Our businesses were the community’s lifeblood. Not profit—service.
Every coin fed the poor, paid crushing debts, hired advocates to face corrupt lords in court.
Strike the trade, and you struck the heart.
Now darkness had a name: Bonesman.
Viper. Well-connected. Patient.
His guild had been gnawing at our edges for months—assault, sabotage, bribes, open confrontation.
We played fair; we were God’s men.
He played to win.

Tonight he crossed the line.

Not supplies—people.
Our faithful, bloodied.
“Peace must come through strength,” Crust said, jaw tight. “Strength is demonstrated.”
“Strike hard. Explain later,” Asher urged.
“Violence breeds violence,” Sister Agnes countered, arms folded.
The debate circled the low table. Six of us in the lamp-lit room: the twins, Agnes, Asher, Elder Mar—the eccentric graybeard—and me.
Only Kenan and I stayed silent.
The banquet had ended in song, but Werner’s swollen face haunted every core member.
Would this spark a guild war?
I broke the hush with a half-smile. “We’re shadow-boxing. Start with what we know.”
Silence fell. They listened.
“Fact: Bonesman’s men confronted ours. Words turned to fists, fists to blades. Werner took the worst. Our boys were humiliated.”
I let that settle.
“We know what. We don’t know why. Without motive we fight ghosts. And in the same months he’s pushed Wyrmdust into our streets—madness in clay vials. We keep pulling it from young hands. Coincidence? Maybe. My gut says no. The question is timing.”
Heads nodded.

“Might is blind here. Too many unknowns. We speak to Bonesman. Long overdue. It calms our people, shows we’re not afraid, and costs no blood. We listen. We learn. We compromise if we must. But we end the noise.”
Agreement rippled—nods, eased shoulders. All eyes turned to Kenan.
He exhaled, slow. “We see Bonesman tomorrow. Comfort the flock. Strengthen the watch. Be sober, be vigilant.”
He rose. At the door he paused, hand on my shoulder.
“You spoke well.”
Then he was gone, lamp-flame flickering in his wake.

¶¶¶

Dawn scraped the sky raw.
I woke before the bell, the villa still cloaked in cold shadow. My pulse already drummed a war rhythm.

Four of us would ride: Kenan, Crust, Asher, and me. Agnes and Elder Mar stayed to guard the flock.
We armed light—short blades beneath cloaks, no banners. Kenan’s staff, Crust’s bow unstrung across his back, Asher’s nervous fingers on a dagger hilt. I carried only the weight of words and the old reflex to reach for a Kris that was no longer there.

The path to Bonesman’s turf cut through the city’s underbelly.
We left the villa’s garden gate, hooves clopping over dew-slick cobbles. Past the fish market—guts steaming in the chill—then down alleys where laundry lines sagged like nooses. The air thickened: coal smoke, piss, the sour tang of cheap wine. Children scattered before us; shutters slammed. Word traveled faster than horses.

Bonesman held the old dye-works by the river: a sprawl of brick vats, rust-stained walls, and iron-barred gates. His banner—a bleached skull on black—flapped above the arch. Guards lounged on crates, blades glinting, eyes flat as river stones. They parted without a word when they saw Kenan.

Inside, the courtyard stank of lye and blood. Vats bubbled; somewhere a dog snarled behind chain. Men worked in silence, shoulders hunched, branded with the skull on their forearms. Power here was worn like a second skin.

Then Bonesman appeared.
He stepped from a shadowed doorway atop the loading platform—tall, lean, draped in midnight silk that drank the light. A bone-white mask covered the upper half of his face, carved into a grinning death’s-head. Only his mouth showed: thin lips, a tongue that flicked like a serpent tasting air. Rings of blackened silver glinted on every finger; a curved saber hung loose at his hip, its pommel a polished human knuckle.

My gut twisted.
Not fear—recognition.
The way he moved: balanced on the balls of his feet, weight forward, predator calm. I had been that calm once. His eyes, visible through the mask’s slits, were winter pools—calculating, amused, bored. He assessed us the way a butcher weighs meat.

Kenan stepped forward, staff tapping once on stone. Crust flanked him, hand near bow. Asher hung a pace back, knuckles white, breath shallow and quick. I stayed at Kenan’s shoulder, every nerve singing.
Bonesman spread his arms, rings flashing. “The saint and his dogs. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Kenan’s voice cut clean. “Werner’s blood is still wet. End this.”
Bonesman’s laugh scraped like a file on bone. “Blood? A scratch. Boys will brawl. You preach peace yet march armed into my yard.” His hand drifted to his saber. “Posturing, priest?”
“Reason,” Kenan said. “Name your grievance. We settle it here.”
“Grievance?” Bonesman paced the platform edge, slow. “You choke my trade. Your little saints undercut prices, shelter my runners, burn my Wyrmdust in your holy fires. Vernise is big enough for one serpent, not two.”

Crust’s bow creaked half-drawn. “Touch another of ours and—”
Bonesman’s saber whispered free an inch, steel singing. “Threats now? From the man who trains farmers to swing sticks?” His masked gaze slid to me. “And you—quiet one. I smell old killer on you. Dorack, isn’t it? Buried your edge, they say. Shame.”
My hand twitched toward empty air. The name struck like a thrown knife. He knows. My mind raced—how deep did his spies run? How long had they watched?

Asher shifted, boots scraping grit, a sharp inhale betraying his fear. The courtyard’s stink pressed closer—lye burning nostrils, blood thick on the tongue.
Kenan raised a palm—steady. “We offer terms. Cease the dust. Leave our people. We trade fair.”
Bonesman sheathed the saber with a click, but his smile widened. “Terms? I don’t bargain with beggars.” He snapped his fingers.
From the vats, crossbows rose—six, eight, more—bolts trained on our hearts. Iron tips glinted in torch-smoke; the air turned metallic.

Then in a breath!
Three moves—like a snap—and Kenan was beside Bonesman, two fingers pressed to his throat. Shock flashed, but the viper uttered no word.

“I could cut through you as easily as the sun the clouds,” the enigma smiled. “But you knew that already.”
Bonesman twitched as Kenan released him and walked back to his place, unruffled.
“You thought we’d enter the devil’s cell unprepared. Your boys are nothing to the carnage waiting beyond your gates. Be mindful.”
His men frowned, eyeing us, cursing under breath—yet no move. Fear. Kenan was a terror. They knew it. Asher’s exhale trembled; I felt it at my back.
“Your trade is failing,” Kenan continued, hands on staff, eyes closed. “People break from the madness of your smoke. They seek purpose and peace—we give that. Bad business for you, I understand. But it’s not my fault you choose the devil’s poison over God’s reason.”

Bonesman sat, poured himself a drink—wine dark as old blood, glass clinking against rings. He smiled. “Some of us never had the privilege of a good life. We survive.”
“I know your kind. You posture like saints. It’s power and influence for you.”
“No,” Kenan said, smiling. “Service, not power. Meaning, not influence. I like you, man. How do we resolve our differences? I’m open to compromise.”

“Fine. Remap Vernise. Keep your evangelists out of my turf; I’ll keep my poison out of yours. Sell your food all you want—I like it, cheap and rich. But I need something since you block my trade in your turf while I allow yours.”
“What?”
“A portion. Five percent of all trades sold in my turf.”
Crust frowned. “It’s food, sold cheapest, and you want a cut.”
“I could block it. No good. What I make pacifies greedy patrols—they’ll blind-eye your goods, protect from theft, jealous merchants. You know Vernise.” His voice dropped, silk over steel; the vats hissed behind him like distant serpents.
“Two percent,” Kenan said. Crust frowned deeper. Asher’s boot scuffed again—nerves raw.
“Four.” Bonesman leaned in, breath sour with wine.
“All Southern Vernise is yours—loads of goods we pump south. Settle at three. Still a fortune.” Kenan sighed.
Bonesman thought, glanced at his men—crossbows still steady—turned back. “Fine. Three.”
“Good. I trust your word as I trust the Lord for your soul.”
“My soul’s too rotten for the Lord.”
“He can wash even the most damned.” Kenan smiled, stood.
We turned. The courtyard’s heat clung—sweat under cloaks, iron scent of bolts, dog’s chain rattling. Bonesman’s men parted like a slow tide, eyes mocking, blades sheathed but ready.

We walked the gauntlet: boots on wet stone, vats bubbling, torch-smoke curling into our lungs. The gate groaned open. Outside, the river stank of rot; gulls screamed overhead.

“Be careful, man of God,” his voice drifted behind, soft as a noose. “Vernise is changing.”
We gave him no face.
Of course Vernise was changing—and we could all feel it.