❝ MY BIGGEST BRUISERS," Pekka Rollins said, turning around in his chair to face Jayar. His gaze was hard and cold, but there was something else there too. It may have been a stretch, but Jayar almost wanted to say that he seemed ever so slightly impressed. Of course, he didn't exactly expect Pekka to stand there and admit it. The slight nervous tingle in his stomach gave way to excitement, and he forced himself to stifle it. He'd taken a calculated risk, but a risk all the same. There was no telling whether it would work in his favor. "My biggest bruisers were crippled like that little canal rat in the Dregs. By... who?"

He regarded Jayar with disdain. Jayar made a show of arching his neck to glance about, furrowing his brows together.

"I'm afraid I'm not sure. I don't see anyone."

Rollins slammed meaty hands on the desk with such ferocity that Jay actually leaned back slightly. "Jayar Kade!" he announced, lip curling. Even his green-and-white striped waistcoat seemed to be glowering down at him. "Little nobody runner from⸻Ravka, right? You don't look so Ravkan."

Caught red-handed.

"I'm Kerch. I've done my fair share of traveling," Jayar said smoothly, deciding to play this lightly. It was easiest to lie when you told the truth without telling it, like how Blaze managed to hide in plain sight because what people saw as the most important bits of his story⸻too many lighters, a little bit crazy⸻explained away his persistent affinity for arson. They would never bother to look for anything underneath, because surface answers often sufficed to satisfy curiosity. Jayar himself had undoubtedly been like that once, willing to accept what was given to him. Now he couldn't bear it. Now he always felt implored to dig deeper, and to keep digging, until nothing mattered anymore except for the answer to the question pounding in his head. He didn't know if that was how Pekka worked, but he intended to find out.

"You know, Kade," Pekka said, sneering, "You've been residing in my ranks for approximately a year and yet I can't say I know a thing about you."

Playing dumb won't last you five minutes, taunted Kaz's little boy voice. Jayar smiled through gritted teeth. He knew plenty about Rollins. And Rollins would know plenty about him, too, if he wasn't so self-absorbed that he couldn't even be bothered to remember the names of two boys he'd conned all those years ago. Just another nameless set of marks, another faceless set of easy targets. "You seem to think I have something to hide, Mister Rollins," he said innocently.

"Do you?" Pekka leaned forward on his desk, tapping its surface. "Because everyone has something to hide here in the Barrel."

Jayar considered him closely.

"You don't give a damn about me. So why don't you just get on with what you want?"

Pekka Rollins leaned back, resting his linked hands on his stomach. Everything about him bled with the stench of rich, but not legitimate, mercher rich—Barrel rich. A man who had earned all his pay on the backs of gang fights and conned tourists. It was hard not to respect that sort of rich, the sort that wasn't afraid to do whatever it took to reach its goals. Not trustworthy, but worth something at least. Some kind of determination. Or ruthlessness. Or both. "As a matter of fact, today has made me very curious about you. What can you tell me about jurda parem?"

Jayar was very, very careful to ensure his expression did not change to anything except a mild combination of confusion and curiosity. This was what he was here for. And he'd been right.

His encounter with Nadia had confirmed that parem was threatening to enter the worldwide market, suggesting that there would be multiple parties interested in stopping it. Then Bjerke had told him that the Dregs were taking on a new job unique enough to need to break a prisoner out of Hellgate. Jayar considered himself no strategic genius, but he was certainly smart enough to put two-and-two together. So if the Dregs had been offered a parem-related job, it was only a matter of time before other gangs were presented with the same offer. Blaze had provided him with the perfect opportunity to catch Pekka's attention. It had been a gamble entertaining his desire to beat up some of Pekka's favorite muscle, but here he was, and the gamble had paid off. He had Rollins right where he wanted him, under the guise of an elusive crew member desperate for attention. He exhaled as discreetly as possible, relieved.

"Well..." Jayar said slowly. "I've heard the rumors, certainly."

"And what rumors would those be?"

Jayar itched for a smoke.

"Only that it exists. That boys can walk through walls, that lead can turn to gold. That miracles can happen."

"Do you believe in miracles, Mr. Kade?"

"Who doesn't?" he said with a wolfish smile. Rollins grunted.

"I think you're a bit of a crazy man, Kade. And tonight that might just get you somewhere."

"Oh?" His mind rapidly fired through possibilities, but deep down he knew. He knew what was coming, the offer that was about to be made. It was only a matter of convincing Rollins that he was the right man for the job, and confirming the involvement of his brother. Why was he doing this? Certainly not for the money. Two things. One sat before him. The other was tattooed on his wrist. He has to give me the offer. Jayar was expendable, and capable, and Rollins needed someone to fill those exact categories. Barrel scum, fresh blood, no sense of self-preservation. Jayar was a shoo-in. Do it, he dared him silently. Say it.

Rollins narrowed his eyes at him. "I have been given a proposition," he said finally, raising his voice as if making a great proclamation, "from the Merchant Council. More specifically, one Jan Van Eck." He frowned at a little black beetle scuttling across the desk. "Merchants like him think all us Barrel bosses are the same. That we're all brainless, uneducated beetles⸻" he squashed the bug with a finger and wiped his hand unceremoniously on the handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket⸻ "who'll go along with any scheme so long as the sweet smell of freshly printed kruge is waved under our noses."

There was a pause.

"Is he right?"

"Only partially," Rollins conceded with a wicked gleam in his eye. "If this parem is everything I've been told it is, it's more powerful than any of us can comprehend. Its entering the international market wouldn't just throw the stocks into disarray; it would end up in the hands of filthy lowlifes like you and the next thing anyone knows, Grisha are becoming addicted to it and turning into malnourished deities left and right." Jayar nodded slowly. Some versions of parem were addictive enough to turn a Grisha into a walking corpse. Others simply functioned about as harshly as his relationship with cigarettes: there was a persistent desire for it, but the withdrawal wouldn't harm you really.

He cleared his throat, feeling dry at the thought. "If it enhances Grisha powers, what does it do to the average non-Grisha?"

This was important. He needed to know which strain this was, or at least have enough information to find out. Rollins mimicked a knife to the neck, the universal sign for death. "Kills you on the spot," he drawled with an almost haughty twinge in his tone, as if enjoying all of Jayar's questions. Possessing information where others didn't had a fascinating sort of power.

His brow furrowed. He'd never come into contact with any parem that killed ordinary humans.

The question was, was it a bluff or a legitimately dangerous formula?

"Van Eck told me three things that this drug is behind." Rollins ticked them off on ring-clad fingers. "The assassination of the trade ambassador in Novyi Zem. The Ravkan military documents theft. And Shu Han paying their debt off to Kerch so abruptly." Jayar considered these events; all relatively recent news. The Shu had only had access to parem for two years or maybe less. How long did it take to refine and replicate a formula? To train an army? Nadia, Nadia...

"Now," he continued, lifting his chin, "the only person alive with the formula to this magical substance, supposedly, is the man who created it." Jayar raised an eyebrow. Did he now? "His name is Bo Yul-bayur. He sent out an SOS about a month ago and the Merchant Council helped him defect from his government. But..."

"Didn't go as planned?"

"Not remotely, I hear. Captured by Fjerdan soldiers at the drop point. Care to guess where he is?"

"Dead?" Jayar suggested wryly. Rollins's casual attitude was repulsively crawling under his skin. It was one thing to wear a mask of indifference in order for people to leave you alone, but actually not caring... or perhaps Jayar was just caring too much because he was personally invested in the drug itself and its implications. Why should a Barrel boss give a shining dime about something on foreign land that only affected Grisha? His hatred for Rollins was blinding him, distracting him. He shoved it down.

"Awaiting trial for crimes against humanity or some gobbledegook like that. At the Ice Court."

His visible shock was genuine. His heart plummeted to his feet, the words slicing into him like knives into his chest.

The Ice Court.

Every saint and their mothers, Jayar thought, panic flooding his chest. Kaz has deluded himself into thinking he can retrieve some scientist from the Ice Court. The deadliest fortress in the world... No one who was tried was ever found innocent. And no one who went in came out alive.

Kaz is going to break into the Ice Court and get himself killed for a handful of cash.

He swallowed tightly, and for a split second he was no longer Jayar but Jordie, placing a thin blanket gently over his little brother as he slept, curled up against a dumpster in an alley. No shoes, no food, but dammit, he was going to keep his baby brother safe. Kaz shifted in his sleep, resting his head on Jordie's shoulder, hair midnight black and lashes fluttering. He was so innocent then, or at least as innocent as a boy living in the Barrel with a deck of cards up his sleeve and a far-too-intelligent glimmer in his eye could be. He didn't deserve this. But⸻Jordie heaved a shaky, painful breath⸻he was dying, and there would be nothing he could do to save Kaz but lie...

Jayar shut his eyes and snapped them open again. His tilted, unhinged smile stitched its way onto his face like a second skin. "So," he said. "Van Eck wants someone to break into the Ice Court and kidnap Yul-bayur for the Merch Council, and you're too important to do it." Of course, he didn't need to. It was gang law that the top boss received twenty percent of every payout. He would be rolling in cash whether he got off his lazy bum or not.

Rollins scowled. Jayar caught a flash of someone moving from behind the deep emerald curtains that lined the angled walls of the room adjacent to Rollins's large desk. Someone is listening. He'd heard of Pekka Rollins's so-called Grisha pet, his personal assassin. It was general Dime Lions knowledge that he sometimes lurked in the Palace, but was he here, now?

"Don't I look busy? Whatever this drug really is, it's not important enough for me to travel outside of Kerch, not when I have responsibilities. The Kaelish Prince is still far from finished. It does take work to build a criminal empire, you know, boy."

"Yes, yes⸻the Fold wasn't formed in a day and all that." His thoughts silently finished the saying. "I assume I'm here because you intend for me to make the treacherous journey as some sort of twisted punishment."

Pekka Rollins leaned forward menacingly. Jayar remained unmoving. He pictured wringing his hands around Pekka's thick red neck. "Let me make this very clear, Kade. You're here because you're hopelessly unimportant to me, and I think you just might have the guts to pull it off. If you die, no one will cry for you. But you do claim to believe in miracles. If you manage to make it back alive, there's a hefty cash prize." He extended his arms as if to welcome Jayar's agreement. "So? How would you like to pay a visit to the great white country of Fjerda?"

Yes.

Jayar cursed himself internally. He had to play the part of a Barrel nobody, had to give Rollins exactly what he expected. He had to have no attachment to this job whatsoever.

"It depends. How much for the impossible job?"

"At the end of the day," Rollins said smugly, "you're just like all the others. Would you say no to a crew total of thirty million kruge?"

Now he understood what enticed his little brother. This Van Eck fellow must have been quite the mercher if he could offer that much to canal rats and conmen.

"Thirty million to put together a crew that can manage to break into the legendary Ice Court for a drug that you can't show me proof of because it's all hearsay," mused Jayar, as if he were considering his options for breakfast and not accepting an offer that could end with him dead. Rollins examined him with interest, looking equal parts annoyed and curious. Jayar was a puzzle to him. He intended to keep it that way. "I think I'd sign that document."

"In that case, I've got one for you."

"Who else has he given the offer to?" Jayar prompted. Rollins scratched at his tufty sideburns.

"What do you mean, boy?"

He was forced to show his hand, if only a little. Jayar treaded carefully. "Van Eck. I find it hard to believe he'd only give the opportunity to one gang, knowing there's little chance of survival on a job like this. Surely he would have hired backup."

There was silence, and then suddenly Pekka Rollins barked a hearty laugh. "You learn a lot from being a wallflower, don't you? Well, you're right. He's also offered the money to the Dregs." Good. He still thought Jayar far beneath him and couldn't comprehend his true perceptiveness just yet. That ego did wonders for Jayar's staying under the radar.

Jayar nodded. "Brekker, then."

"Naturally."

"Well, then." He took the paper that Rollins had slid his way. He skimmed it and penned his signature on the line before handing it back. Rollins, although he didn't remember it, had given him faulty contracts before. Now he knew enough to think to carry leverage with him in case the situation went sour. "May the best thief win."

Rollins chuckled, shaking his head. "You're really willing to go along with this," he realized in amused disbelief. "Psycho enough to take the job without confirming that the drug's real."

"Now, Mr. Rollins," said Jayar coyly, "what does it matter what's real and what isn't so long as I'm getting paid?"

Rollins didn't hide his astonishment well, his ruddy face giving away every conflicting emotion and curious inquiry. He produced a cigar from a drawer in his desk and lit it. "I think I've underestimated you, Kade."

Jayar slid from his seat, darting glances at the silent bruisers guarding the door. He didn't wait for a dismissal, a subtle undercut of Rollins's unspoken authority.

"You have no idea," he replied with a million-dollar grin.

His head was already turning with people he would need to carry out the heist. This would be a hell of a crew. His eyes wandered to the shifting curtains, wondering about the person likely hidden behind them and whether he'd be up to the task. There were so many names he had to go through; had to consider spiders and thieves and gunmen. But the night was young and the moon was full.

First, he was going to save his idiot brother from a suicide mission. And then, he would gut the empire of Pekka Rollins⸻brick by brick.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Smoke. It was everywhere, always. Wafting through his clothes, snaking about his head, swirling up through the rafters. He couldn't get rid of it.

His little apartment reeked of smoke.

Blaze shucked off his singed clothes, dropping them in the hamper beside his neatly arranged bed⸻well, perhaps it couldn't really be called a bed. Just a mattress, really. It was better the less wood he had at his place. The lack of furniture was also, partially at least, a style choice. Looking at cluttered spaces filled him with the inescapable urge to vomit on the spot.

The night's events flashed behind his eyes. The scuffle at the Palace, bloody knuckles and red-rimmed grins; the chaotic escape, flurries of people shoving one another aside to emerge out the side exit into the night; the job he'd had afterward, creaky windows and vacated hallways and everything going up in flames. A bag full of cash. He glanced sideways. It still rested on the floor where he'd left it. He'd already rifled through, confirmed the payment. He would have to set aside the boss's percentage later.

A standing mirror loomed over him, gleaming in the lamplight as he examined his latest wounds. That tooth that had been wiggling slightly for a while felt loose, and it made him slightly nervous as he touched it gingerly, testing to make sure it was still secure. Oh well⸻if worse came to worst he would go have someone hack a bit of metal into his mouth to replace it. His shoulder by now had stopped bleeding, and the memories arose again as he wiped it down with a liquor-doused cloth, having removed the makeshift tourniquet he used earlier. Hit to the jaw. Slammed into the wall. Thumbs pressed into someone's eye sockets until it elicited a scream. Then a harsh jab with the butt of someone's firearm, nearly splitting his shoulder open. A crowbar minutes later finished the job. Now he paid the price, inhaling sharply through his teeth while he cleaned and bandaged the wound.

Another battle scar.

Blaze was positively covered in them. Some from idiocy. Some from risky jobs gone awry. Some from particularly handsy arrests. Some old enough to be traced back to his days training as a Grisha in the Little Palace all that time ago. The thought of it brought a foul taste to his tongue. As quiet and muted as he'd always tried to be then, his emotions had always shown through his abilities, and as his anger steadily grew, so too did the flames. One day he'd snapped.

That was all over now. He would never be a Grisha again⸻not really. Not the kind of Grisha everyone expected him to be. Not a soldier. A fighter, maybe. Nothing could douse that flame.

Here in Ketterdam he could be no Grisha at all. What a blessing that was.

The mirror, though, knew his secrets. He looked up to find deep honey-gold Shu eyes glaring back at him. He was drenched in an unnatural coating of sweat, both from the night's fire and the fact that he simply always radiated heat. It was always so hot, all the time, even when it poured for days on end in this dreary city. Almost as persistent as the smoke. Now that he'd peeled off his sweaty, mostly burned clothes his most prominent scar was visible: an ugly, jagged thing that made its rocky way from the side of his neck to halfway down his chest. That one was... ugh. He didn't even want to think about how he'd gotten it. It was bad enough having to look at it.

While he was here... his coffee-brown hair, long enough again to tickle his ears, was getting annoying. His eyes roamed the room and he snatched a knife off his dresser, chopping off the front bangs and some length around the sides haphazardly before dumping the clippings in the trash. Too expensive to go get it cut, not when he lived so strictly paycheck-to-paycheck. He frowned at his reflection, scratching at the faint stubble that was beginning to appear along his jawline. How old was he now? It felt like just yesterday when Pekka Rollins had given him the offer to join the Lions at the ripe young age of thirteen, and nowadays he never could keep track⸻

The door flew open, interrupting his train of thought.

Jayar had on that odd, twitchy smile. "Have I got news for us."

"It's past midnight," Blaze grumbled, running his hands through his freshly-cut hair. "I knew I shouldn't have given you that key to my⸻aces! I'm not wearing any clothes!"

He had forgotten he was standing in his underwear. Jayar didn't seem to take any notice, barely sparing him a glance as he muttered something incomprehensible to himself, seeing himself in. Blaze huffed and hastily grabbed a clean pair of pants out of one of his drawers. Jayar had always been so weird that way, hardly noticing when attractive men on the Stave were shirtless or when the girls in the Sweet Shop were showing enough cleavage to turn the head of a blind man. Too consumed with vengeance or whatever it was he was always mumbling on about to have the good sense to take a moment and appreciate anything else. Normally Blaze was very in touch with his flirty side when he needed to be, or at least he had been before she died⸻the only good thing he really had to show off was his looks⸻but this was Jayar Kade. They were close enough that Blaze might have even considered them friends. And the last time one of them had run into the other unclothed, he'd found Jay doing a weird stomach-slicing ritual, so it was something he'd prefer to avoid.

"Entirely irrelevant to what I just said," Jayar said matter-of-factly. "Did you hear me? I said I have news."

"Alright. Now that I have pants on, hit me."

"You look like you've taken quite the hit on your shoulder already."

"Spit it out, Jay."

"Heard of jurda parem?"

Everything halted. Blaze squinted.

"I think so? Someone turned lead into gold or something like that, right?"

Jayar's bitter-coffee eyes gleamed with barely-contained excitement. "A drug. A strain derived from regular jurda. This isn't your run-of-the-mill crystal stuff. It turns Grisha into monsters, monsters that can do crazy, magnificent things."

Blaze collapsed onto his none-too-comfortable mattress. "Grisha are already monsters," he said.

"Picture Durasts that can transform one property into another. Heartrenders that can command you to do anything. Squallers that can fly. Healers that can raise the dead."

Blaze snorted. "Nothing can raise the dead."

Jayar didn't say anything. He sat up, propping himself up on his hands.

"Alright. Say this drug's legit. Who's got ahold of it?"

That crooked smile returned. "The right question to ask. Right now, anyone could have it, but the Shu hold the key to the formula that creates it. They can monopolize the market if this ever escapes into the hands of businessmen. Or at least they can try." Jayar hesitated. He was holding something back.

"But?" Blaze pressed.

"But..." Jayar tilted his head. "The man who... allegedly invented it, by the name of Bo Yul-bayur, isn't with the Shu anymore. He made a plea to the Merchant Trade Council asking for help but was captured by the Fjerdans. Now the Merch Council needs a rescue mission. They're hoping to avoid parem entering the market at all, worried about it going international and wreaking havoc."

"Fjerda means..." Blaze came to a realization. "That means the Ice Court."

"Bingo."

"They'll have him tried and executed," he mused. "Is this where your new job opportunity comes in?"

"Precisely. Pekka Rollins wants a team of expendable losers⸻sorry, capable crew members⸻to go steal the man back from an impenetrable fortress. The prize? Thirty million kruge."

Blaze felt a fire light in his stomach. An impossible heist. A ridiculously fat sum of money. They'd done a hundred difficult jobs before. Surely he and Jay were crazy enough to pull it off. His mind glazed over the details, entranced by the dollar sum. The little voice in the back of his mind wanted to know more about the danger posed by this Grisha-enhancing drug, but he told it to shut up. Thirty million kruge. After Rollins's cut, if the team was anywhere between five and seven people to pull off a group heist, that would be something like...

"Probably somewhere around four million per person, depending," Jayar added.

Blaze's jaw dropped. He could do so much⸻anything⸻whatever he wanted with that kind of money.

Wait.

"What's the catch?"

Jayar sighed, rolling his neck. He scratched at an eyebrow, leaning against the wall. "The Dregs," he admitted finally. "They're the catch. The Dregs took the job too, and we would have to manage to reach the Ice Court before Kaz Brekker and his little posse do. We have only a couple of days to get everyone together or else we won't get out ahead of them. Only one team is rescuing Yul-bayur, and only one team is getting paid."

"Why bother hiring two crews?"

"Insurance, I'd wager. At least one crew is bound to survive. The other, a casualty of the game."

Blaze considered it, not bothering to analyze the look on Jayar's face. A race against time. The prize, life-changing. Head-to-head with a gang like the Dregs?

This sounded like a hell of a good time.

"This'll be dangerous," Jayar warned. "And not the ordinary kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous that has your life flashing before your eyes, has you teetering on the edge of your final destruction with nothing at the bottom to save you. The kind of dangerous that tests every boundary you thought you had and every line you thought you'd never cross. This means something to me, something that I'm willing to risk life and limb for. But if that's not the case for you, don't come with me. I don't want the only person I have left falling off a cliff he didn't see coming."

Blaze swallowed, meeting his eyes. They were burning with an intensity that could rival the raging fire that had consumed the home he'd ravaged tonight.

Then he cracked a smirk. "I think I like you enough to trade life and limb for four million kruge."

Jayar exhaled, and for once Blaze couldn't read his expression. He almost seemed... relieved that Blaze had agreed to join him. Like he didn't want to venture into this psychotic job alone. But that couldn't be right. Jayar Kade was never afraid of anything.

He'd have more time to dissect that later.

"So who do we need to get together?"

"It's still a process. I was hoping you could give me some information on names," Jayar sighed, collapsing into the rickety armchair that served as one-third of Blaze's total furniture. "I don't wanna waste any more time than we need to. How do you feel about a long night?"

"Sounds good to me," Blaze agreed with a shrug. "So. The Ice Court. You should probably find someone who knows something about it."

"Yeah. And then we need a lockpick, a greaseman..."

"A distraction."

"A demo expert⸻that's you."

"Naturally. You can be the planner; muscle, too. Not as good as me, but still. A gunman would be useful."

"I've got one," Jayar said, nodding. "And, of course..." His eyes were swallowed by that faraway, plotting-world-domination sort of look. "Can't go without a bit of leverage."

Blaze frowned, considering their options. "Are we limited to the Lions?"

"Not specified, so I'm taking that as a free pass."

"Just not taking from the Dregs, I hope." The face Jayar made suggested otherwise. "Jay!"

"Look, you know what? I'll do the choosing, you'll help do the recruiting. Yeah?"

Blaze performed an exaggerated, false salute. "Aye, aye, boss."

Jayar rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Now, here's who I need you to give a house call..."

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

The candy-colored pastels of the Sweet Shop were mesmerizing, but not so much as the glowing golden center attraction. Even on her very first week employed here, Davina Erinsin had been an instantly smashing success. Ketterdam's very own golden goddess. She attracted everyone into her orbit⸻the other brothel girls, who sought to bask in her shimmering glory; tourists, pulled in by the flashy entrance and kept all night by her jaw-dropping performances; and regulars, men who whined to her about their rich lives that were oh-so-difficult as she nodded along sympathetically and melted all their worries away. It was a shining façade like no other, night and day and everything in between, flowing raven hair and lacy fans encrusted with false jewels and silky dresses in deep royal blue.

It was gross.

And she'd long embraced it, and perhaps that was the worst part.

Silks in shades of amber, flaxen wheat, and sandy yellow, trailed after Davina as she danced, attached enough to her hips that they could be generously called a skirt, the belt of her thong embedded with enough jewels and sequins to please a sultan. All artificial, of course. Only expensive imitations of the real thing. Very few in Ketterdam could afford enough real diamonds and sapphires to weave into clothes, although that wasn't to say she didn't have any in her possession. Far from it, Davina Erinsin's taste had always been hopelessly particular. Her title as the golden goddess was not one taken lightly. False yellow zircon dripped from her pressingly tight top, shimmering gold chains lining her cleavage as she spun. Her prop performance fan was a fittingly extravagant thing, enormous and feathered and enticing and oh so gold. A signature did have to be fulfilled. And my, were the audiences entranced.

This performance, the silver-and-gold show that only ever occurred on Monday and Friday nights, was a massive tourist draw. Davina was at the heart of it, her backup dancers only allowed to wear silver. She almost pitied them, forced to clothe in mostly metal with only a few thin pieces of silver fabric to spare. Almost. But she who brought in the most revenue was rewarded with the nicest costumes. That was simply the way the world worked.

Swishes and flicks and spins and flashes of seductive smiles hidden coyly behind decorative fans, a hundred hungry eyes following her every move. Davina had always been perfect. A perfect daughter⸻not good enough⸻a perfect model⸻not thin enough⸻a perfect accessory⸻disgraced golden child⸻and finally a perfect dancer. If she could give the world everything and it could still claim that she hadn't managed to fulfill its expectations then she would ignore all the whispers and the disgusted glances and everything the world had to say. She didn't need anyone to tell her she was beautiful or obedient or any of it. Not anymore. Because, you see, when the world turned its back on her, there would always be a sufficiently monstrous population of greedy customers itching for her charm, her dancing, her perfect skin and perfect smile.

Why waste her time with anything else when this earned so much money?

After all, she was only as heartless as the world had been to her.

Besides all that, this job had its perks. The whiny men in her bed were irritating, sure. The whole environment of the Sweet Shop itself was horrifically draining, to be quite honest. But the secrets⸻oh, those were worth far more than gold.

Lights flashed on gleaming white skin, spinning with cool metal beneath her hands. She counted down in her head, preparing for the big jump. Five... She dipped backwards, passing off the fan to someone else. Four... She danced her way to a group of girls preparing their formation. Three... She took the hands of one, and they circled each other briefly in pairs. Two... Now the arrangement had come together, and Davina readied herself for the jump, knowing her coworkers would catch her.

One.

There was always that breathless, anxious moment for a split second in the air as you flipped, wondering despite all the rehearsals and every time it had gone right: will I fall? Will this be my end, my final humiliation?

Davina was weightless, soaring in a graceful arc to resounding cheers.

And then she was toes-to-ground again, tearing off her silks and sweeping in a brilliant pirouette as they encircled her figure like glittering ribbons. All the spotlight was on her. Every man watching, whether they be drooling or genuinely appreciative of the craft, were praising her with their applause. Davina beamed, her chest rising. This was it. This was the closest thing to happiness she would ever receive. This was all she lived for, even if not by choice. No, not the money being collected by a staff member weaving through the crowd holding out a silk bag stuffed to the brim with kruge.

That was an appeal, of course. But no, Davina basked in the attention. Judge all you like.

She soaked it up like a living sun, rose-lipped smile gleaming, as the rest of the girls onstage retreated. She curtsied, not once but again and again, blowing kisses to audience members and trailing the edges of the stage to give prospecting customers a closer look as they grasped desperately for a chance to see or touch her. Her aura was entirely magnetic, in beauty, grace, and sex appeal. 'Twas the life.

She vanished through the curtains like an elusive ghost. Backstage, she was finally free for the exhaustion to set in.

Davina collapsed against the wall, sliding down in a naturally dignified fashion. She leaned back, taking a few grateful gasps of air. Over and over and over again. The same thing every day. She reminded herself of the money and the luxury. It was easy enough to ignore questions of what better lied beyond the Stave. The possibilities were endless... but she'd been beyond the Sweet Shop, beyond Ketterdam. She knew the grass wasn't greener overseas. At least here, regardless of what anyone may have thought of her lifestyle, she was free. And chances were her rotten luck would follow her wherever she went⸻or maybe it wasn't luck at all, but an upbringing that had molded her into a person that could only ever be one thing. Disgraced golden child. A plaything for wealthy men that deluded herself into thinking that she was ever in control.

Oh, father... why have you burdened me so?

"Davi," someone said, snapping her harshly to reality. Her back was already ramrod straight, but she adjusted her shoulders, plastering on her usual charming glow and ditzy expression. It was her manager, who kept all the women on schedule. Davina would have liked her if she wasn't such an easy target to blame for overbooked days. "I know it's been a long night, but it's a Friday. No rest till morning. Go on and get changed, alright? You've got a client in the gilded room."

Inwardly, Davina groaned. She wanted to dramatically drape herself across a plush couch and doze off immediately. But, disappointingly, she wouldn't get a chance to get off work until the morning, and then she had all day to gather beauty sleep in her deluxe apartment in the Zelver District before heading to the Emerald Palace tomorrow night for some silly party and a special session with her number one VIP guest. Yes, the one and only⸻Pekka Rollins. He called her his favorite gal. She called him her balding ginger, but he didn't need to know that. He was so blissfully ignorant to how his hair was thinning, the poor darling.

He showered her with gifts and endless job opportunities, and in exchange, she always had front-row access to every weakness he harbored. He hadn't missed her talent for extracting secrets, and upon realizing it, he must have decided he trusted her because he'd given her assignment after assignment lifting intel off of respectable businessmen and opposing gang members since. Davina was a bit of what one might call more than just a pretty face.

"The night's only as long as my paycheck," Davina crooned, and she rose to swiftly change.

Only minutes later, she eased open the door to her most popular room, swishing inside and locking it shut. Cushiony armchairs fit for royalty, a magnificent wardrobe to satisfy those that enjoyed watching Davina play dress-up, and an extravagant canopy bed big enough to become a sea of sheets. All gold, to no surprise.

The young man she assumed was her client, who surprised her slightly by appearing around her age (not an entirely unusual occurrence but younger men seemed more inclined to the White Rose), sat lazily in one of the armchairs. She found she didn't recognize him, which could be good news or bad news.

"Nice performance out there. Davina, was it?"

She entered the room, his eyes tracking her every movement. Her dress, ruby red and slitted on both sides so that it fell in two swaths of fabric, one in front and one in back, swayed as she walked, revealing nearly all of her pale long legs. She tossed her hair. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

She was somewhat puzzled⸻he was following her with his eyes, as expected, but he seemed largely uninterested, as if he had far more compelling things to be doing. He was also wearing about as much clothing as she was, his top cut short with netting stretched across his torso underneath and his pants most certainly not needing to be so tight. She was thrown off her guard, both by his indifferent demeanor and his appearance in general, and didn't like the first impression. This had never happened to her⸻actually, come to think of it, once it had...

"And your name?" she said pleasantly, making her way onto the chair across from him. This client was already bothering her, and he'd hardly spoken. This was bound to be a long night.

"Well, I've got a real one, but everyone calls me Blaze."

Now that sounded familiar, at least vaguely. She allowed that to settle in her mind while she continued her routine. "Do you know the name 'Davina'?" she asked, elegantly crossing her legs and leaning forward slightly. "It's Shu. It means otherworldly, goddesslike. All my clients say⸻"

Her newest client sighed. "Look, I'm sure that schtick works on plenty of run-of-the-mill idiots, but you and I both know Davina is super Kerch."

Her smile dropped and she had to force it back onto her face. Davina glanced up at the stranger, assessing him through half-lidded lashes. He appeared to be at least part Shu, which was noteworthy in a city like Ketterdam which was considerably lacking in Shu population save for those unlucky ones who came in on boats, headed inevitably for the brothels. Her eyes wandered momentarily to a tattooed bicep: a feral cat curled into a crown. He had the same Dime Lions emblem on the side of his neck that wasn't gruesomely marred with a rather tasteless scar⸻good grief, at least Davina herself had the sense to disguise the long scar snaking up her hand with a golden vine tattoo in order to complement her outfits⸻but was otherwise devoid of unnecessary ink.

"Davina Erinsin. Sounds like a stage name to me," he mused, startling her. The more he talked, the more he put her on edge. Something was off. Very off.

She smiled anyway. "And Blaze isn't?" She laughed at her own not-joke, because he didn't, staring at her stone-faced. Highly unsettling. She got up and swept her red silk over to him. "Stage name or not, people love it." She trailed her fingers through dark brown hair, resisting the urge to draw back at the suffocating amount of body heat emanating from his skin. Whoever this guy was, she was too close. But she couldn't back away now. "There's a lot in a name, you know," she murmured, eyes snapping to his. "I'll bet there's a lot behind yours."

"You can keep your clothes on," he said easily, holding up a hand to gently keep her at a distance as she dropped her sleeves from her shoulders, plunging her generous neckline further. This time she really did recoil.

"You paid for a session just to talk?"

Davina blinked, surprised at her own outburst. Rarely did she drop her composure. But this was... she wasn't sure what she was supposed to think.

Blaze shot her a toothy grin that was a touch too chaotic for her taste. "I come with a business offer. So get real comfortable. Have a seat."

Obediently, she found herself returning to her chair, sinking into it.

"Who are you with?" she asked, her tone with a snappier edge but just as elegantly confident. Blaze's voice still unnerved her⸻a little too loud, and unintentionally aggressive even when saying something as mundane as I come with a business offer. He could afford to tone it down some.

"You know Jayar, don't you?"

"Kade? We've exchanged favors."

"Consider this a favor, then." His mouth twisted. "D'you know Ravkan? It'll be easier for me to explain if you do."

"Language bars no goddess." Truthfully, she wasn't fluent, but he didn't need to know she already had a weakness straight upon meeting her.

Blaze rolled his eyes and switched to Ravkan. "I'll take that as a yes. Anyway, I don't enjoy diplomacy, so I'll cut to the pitch. It involves capturing the man who invented a drug that can flip the world entirely upside down. The most ridiculous heist ever dreamed up for thirty million kruge."

If Davina were a cartoon character, her eyes would have lit up with dollar signs just then. She may not have understood every word, but he'd said kruge, and thirty million had been easy enough to translate. Oh, the jewels she could buy with that much money... why, she wouldn't have to work for over a decade if she managed her spending habits. "And what's the..." She fumbled for the word she was looking for in Ravkan, then huffed and just used Kerch. "What's the individual payout, the cut per person?"

"A crew of seven. Three and a half million, give or take. After Rollins's bit."

That much was still significant⸻she could live comfortably without work for at least a year if she so desired. Not that that would be a smart idea in the long run. But who ever thought ahead, really? "So it comes straight from the big man in the chair," she said, pulling her thoughts back to the actual substance of the job.

"Delegated from the Merchant Council, as a matter of fact."

She tilted her head, ebony hair spilling over her shoulders. "The Merchant Council hiring thieves from the Barrel? Naughty, naughty."

"I'm told you know the worst of them. You of all people shouldn't be so shocked."

"You of all people shouldn't be walking around showing midriff, but that's none of my business," Davina said lightly with a charming smile. Blaze's jaw tightened, and he shifted in his chair. "I need the when, the where, and the who."

Blaze shifted to Kerch again. "The when is soon. We've got to beat another gang to the man we're stealing. The where you might not like. The Ice Court, in Fjerda."

Davina paused, before bursting into laughter.

"You must be out of your pretty little mind!"

Blaze ignored her. "The who," he said more harshly than she would've liked, raising his voice, "is, at present, Jayar and myself. We want you to join us."

Davina covered her mouth to stifle her laughter, tears pooling in her eyes. "And do what?" she said incredulously. "Help tighten your noose?" She doubled over. "The Ice Court!"

Blaze audibly ground his teeth. "Don't know why he thought it was a good idea to send me to do this," he muttered, tapping his fingers on the armrests of his seat. "Hey! Earth to Davina! Thirty million kruge!"

That snapped her out of it. She breathed deeply and composed herself, imagining bathing in a tub filled to the brim with gold and jewels. She stroked the necklace at her throat. "Right. Of course. I don't see how I can really contribute to this lovely suicide mission of yours."

"Jay said something about intel and leverage, but I don't know the details yet," admitted Blaze. This piqued Davina's interest somewhat. "We also need, you know, a..." He wasn't sure what word he was looking for in Kerch. "...A charmer," he finished finally.

Ah.

"Someone sexy to cause diversions when necessary?" she said, brandishing her sparkly manicured claws. The Ice Court sounded completely unreasonable, but the money was too great to resist. Somewhere underneath her batting lashes and sassy remarks she had already made up her mind about this odd new opportunity. Hm... Jayar Kade. Somebody, but really nobody at all. What made him so qualified to lead thieves into certain death? Somewhere along the way she'd missed something. Something crucial.

"I would fill the role myself but I fear it needs a woman's touch."

"Well, of course it does. I'll bet you have the grace of a buffalo."

Blaze stood abruptly, and Davina's heart actually skipped a beat⸻he stood at six feet and looked as though he could snap her neck like a twig. She schooled her expression, fingertips caressing the small knife hidden in the hand fan that sat beside her. "I bet you'd go down just like one shot," he snapped. The picture wasn't pretty. Davina swallowed but kept her chin raised.

"Relax, hothead," she said smoothly. "You claim to need me, remember? When will Kade be in contact?"

"Tomorrow. Well, it's two in the morning, so today, I suppose," he responded, muscles relaxing. "He said to have everyone at his place by noon." He produced a slip of paper from his pocket and waved it at her. "The address. Do wear clothes."

She snatched it as he walked by. Blaze's scrawl was tilted and messy, and a little shaky as if he hesitated every few letters, struggling to remember Kerch spelling. A Barrel boy who still hadn't quite mastered the language of the streets. Interesting. Perhaps too consumed in the language of beat them till your knuckles bleed to pay any attention to something so schoollike. Or, otherwise, still clinging desperately to what little he had left of his own country, refusing to let go of the language he'd grown up speaking.

She watched him go and decided it was too early to tell which was truer.

The door shut with a loud slam. Really has no tact, does he? Now alone, Davina leaned back, stretching her legs on the little glass table that served as mostly decoration.

"Thirty million kruge," she murmured to herself, twisting one of the rings she wore.

It was a horribly dirty job, surely. No luxurious accommodations along the way. Rollins would wonder where she'd gone; her employers at the Sweet Shop would be furious upon the disappearance of their biggest moneymaker. She would have to tolerate six nuisances throughout the whole heist, and there was a considerable chance she never came back alive. All that clearly came with the offer and was not especially desirable. But...

She let out a hollow laugh. "Thirty million kruge."