugged. He slumped onto their trade wares and gazed at the sky. Another yawn split his lips.


    Corgren shook his head. “Too much wine with that woman. You’re lucky she didn’t rob you.” His voice rasped doubt.


    Paugren chuckled low. “She wouldn’t.” His eyelids fluttered.


    “How do you know?” Corgren pressed. His brow furrowed tight.


    “Trust me.” Paugren’s words slurred. “She wouldn’t.” A snore rumbled free of his lips a moment later.


    Corgren wiped his mouth. The stranger’s claim echoed—She’s mine too. Did Paugren know him? Secrets thickened between them. He relaxed against a crate. His gaze drifted to the night sky, specks of light twinkling across its expanse. Lucinda loved starry nights. Her face flashed in his mind—dead by Hartian hands. He shoved the memory down.


    A broad shadow swept across the sky. Corgren blinked hard. “What was that?” His voice cut the quiet like a knife. It flew on wings broader than any bird he knew. The image of dragon tattoos sent a shiver gliding along his spine. Corgren shifted his head and peered at the sky but glimpsed only the far smaller flutters of bats. Whatever drifted over left them alone.


    Paugren snored on. The deck creaked under his weight.


    Corgren scanned the stars. Nothing stirred. He steered close to the bank and tied the boat to a thick branch overhanging the water as fatigue dragged at him. He grabbed the coin purse and checked its weight. Hartian silver clinked inside. He stashed it under the cabin’s loose board. Paugren’s carelessness gnawed at him lately. If the stranger spoke true, trouble loomed. He draped a blanket over his brother, then settled near the bow under his own. His knife rested close in his grip—Hartian rats, or worse, haunted this river. Sleep drifted through him with a soft grasp.


    A thud jolted Corgren awake. Shadows stepped onto the boat. Darkness swallowed their shapes. Yet Corgren’s eyes caught the dull glint of steel in the available starlight. He gripped his knife handle tighter at the stealthy threat.