“…The Craft Row,” Thomas muttered, straining to hear.

  We quickened our pace, boots clacking against the flat cobbles. Thomas adjusted his knapsack on his back, while I tightened the strap of my satchel, keeping it close as we moved.

  To our surprise, a small crowd had already gathered, snickering as they hurried toward the commotion. Shouldn't they be at work?

  We veered into Craft Row, where all eyes were fixed on a towering figure standing before the rope maker’s shop.

  His head was a mass of tight, obsidian braids—a style that signalled he was a man who tolerated no loose ends. He glared down at a scraggy youth who kept his head bowed, not daring to face the incensed dockmaster.

  Thomas nudged me, eyes wide, trying to speak but swallowed by the noise around us. How could a mere human inspire such dread—a fear sharper than even the giant moss-hopper we had faced?

  We squeezed between the broad backs of seamen, too small to hide among them. Their laughter and jeers carried us forward until there was no turning back.

  Then Weatherboot’s gaze found us.

  His hair snapped with the motion, sharp as lashes. The chill in his eyes froze me where I stood.

  “Allen and Thomas,” he rumbled. “The orphan duo.”

  I exhaled and dragged a paling Thomas toward the man—Big O’ Scar. My eyes were drawn, unwillingly, to the angry red scar that twisted across his face, writhing like a worm as he spoke.

  “Captain Weatherboot,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “We’ve come to apologise for our disappearance these past days.”

  I took several measured breaths, holding my fear in check, and hoped my calm sounded more convincing than it felt.

  He leaned closer. His cobalt eyes—unblinking and predatory—studied me as if reading my soul rather than my face.

  “Rule Number One,” Weatherboot said, his breath hot against our skin. “When you deal with the dockmaster, you keep your word.”

  He stepped back, eyes narrowed. His face settled into an unreadable mask of stone. “You broke that rule, boys.”

  Thomas stiffened beside me, his breath hitching, teeth chattering despite himself.

  “BUT—” The word exploded from him. He jabbed a thick finger toward us, the sudden motion making both of us jolt.

  “This was a matter of the great beast,” he roared, his voice crashing like a tide, “not some lame excuse like the others bring me!”

  The tide slapped rhythmically against the pier, a steady counterpoint to his fury.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The dockhands shifted uneasily. One man raised a hand to cover a missing tooth, groaning as if Weatherboot’s words had struck him too.

  The fury crested as he turned back toward the trembling young man he’d been berating earlier.

  So he wasn’t finished yet.

  I heaved a quiet sigh of relief as he shifted his attention from us. He stepped toward the young man, jaw grinding, muscles taut and bulging. The poor man collapsed onto the sand, trembling like a leaf.

  Then—nothing. Big O’ Scar halted mid?step, his anger draining away. He flicked his hand through the air. Several sturdy men moved at once, snapping crisp salutes.

  “Take this spineless fool away—immediately,” he barked, his voice dripping with disdain.

  Then, his gaze snapped back to us. “Not even close to the orphans,” he added. Even from a distance, it was clear the young man had wet himself.

  I shot Thomas a glance. “You’d better hold your bladder, Master Hunter,” I muttered under my breath, just as the dockmaster delivered us one of his rare compliments.

  He toyed with the beaded braids of his goatee, murmuring as if half to himself. His hand drifted to the weapon at his waist, fingers drumming against the hilt as his eyes weighed us.

  “Now then… where were we, boys?”

  “W?we broke the rules, Captain,” Thomas managed, forcing the words out as he gathered his courage.

  Weatherboot nodded once. “Correct. And there are no exceptions.”

  The scar rippled across his face, alive with each shift of his expression. His eyes narrowing—calculating, weighing our silence.

  “But a Great Beast…” He let the words hang. “That is an unprecedented excuse.”

  My throat tightened as I let my eyes wander, if only to escape the weight of Weatherboot’s stare.

  The rope maker’s doorway was cluttered with coils of hemp rope; a cat curled atop, yawning. My eyes flicked across the lane—the sailmaker’s shutters rattled as men pressed closer, dragging me back to the moment.

  Weatherboot’s gaze sharpened suddenly, fixing on the leather sling at Thomas’s belt. “Now that I think on it,” he continued, his voice swelling, “old man Nolan was generous with his praise. ‘Miracle survivors.’ ‘Levia’s courageous children.’”

  He threw his arms wide, turning in a slow circle as if the docks themselves were his stage. “Behold!” he barked, mocking delight in every syllable. “The miracle children, standing before me!”

  The crowd roared with laughter and jeers. One man spat into the dust, another whistled, and a third slapped his knee as if the whole affair were a comedy. Weatherboot’s grin twisted beneath the scar, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

  Weatherboot’s eyes slid from Thomas’s face to his worn, quilted armour. “And Alfred took you into his Hunter Guild, didn’t he?”

  Weatherboot leaned in until Thomas could smell his breath, the coarse bristles of his moustache nearly brushing Thomas's cheek. Thomas pressed his lips tight and held his breath, eyes darting sideways.

  Then, without warning, Weatherboot took a heavy step back, the cutlass at his waist clinking against its scabbard. His sudden retreat was as jarring as his advance — every move a reminder that his moods shifted like the tide.

  “I’ve seen the moss?hoppers,” he went on, voice low. “Including the Great One. Luck alone doesn’t loosen Death’s grip.”

  His scar twisted as a grin crept across his face, one sharp canine flashing. Then his voice rose, sudden and fierce—fuelled by a dark, unsettling delight.

  “Show me your skill. Here and now.”

  Big O’ Scar leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Win, and you’ll be the first souls ever allowed to break my rules and walk free. Lose…” His smile deepened. “And I’ll make your punishment gentler, for the sake of the miracle children.”

  A murmur rippled through the docks. Men shifted. Laughter. Jeers. Crude jokes.

  From the corner, the barrel maker cursed as his apprentice slammed a hammer onto his thumb, laughter spilling out and snapping the hush.

  Bodies closed in, forming a loose ring. The salt tang of brine clung to the air, sharper now amid sweat and pitch — a reminder we stood in the docks, where rough men lived by pirate?like law.

  The air grew heavy. We swallowed hard; a silent groan echoed in our chests. How had it come to this? Here, apologies were dust, excuses worth even less.

  “Lord Levia’s blessing doesn’t reach this place,” Thomas muttered, staring toward the distant horizon.