KETTERDAM HAD NEVER been pretty.

No one here really knew what pretty meant; a faraway, unreachable dream that everyone desired but had never truly understood. Everything was artificial, from the unnaturally bright paint colors and advertisements displayed boldly on every street corner, enticing the average tourist to visit one pleasure house or another, to the flashy and revealing clothing, jewels glittering on exposed cleavage and twinkling lights shining on gleaming glimpses of bare thighs. And yet, the absence of beauty could contain a twisted sort of beauty in itself, for wasn't there something beautiful in the raw ambition of the scrappy boys and girls of Ketterdam who, after being kicked to the ground one too many times, decided they didn't want dirt on their knees anymore? Wasn't there something beautiful in forcing yourself to get up and dust yourself off and grit your teeth and learn to fight? Wasn't there something beautiful in both the best and the worst of humanity?

Sometimes, just for a moment, Jayar Kade looked around at Ketterdam and saw something beautiful.

Through the streets he walked, heeled boots clacking on grimy pavement, rain pouring down as if even the earth itself cried at the wreckage of morality that was this place. When Jayar first arrived in Ketterdam, it didn't take long to learn how to fit in. Don't go anywhere unarmed. Don't stay down when you're hit. Don't lie to the wrong people, and assume everyone is lying to you. There was more to it, too. To remain inconspicuous among the scum of the district known as the Barrel, one had to put in an effort to appear as obnoxious as possible, as contradictory as that may sound to any foreigner. So here he was, in patterned blue-and-purple pants and a short corset, sleeves rolled up to his elbows ready for any fight that came his way, wearing just enough straps and accessories to make any visible scars significantly less noticeable. Of course, Ketterdam wasn't a stranger to scars, and in fact the more scars you had the more likely you were to be respected. But Jayar's scars in particular provided an opportunity to ask far too many questions than he was willing to answer, so he hid them.

Another thing he learned was that Kerch names had no class⸻or, at least, that was what all the foreigners said. He had never thought much about his name until it was brought to his attention that it made him sound like a Kerch country boy, and then he started to analyze the names he encountered in Ketterdam more closely. People had names like Tell and Geels and Eamon and Detta and Anika. Short and blunt, perhaps like the temper of the occupants of the Barrel. And last names never really rolled off the tongue; they were either just as crudely short as the first names or rather uncomfortable to pronounce for anyone unfamiliar with the language of Kerch. And Jayar Kade was a lot more Barrel-esque than Jordan Rietveld, so a new version of himself was born. The old him had died long ago, anyway, and with his rebirth a new name had been long overdue.

Jay-ar. J.R. A tribute to Jordan Rietveld, a dead little boy. Not the prettiest name. But Ketterdam had never been pretty. Jayar observed this while approaching the Emerald Palace, a gambling hall in East Stave only a few streets down from its direct rival, the Crow Club, which was owned by the Dregs. He kept one hand rested cautiously on the handgun at his side as he strolled leisurely past the Dregs bruisers and the girls they hired to entice crowds to their establishment. The Palace, a Dime Lions monopoly, was currently the jewel-studded crown of the empire of legendary crime lord Pekka Rollins; a testament to his Kaelish heritage, outfitted with green and gold and decked out in Barrel flash. It was the finest thing this side of the garbage dump had to offer. Still mainly just an errand runner for the Dime Lions, passing by the Dregs always made him slightly nervous, if only because he knew he was expendable and no one would miss him if he was tortured in an alleyway and killed. Not because he feared death, but because death would stop him from his goal. He wouldn't die in Ketterdam until his work was done. When it was all over, then it wouldn't matter anymore.

He flashed his tattooed forearm to the bruiser guarding the doors, Drisk. "Don't be late to your shift again, Kade," he grunted as he stepped aside.

Don't be late to your shift again, Kade, Jayar mouthed mockingly after he passed him. Maybe if he wasn't stuck doing so many jobs at once for so little pay he would be more inclined to show up on time. The lobby was enormous, stretching far enough that you could be enamored with watching the gentle movements of the glittering decorations for hours, but he knew the hall itself was even bigger. Girls with falsely red hair and wearing glittering green silks to match the decor sauntered around tables with drinks and gambling chips. Jay ducked through crowds, headed straight for the nearest bar where he hoped the closest thing he had to a friend would be waiting.

A quick sweep of the bar determined that Blaze wasn't here, and, agitated, he briefly sympathized with the sentiment of disliking lateness. He nodded to the bartender closest to him, who was walking his way and cleaning out a glass with a rag.

"The usual?"

"The usual."

"This week's schedule was switched again. You're working the bar double on Tuesday."

"For saints' sake," Jayar muttered, leaning his head back and running a hand through his hair to push his irritating side bangs out of the way. "You know I worked on the new building all weekend?" Pekka Rollins's latest purchase had everyone in the lower ranks working twice their normal hours for hope of a minimal pay increase when the new gambling hall was opened and started bringing in profits. It was set to be called the Kaelish Prince. The boss wouldn't stop raving about it, but for Jayar passing it filled him only with dread.

"Well, I was put on overtime here cleaning toilets, so I don't feel all that sorry for you," said Tell Yarbrough with a shrug. "We'll get better work eventually." He hesitated. "I hope. Hey, did you hear about the Black Tips?"

His brow furrowed. "Somebody mentioned it. Dregs gave them a run for their money. I kept saying they should have left Fifth Harbor alone."

Tell leaned in conspiratorially. "Well, here's the catch. One of their own turned. Bolliger, I think, was it? Dregs bouncer was helping out the Tips, and Kaz Brekker don't like traitors."

Something unrecognizable flickered in Jayar's eyes. It took a moment of rolling around words on his tongue before he spoke. "One of them bastards crossed Brekker?"

"Yep." He slid a glass of liquor Jay's way. "Dregs are one idiot down but they've got the Harbor back. Shouldn't mess with Dirtyhands."

Jay picked it up, gently rocking it, thinking. Every day it seemed there was a new story about Brekker, and it never failed to worm holes in whatever was left of his charcoal heart. Kaz would only get worse. If he could just get closer to Pekka somehow, maybe get ahold of some money, he could at least start getting somewhere in the vague plan he had forming in his head. But opportunity didn't come for free, and eventually his time would run out, every day spent in this repulsive place rendered completely worthless.

No. No no no no no. He couldn't afford to let that happen.

"You're making that face again," sighed a voice that made him snap back to reality. Blaze Torrance, sunglasses and all, slid into the stool beside him in somehow the most dramatic fashion possible, saluting Tell and lowering his glasses temporarily to wink at him, all the while keeping an entirely straight face. Tell rolled his eyes and left to go take an order, muttering about people who wore sunglasses indoors for no reason. Jayar spared Blaze a wayward glance as he knocked down his drink in just about one sip (he had an impressive tolerance). Blaze already looked wasted and he'd just arrived, but Jayar happened to know that he just always acted like that.

Jayar plastered on his perpetual smile, even though at the moment he wasn't feeling it. He would be after enough drinks, but he didn't deserve pleasure when he knew his brother was somewhere hell-bent on vengeance and refusing to let himself live. One learned to derive it from pain, anyway, after he had had no choice for long enough. "What face?"

"You know what face. The thinking about destroying empires face. You're very readable and you need to stop it. It's creepy."

"Everyone's readable one way or another if you can see their eyes, golden boy."

"Oh, that one's real creative." Blaze tilted his head, sliding his sunglasses to rest atop it. "Anxiety doesn't look good on you. Might I suggest setting something on fire?"

Jayar brushed back his bangs, tilting his head skyward. He wondered sometimes if Blaze did realize how obvious he made it that he was clearly an Inferni. Probably no one else knew, as they assumed he was just a lunatic with access to too many lighters, but really, if he was trying to escape some sort of ugly past, he should seriously consider choosing a well-known habit that didn't involve the ability he had. Of course, he wasn't going to say anything, not so much for Blaze's sake but because if he revealed that he knew that would provoke questions as to why and he didn't have an answer that didn't involve an underground drug operation and its odd effects on the non-Grisha nervous system. How do you know I'm Grisha? Well, I can smell you, you see. He wasn't too keen on having that conversation. So Blaze could keep his secrets, and he would go on pretending not to know about them.

"Later," he said. "You heard about Bolliger in the Dregs?"

"Sure I did," he said dryly. "You're slow. That's old news. I've only just learned today that there was a shootout in West Stave after some girl got killed in the House of the Blue Iris⸻Harley's Pointers scuffle."

Jayar tilted his head slightly. "Girls get killed all the time."

"If it was your girl," Blaze said rather harshly, "you'd go out and shoot someone too."

The uneasy silence that followed was interrupted by shouting at one of the gambling tables. Both men glanced over to where a man was angrily insisting that one of his opponents was cheating. The accused had his hands up and was attempting fruitlessly to keep the situation calm. The redheaded dealer who Jayar couldn't be bothered to remember the name of at the moment was assuring the agitated player that if he had any complaints he was welcome to take them up with Pekka Rollins. The man slammed down his money and stormed off.

"Aw, missed opportunity for a good throwdown," Jayar said wryly.

"It does smell like trouble today," Blaze conceded.

"That's just you. You could use a shower. Always smellin' like human barbecue."

He shrugged. "Remnants of the last job. After a while you can't get the scent off you." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Be out late tonight. Some merch needs a little convincing to go through with a deal." He adjusted the collar of his tight burnt-orange tunic, which was sleeveless as he always seemed to be sweltering. "Supposedly the place will be empty, but I'm kinda hoping it isn't so I get paid more. Don't tell."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Oh, yeah, and that boat you wanted me to watch the schedule of should be here soon."

So he had remembered correctly. Starting some kind of fight would have to wait.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Dagny Drojher owed no one. But on days like this, it was difficult to convince herself that that was true.

She ducked into the Khitka, an empty Ravkan tourist ship that had sat unused in Fifth Harbor for the past two years and that she called home. She dumped the contents of her quiver on one of the neatly organized crates that served as storage for the few belongings she kept, digging around for cleaning supplies for her bow. Today she had managed to find time to purchase a new set of arrows between sweltering shifts of transporting cargo on and off ships. And as she'd done routine content checks, subtly slipping some things into the wrong boxes to be carried somewhere they shouldn't as she rearranged them, the little voice in the back of her mind told her that you're helping the Dregs because you owe them.

She didn't owe the Dregs exactly. There was one of them in particular. And after years of him silently leaving behind things she needed, it was only fair to use her day job to leave behind supplies for the Dregs who moved cargo mainly for the purposes of their gang's own stash in return. It always made her slightly nervous, like she could lose her job on the docks if someone ever noticed her, but she suspected she had never been caught because the Dregs had a monopoly on Fifth Harbor and any officials who worked there would ignore mix-ups on purpose. She was helping them one way or another, and that was almost certainly why she was kept around.

Dagny opened the icebox to gather what would be her dinner⸻which almost always consisted of either fish, shellfish, or dry fish. What a wonderful spectrum of options she had. She paused as her eyes landed on something odd out one of the circular windows that lined the wall belowdecks. The sun had not yet set, slowly dipping towards the horizon, the ocean itching for the moon to replace it. But in the fading light of an already dim city Dagny's keen eyes could still identify someone she knew, or more accurately, knew of. Her eyes fluttered shut, allowing the memory of a face she knew to fill her mind. She opened them again. Yes, she was quite sure that was Jayar Kade.

Jayar Kade didn't come to Fifth Harbor in the evenings, or at least not alone. Sometimes he transported cargo along with other Dime Lions runners to and from their paid position at the harbor. In general, this was Dregs territory⸻a recent street scuffle Dagny had heard whispers of had ensured that remained secure⸻but as far as she knew other gangs could pay to gain limited access as well. Still, she didn't know how wise it was for a Dime Lion to be wandering around Dregs territory outside of his shift. Curiously, she made her way over to another window for a better view, picking up a small container of lubricator as she went so that she could wax her bowstring.

Kade was smoking lazily, watching new ships dock carefully as if he were waiting for someone. She wrinkled her nose at the poor practice, but her mind was mainly occupied with the more important prospect that something strange was going on. Maybe there was nothing happening at all, but she had a churning gut feeling, and her gut was rarely wrong.

She caught the name Ekho on the side of a Ravkan barque that she saw regularly, and then Kade disappeared from view. She frowned. So much for figuring out what he was doing. What reason could he possibly have for approaching a Ravkan ship that either transported tourists, like this one had, or trafficked indentured servants, as many others did? Wasn't he just a⸻

That was when she heard the creak.

Dagny's movements were swift and silent. She gathered up her bow and fresh arrows, slung the quiver over her shoulder, and slipped out of the room she spent most of her time in to climb the nearby stairs and get to higher ground. She held her breath and followed the sound of soft tapping and slow steps, finally coming to tuck herself behind the railing at the top of a spiraling stairwell. She notched an arrow and pulled back, squinting in the dimness of the ship to aim at whoever had wandered inside. As her vision cleared she could make out a neatly tailored black suit, the stranger still with his back to her.

Only moments later, he turned, but Dagny didn't need facial confirmation of who it was. She lowered her weapon as soon as she saw the cane.

"Brekker?" she whispered. Kaz Brekker had never visited her before. They had crossed paths in person before but it didn't happen often. They exchanged few words in their dance of supply drops and defending each other in subtle ways. But here he was in her ship.

Kaz tapped his crow-headed cane on the wooden floor. He didn't apologize for the intrusion.

"I wasn't aware you slept on the stairs," he said.

For once her dry and impartial façade was faltering, her stomach filling with something that felt uncomfortable and fluttery. She didn't know what to say, how to arrange her expression. She cleared her throat. "I don't."

Dagny slung her bow across her shoulders, hesitating before heading down the staircase. She kept a safe distance from Brekker, knowing he was dangerous and that there would be no one to miss her if she turned up dead on an old boat. Kaz Brekker reeked of the darkness of the Barrel, all sharp edges and slicked-back dark hair and high cheekbones. His hat was tilted slightly, his leather gloves resting easily on the head of his cane as if it was simply for decoration and not a result of the limp that caused every unsuspecting Barrel boss and street fighter stupid enough to test him to underestimate their opponent. Everyone said that he dressed like a merch in order to silently laugh in their faces. He looked like he'd come straight out of the Geldstraat but had that reckless, fearless aura of criminal youth. A living contradiction of a sort.

"I'm leaving Kerch," Kaz said in that raspy chainsmoker's voice of his. "I want you to watch the docks for me."

She blinked, still tense. "You're leaving Kerch?"

"That's what I said. Not for long. But in a few days' time I plan on taking a crew out on a schooner called the Ferolind." She knew that one. "I don't know who else wants a shot at the job I'm going on, and I don't trust everything to go smoothly. You're going to patrol the docks."

Slowly, Dagny nodded.

"And why me?"

Kaz remained almost entirely expressionless. "Because you aren't affiliated with anyone involved. Because my trust in the Dregs to do their jobs properly only goes so far." He scanned her face for something⸻what, she didn't know. "Because you're the Hunter."

That was what she was called. For her perfect aim. The shot who never missed.

Kaz's gaze swept through the ship. "You will be contacted when I need you, and you're going to have to memorize the faces of everyone I want to ensure you don't shoot. There are very few people who know about this job," he added as he turned to leave. "I trust it will stay that way."

When Kaz left it felt as if he had taken Dagny's breath with him. She couldn't explain it. Maybe she didn't want to. She toyed with one of the stone necklaces stacked at her collarbone.

Here was something she could do to return his kindness. Or at least, whatever twisted version of kindness lived in Kaz Brekker's heart.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Wafts of smoke swirled about Jayar's head as he exhaled, looking out on Fifth Harbor. It was really a wonder that the Black Tips had managed to creep their way into the Dregs territory for so long. One did have to pick his battles, he supposed. Per Haskell⸻who ran the Dregs, or at least by title⸻tended to take his sweet time solving setbacks like that little snag with a spy being in their ranks. The Black Tips had likely pushed because they knew they could for a while, with that lazy old man in charge. Jayar liked to think that Kaz was at least a little better at leadership, that the removal of the spy had been swift and just. The rumors making their way through the Barrel seemed to think so. On the other hand, though... Jayar's thoughts trailed in a different direction. Kaz shouldn't be involved with the Dregs at all. He should be in school like a normal seventeen-year-old boy, and his worst behavior should consist of cheating on tests or passing notes in class or being caught with a girl in the janitor's closet. But every new rumor that contained the name Kaz Brekker was just as gruesome and sinister as the last.

He wasn't here at the harbor to muse about his brother. But it was a necessary reminder that seemed to worm its way into his mind in any situation, whether he wanted it to or not. So he let it settle in at the back of his mind quietly as he scanned the docks for a familiar ship.

Kaz Brekker charged Pekka Rollins entryway fees for use of the harbor, and as far as Jayar knew they were always paid on time, so he shouldn't encounter any trouble skulking around the docks. Although⸻he flexed the fingers on his free hand⸻he was itching for some. It was never a good thing when Jayar Kade grew bored, because it almost definitely meant a fight. He forced himself to focus.

And there it was, the Ekho. A barque so familiar that it slammed him in the chest with a feeling he had long hated. Homesickness. Five years he'd spent in Ravka, being homesick for some vague past he couldn't remember, and now back home he somehow felt its pang again. Could five years produce a home? Or had it been six? Although, really⸻did it matter? He felt homesick all the same.

Jayar made his way to the docks, his legs feeling as if they were made of lead. The Svyatyye Detey, saviors, saints of children⸻they had taught him everything he did not know, taught him to read and write Ravkan, taught him everything about Grisha and about Ravkan healing practices... and there he had learned of jurda parem. They operated out of Ravka but spent a great deal of time in Kerch, as this hub of disarray was exactly where their objective lay. They freed slaves and rescued fools. They were guardian angels.

Angels could not teach him the filthy ways of Ketterdam.

Today they would have an operator, he knew, paying the right officials to look the other way while she led a small team to broker deals with slavers and fill the ship with children. Once they had simply kidnapped them, and he supposed that probably still happened if things didn't go smoothly with a bit of negotiation, but there was a lot they didn't do anymore. For one, they took mostly Grisha children now, or at least as far as he knew. Grisha and the sick.

The more he thought about it, the less angelic they seemed. Maybe it was his young mind that had molded them into something kinder for him. Because after watching their activity carefully for the year and a half that he'd been in Ketterdam, he was quite sure he knew what they needed the Grisha and the ill for.

Another thing he knew? Which sailors would be on the crew today. And after all this time, it still felt, if not impossible, then something very near it, to force himself to approach them. What would my caretakers think of me now? he thought bitterly, taking another drag of his cigarette. He knew what the other little boys he used to live and play with would think. They called him a living ghost and a crazy bastard. They could look him in the eye and understand exactly what he would grow to be. Every day his knuckles bled as proof of it. In Ravka his taste for fistfighting had developed; the thrill of winning a brawl with someone more powerful than him, be it in size or Grisha skill, had always provided him with such a rush of serotonin that even when he left he could never break such a habit. Blaze regularly argued that he was absolutely crazy, but of course, the pot was calling the kettle black when he himself was a notorious arsonist for hire.

His eyes remained trained carefully on one operator in particular. He'd watched her train and grow for years and yet it was hard to believe she was an operator now, after beginning as a rescue, like him. A lot of the girls who weren't released from the home after a year elected to become a part of the organization, and a great deal of the boys actually went on to join the Ravkan army. As a long-term resident, he had been free to go wherever he wanted when he reached adulthood, and Kerch had been a fiery, heat-of-the-moment choice. Many Svyatyye children had no home to return to, having been taken from slaver ships or orphanages, but he had scores to settle.

Jay remembered Nadia Kholodnaya very well. He'd never paid much attention to whether or not girls his age were pretty, but she must have been, because many of the boys in the home fell over themselves daily trying to impress her. All the kids had a nickname for her: soty devushka. Honey girl. Her hair still shined golden brown to this day. She was a Healer, and a good one, and had taught him a great deal. Now, as he followed her around the back of a ship, he fully understood who and what she was: a misguided rescuer, trained to contribute to a movement that experimented on children. An angel twisted into something wrong. He couldn't blame her for believing what she'd been taught, but people who believed in a cause were the worst type of people. Their beliefs could get them to do anything, no matter how atrocious, because it was all for a reason. Those kind of people wouldn't falter, didn't break. They couldn't be manipulated or bribed by any outside force except the one that had turned them into soldiers of a cause in the first place.

Saints of children, his saviors, and yet even though they'd saved his life and raised him he resented them now, angels or not.

He held his cigarette between his teeth and followed her quietly. It was easy, too easy, to grab Nadia and lock her in a hold, one hand covering her mouth so she couldn't scream, shoving her into a fishing shed on the docks. She shouldn't have made for such an easy target, but perhaps he was stronger than he had been a year and a half ago. He should have felt guilty. He felt nothing.

Jayar slammed the door shut behind them and swiveled on her. "What happened to the parem?" he hissed in Ravkan. It felt almost more comfortable to slip into than Kerch, which was frustrating when he'd spent so much time trying to adjust again to a life in Ketterdam.

First she looked terrified, backed against the wall, and then her eyes widened, recognition flashing across her features. "Jordie?" she breathed.

Jayar's expression twitched, unsure what it was supposed to be. He couldn't muster his constant smile, didn't know how to decipher the tangled mess of emotions in his chest. He rolled up his sleeve and crushed his cigarette against his forearm to put it out. Nadia visibly drew back, but he didn't even wince. "Not anymore," he said. She assessed him as quickly as she could. He'd used the same chokehold she had watched him use on the other boys when they were younger, only now, it seemed, he had no qualms about putting his hands on a girl. His voice was even more grating than she remembered, perhaps made rougher than it already was by a year of bad habits. She folded her arms, knowing Jordie hated visible weakness and only exploited it. She didn't know what he wanted, but Jordie, once a friend, felt alien and unfamiliar. And it wasn't just the tattoos.

"What do you call yourself, then?"

"Jayar Kade."

"How very Ketterdam of you. I thought you were here to find your brother."

His eyes snapped up to meet hers again. There was something alarming about them. Something had changed. "And I found him."

Nadia's face softened. "Then settle down, Jordie, and live a normal life. You don't need to worry about us anymore."

Jayar shook his head, laughing, but it wasn't a laugh she particularly liked. "You don't understand, Sotya," he whispered, stepping uncomfortably closer. "I found him. He's not the same. I left him behind, I betrayed him, I destroyed him."

"Jordie," she said carefully, her eyes as stern and motherly as they'd always been, even though they were very close in age. "Look at me. It is not your responsibility to fix whatever is wrong with your brother."

Jayar grabbed her by the collar and slammed her against the wall.

"IT'S MY FAULT!"

He let go and she fumbled for a nearby crate to scramble away, fear washing across her features. This wasn't Jordie. Jordie hadn't been like this. This was someone else, someone much worse. Jayar stepped back, his easy smile returning as quickly as it had gone, but it was crooked and wrong and she hated it. "Now. You're going to look at me, and you're going to listen carefully. There is one man who stands between my brother and I, and he's going to regret it soon enough. You don't stand in my way at the moment. I would stay that way if I were you." He crouched down to her level, relishing in the fact that she cowered behind one of the crates, trembling. "Your little parem experiments were harmless. You and the rest of the Svyatyye Detey just played around with healing practices, rescued plague victims. All well and good. Now how the hell did it get out?"

Nadia swallowed. Hard. "I don't know what you're talking about. I really don't."

"Oh yeah? Then explain to me why jurda parem is a subject of conversation to every knuckleheaded meatbag in Ketterdam." Her eyes went even wider, and it occurred to him that this was likely the first she'd heard of parem rumors making their way over to Kerch. "You see, a rumor stays a rumor until some lunatic gets it into his head that maybe, actually, it's true. And then the next thing you know a city full of two-bit criminals are buzzing about a secret that you didn't even know had slipped through your fingers."

"Jordie⸻" His eyes flashed a warning, and she quickly amended. "Jayar, I didn't know anyone in Kerch knew, I swear. We all thought everyone was keeping quiet."

"Who?" he said roughly.

She scowled. "We made a deal with Shu Han."

There was a pause, and then Jayar barked a laugh. "Saints. Shu Han. You might as well have just handed your whole supply to Fjerda. They'll find a way to use it against Grisha one way or another."

"We didn't have a choice. We⸻we had a runaway, a⸻a⸻a boy got out, he found a way back to Shu Han, we were blackmailed⸻you remember Jun, don't you?"

"Well, maybe if you didn't kidnap children and inject them with powerful and experimental enhancement drugs, things like this wouldn't happen!" he snapped harshly. He did remember Jun, actually. Weird little quiet kid; vanished one day. On top of all this, he was irritated that this had all happened while he was still in Ravka and he didn't know about it.

"It took decades to perfect this! We have, but we weren't the only ones with the resources. For all I know, the Shu were experimenting on Grisha anyway. We have a mutually exclusive agreement now, but they don't have access to our main supply. We've done it, Jordie." Her eyes were so determined, so passionate, that Jayar didn't even bother to correct the name. "With the power we can give to our Grisha, no child will have to hide anymore. There will be no more Grisha slaves. We will rise, and finally we will have peace. This is a turning point in the course of history."

So then the Shu would only have one of the older versions of parem⸻likely weaker, different addiction levels. Jay had seen the horrors it could cause and wasn't too keen on seeing it again. And even with the Svaytyye's newer, supposedly safer version... "Who's to say someone doesn't create an army, Nadia? Who's to say people like me don't become slaves to the Grisha race instead?"

She faltered.

"You're playing a dangerous game, dammit," he muttered, gears turning in his mind. Something told him this wasn't the last he would hear of this drug. "Why is everyone in this world so hell-bent on accumulating power? Jurda parem is going to wreak nothing but havoc on the world."

"Jurda parem is the only reason why you're alive!"

"No, Nadia." He stood. "Jurda parem is how I'm alive. No one can tell me why."

She sighed. "Maybe the saints wanted you to live. I don't know."

"But for what purpose?"

"Pick one."

"I did." In that moment, if Nadia had known Kaz Brekker, then she would have thought that Jayar looked just like him. "And no drug, no underground Ravkan organization, no arrogant Barrel crime boss is going to stop me."

And with that, he left.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Elias Bjerke left his shift at the White Rose turning over a new bit of information in his mind. All the workers inside⸻from the pretty young men and women draped across powder-white couches dressed in silks and artificially fragrant flowers, to the room maids and the desk workers like him who were specifically chosen for their pale complexions and had their hair and eyes tailored⸻intentionally matched the house's theme one way or another. So he always found it a little funny when someone as drastically contrasting to the White Rose theme as Dirtyhands, dressed in a specially tailored black suit and with neat jet-black hair shaved down the sides, came through the doorway.

"Mister Brekker," Elias had said in greeting, nodding in the direction of the right hall. "Nina is with a client." Kaz had spared him a brief glance before nodding and, rather than waiting, heading immediately in that direction. Something was urgent. Part of him wanted to follow him, but Onkle Felix would have his head if he left the desk without finding another receptionist to take over.

And now, as he fell into step with Jayar Kade (who, if anyone asked, he was not associated with except for to occasionally have drinks together), he figured it was noteworthy, because even if Kaz Brekker didn't need a reason to visit Nina Zenik, Jayar would say that it was highly likely that he had one.

"You have updates, I hope," Jayar said lightly as he adjusted the colorful sash at his waist, strolling beside him. He and Kaz did share something in common, as far-fetched as it was to make any connection between them, and that was their eerily gravelly voices. The difference was that Jayar's was easily explained. Elias had never seen Kaz come within ten feet of a cigarette, while on the other hand, he couldn't recall a time when Jayar had gone without one. Then again, there wasn't a man alive who could explain Kaz Brekker.

"He came in today," Elias admitted, undoing his tie. His uniform⸻a pressed white suit⸻was itchy and uncomfortable, and it didn't help how hot it was inside the White Rose, but he had to cover up his numerous tattoos for work. Not only did he bear the Dregs' signature crow and cup, but he had collected a series of additional random markings over the years, as he had a habit of wandering his way over to the parlor when he was bored. Maybe that was where all his money kept going. The only one he couldn't cover up was the small tattoo on the back of his neck, but it wasn't all that noticeable. He'd seriously considered inking his face before, just for the hell of it, but then he'd never get hired anywhere except as a bouncer maybe. Actually, he was definitely big enough to be a bouncer. But that sounded like more effort than being a receptionist. Besides, Kaz liked him where he was⸻he probably trusted him only slightly more than he trusted Big Bolliger, and everyone knew by now what had happened to him. "Went to see one Nina Zenik."

Jayar's head tilted slightly. "And she's the..."

"The Heartrender, yes." They both kept their voices reasonably low, but the streets of the Barrel were loud and crowded enough that they were probably as safe as they ever would get. Still, Kaz's spies could be everywhere, and Elias didn't fancy himself crossing the Wraith. It wasn't as if he was known for harboring particularly strong loyalty to his gang, as he was there for money and money only, but Djel only knew what Dirtyhands would do if Elias was ever outed as intel for a Dime Lion⸻the fact that he didn't work for Pekka Rollins specifically didn't matter. Brekker hated the Lions. But Elias had long lost a healthy fear of death, and as long as Jayar paid him, he didn't mind being a traitor, if that was what he was. Even after Big Bolliger. When your time was ticking anyway, it didn't matter when the string was cut short. One of these days Elias was going to die. All that mattered was that he lived his life to the fullest.

Still, the Wraith was a little scary, frankly.

"If he's meeting with Nina," Elias said, "either they're having a dubious affair or he's putting together a crew for a job. I've seen it before."

He wanted to laugh out loud⸻he could actually see the gears turning in Jay's mind. He was perhaps the most readable person alive, although Elias probably shouldn't judge how people ran around living considering he was a walking coping mechanism. "A new job could be interesting. Not interesting enough to note, and yet, simultaneously nothing out of the ordinary and entirely extraordinary." He scratched at one eyebrow. "Funny thing is, I think I might just know what it's about. The timing is too perfect..." he continued to mutter. Elias furrowed his brow, struggling to keep up, but let Jayar ramble. "But a job like this would be offered not just to one gang or another. It'd be sold to the highest bidder, and the Dregs aren't exactly the shiniest lot in the Barrel." He has perhaps forgotten that he wasn't alone, as Elias had no idea what he was on about, but abruptly he said, "Care for a visit to the Emerald Palace?"

Elias wrinkled his nose. "Why? You plotting something?"

Jayar's eyes darted about, scanning the faces of the people around him. "I'm bored."

"That can't be good," he said delightedly.

"What kind of job requires a Heartrender, Elias?" He stopped in his tracks. "Unless it doesn't matter that she's a Heartrender."

Elias entertained the idea. "Could be about someone else, not about her. There's one guy she's been haggling Kaz about for a year straight, the whole time she's been in Ketterdam." He lowered his voice slightly. "Somebody in Hellgate. It might take me some time to figure out who it is, but I've got Hellgate contacts."

Jayar glanced at him. "You stayed there?"

He shrugged. "Two, maybe three years ago. I got off easy with a manslaughter charge considering that is not what it was. Everyone says Hellgate's so scary. It was kinda lame."

"You know, Bjerke?" Jayar said, laughing. "You're a terrifying specimen. I like you." He nodded in the direction of the Palace. "If Blaze sees you you'll either kill each other or kill someone else. Find the name of the Heartrender's friend as soon as you can, and I'll be in touch."

"With a check, I hope."

Jayar flashed him a grin that was almost wolfish. "Don't overexert yourself."

"I never do!"

They parted ways and Jayar headed inside to man the bar. He shot the clock a wayward glance⸻only a few minutes late. It was actually kind of irritating how much time he spent here in the Emerald Palace. Every day as mundane and monotonous as the last, inching closer to an inevitable end with nothing ever to show for it. Only to die would lift him from his imminent routine, but to die would strip him of his purpose. Nothing would ever change, not here in the Emerald Palace, and every strained step was painful until his brother was redeemed.

A sensible person might say that it would be of great interest to him to simply meet his brother, seemingly tying together all loose ends. There are two problems with this notion, the first being that Jayar Kade was by no measure a sensible person. The second was that Kaz Brekker wasn't either, and for the two brothers to meet would only mean certain destruction. They might hate each other or they might ruin the entire city of Ketterdam overnight, ruined already as it was. A cracked mirror would become a shattered one, ripped to shreds by the rage and heartbreak and soullessness of two boys who died long ago.

A potential third explanation might be that maybe, somewhere deep down, Jayar was afraid. It was easy to expel his anger through his fists; it was easy to collect scars as if it would make up for the suffering he'd both been through and caused; it was so, so easy to follow the ways of every other downtrodden Ketterdam criminal, raised by pain and forced to lick pleasure off of knives. It was no small task to face the ghost you feared most, to confront your past and the fact that you'd stabbed it in the back. It was no simple road losing a brother.

Today Jayar did not feel fear, or at least it was channeled into anger instead. He was frustrated with jurda parem for its faults and its strength, he was annoyed with Kaz for his new job that probably involved it one way or another, and he was furious with himself for just existing, dammit.

Blaze was easy to spot from the bar, as he'd adjusted his Palace uniform to his taste quite a bit. He for some reason fancied himself attractive enough to pull off wearing pants a size too small, and he wore a short-sleeved undershirt beneath his gold waistcoat rather than the expected long-sleeved one. His ever-present sunglasses rested atop his head as he circled tables passing out drinks and staring apathetically at customers, and Jayar noticed jarringly that he was wearing perhaps the most hideous pair of shoes known to man, which were brown leather in an odd shape with an unnecessary added stitch pattern and yellow soles, paired with seemingly pointless straps that crisscrossed up his ankles for a few inches, serving to scrunch up the cuffs of his pants. Jayar made a mental note to insult his fashion choices later, even though it was fruitless⸻Blaze found a twisted sort of humor in wearing ugly shoes. Besides, Blaze would only insult his own clothing choices in return.

Jayar's first customer was already absolutely inebriated, but he shook up a bottle of whiskey for him anyway. Pekka always said that delirious customers shelled out the most money. His mind flipped automatically to work mode, which meant mostly that his actions went on autopilot mixing drinks and taking orders, occasionally checking the paper basket for written orders taken from the gambling tables, whilst his senses focused on picking up gossip from anyone within earshot. Parem was still laced through his thoughts even as the night droned on.

I fear that I may bore you with the monotony of his evening job, but this went on for quite a long while. Surely everyone knows the feeling⸻after some time, every minute bleeds indifferently into the next, voices become unintelligible from one another, and one wonders what the use of all this is at all. Just the sort of thing Jayar simultaneously could not stand and had withstood for what felt like eternity. So when Blaze sidled up to the bar where he was working to mutter that some bruiser kept nagging him, Jayar's senses pricked up.

Druig, a big beefy slab of meat who was only ever really useful to knock people out and couldn't shoot to save his life, was arguing about some job prospect or another with a few other Dime Lions, idling in the hall near one of the tables nearby even though they all likely had posts that they were supposed to be stationed at.

"He was pissed off that I took tonight's job before he got the chance to slot it," Blaze explained dryly, setting down his platter for Jay to load with a fresh round of drinks, "and I may or may not have insulted his mother. Now he's going on about how I don't give a single kruge about my own and yadda yadda yadda, and if he brings up you-know-who I'm obviously going to let loose on him, so I figured it was a good idea to get mad preemptively. Thoughts?" he prompted.

Jayar hummed, arranging glasses on the tray, but customers were currently nowhere on Blaze’s mind. "I like it. It's fresh. It's new. Terrible consequences, I'm afraid."

"Not for me. I get away with what I want. If anyone disagrees with that the door is that way."

"Torrance!" Druig barked, stalking closer with a gaggle of lackeys at his back. Mid-range members and a couple of high-profile bruisers, all outranking Blaze and Jay by a mile. "You gonna get off your sorry behind and put your money where your mouth is?"

Jayar glanced at Druig, then at Blaze, then at Druig again. "Tell me you didn't threaten him."

"Eh... define threaten."

"Well?" Druig said tauntingly. "You afraid of getting tossed in the crapper again, arsonist?"

Blaze was tapping his fingers incessantly on the counter, eyes flicking from the oncoming challengers to the seemingly ignorant crowd of tourists in the hall. "If they want Blaze Torrance," Blaze said with a dangerous sort of glint in his eye, "they're going to get him."

Jayar dusted off his hands and walked around the bar to stand beside him. "This seems unwise."

"Let's make it a game," murmured Blaze in Ravkan. "Ten points for the little scrappy ones, fifteen for the big boulders."

It was tempting. Too tempting. Jayar tapped his fingers rapidly on the table. There were more important things to concern himself with. But if Blaze was going to have fun without him...

"Alright," he replied, in Ravkan as well, his lips curling into a feral grin. Consequences be damned. "I bet that you can't break the arm of that big guy with the face ink."

"Oh, yeah? You think so? I'll break both his arms and then toss him like a sack of meat. I'll walk all over his arms afterwards."

"You'll need a dance partner."

"I would ask you, but you're too ugly to be seen as my dance partner."

"Maybe one of the dealers will dance with you."

"Of course they will. I'm a total catch. I'll have all the dealers dancing with me, all over these guys' internal organs."

"What are you two idiots waiting for?" roared Druig in Kerch. "You gonna get up and fight or what?"

"You know what they say, Blaze," said Icar behind him, cracking his knuckles. "You shouldn't bring a match to a fistfight. It's cheating."

"And you know what else they say, Icar," Blaze spat with fresh ferocity. "Cheaters win."

That was all it took to start it all. Blaze really did have a talent for these things. In dizzying succession, one of the men ran for Jay, the smaller target, three cornered Blaze, and everyone started punching. Jayar found himself tackled to the ground, but he rolled, maneuvering himself out of a loose chokehold, grabbing for a wrist, and yanking until he heard a snap. Shouting ensued, and Jayar thrust his head forward, knocking his opponent's back. Customers were fleeing but he hardly noticed. He couldn't get a good look at Blaze from this angle, but he suspected that the bright yellow flare was coming from his direction. Jay was assaulted by more and more men as they seemingly just kept on coming, and he found himself reverting to his childhood instincts⸻yank his shirt over his head and punch until you see blood. His knuckles pooled red and one of his teeth felt loose only a few minutes in, but the rush was exactly what he'd been looking for all day. This was fun. He didn't allow himself to have fun very often.

Breathlessly, Jayar barely registered a new voice as he twisted the arm of a man nearly twice his size behind his back, pinning him to the ground and slamming his heel into his back.

"BOYS! BREAK IT UP!"

Jayar spun to meet the tip of a blade pointed at his throat. He panted, but grinned through the soreness in his limbs and the blood in his mouth. One of the dealers, the one who carried a sword (like a total dork, he thought). Kira, he was pretty sure. Jay's latest victim grunted from behind him. "Party crasher."

"The boss is coming," she hissed, grabbing the man on the ground by the shoulder and helping him up. Everyone froze, like a record scratch.

"Rollins is coming!" someone yelled, and everyone scrambled to disperse. An apathetic-looking Doughty emerged with a bucket to put out the table that had caught on fire. Because Jayar didn't have the good sense to run, he argued with Kira while the man she was holding up⸻Ripper⸻moaned and clutched his likely fractured or broken ribs. It took him a moment longer than it should have for Jayar to realize that Blaze was gone, and he remembered then that while Blaze had a job tonight and would get off easy because of it, he himself probably wouldn't be so lucky. Blaze had probably incorrectly assumed that Jayar wouldn't be an idiot and would scram along with everyone else, or else he'd been knocked out and was currently being dragged outside. The former was highly probable and Jayar sensed either a laughing fit or an angry lecture for his stupidity later. Well. He had asked for it.

"Now who," boomed a voice coming down the grand golden staircase at the center of the hall, "decided it would be a good idea to scare away all the customers on a busy night?"

Everyone swiveled to see Pekka Rollins, his face nearly as red as his sideburns. Jayar wasn't sure whether to be offended or honored as a dozen fingers pointed angrily at him. Everyone knew full well it wasn't true, but his boss sneered down at him like he was something nasty that he'd found on the bottom of his shoe.

"Good bloody luck, Kade," Kira said rather smugly. "You'll need it."

Jayar had never really been one to play cards. Cheat at them, maybe. If there was any hope in the world, then life was nothing like a game of cards. But if it was, well... he'd simply have to cheat. Perhaps he couldn't always punch and kick himself out of unfortunate situations. In his mind the ghost of Kaz Rietveld whispered to him:

Weasel your way out of this one, brother.

A delightful challenge.