Chapter 8: The Crooked Scale
Selvert's slanted rooftops creaked under her weight, but no one ever looked up.
Below, a jewelry vendor barked at a drunk sailor trying to haggle over a broken brooch. Behind the cart, a small crate served as the man's coinbox—unguarded, unattended, and criminally close to the alley.
Eira licked her chapped lips. Her coat hid her lean frame and the small pistol snug in its holster beneath her arm—two bullets left. That was all. She couldn't afford attention.
She waited for the right distraction: a shout, a dropped bottle, a stumble. Then she moved.
Down the rain pipe. Over the awning. One hand slipped beneath the crate.
The pouch was soft. Hefty.
By the time the vendor turned his head, she was gone.
She counted her take behind a shuttered tailor's shop.
Coins, mostly. A few small notes. Enough to stretch another day or two.
She didn't smile.
There was no thrill in it—just necessity.
Her belly hadn't stopped aching since she left the last island. The pistol's weight was a cold reminder that things could still go wrong.
She tucked the pouch inside her coat and kept moving. Selvert's alleys were a mess of stacked crates, cracked cobbles, and gossiping windows. She didn't trust any of it.
Later, with the sky darkening, Eira took a shortcut behind a series of shuttered workshops.
The wind carried the scent of smoke and brine.
And something else.
Bootsteps.
Behind her.
She turned just as the man stepped out of the shadows.
Lean but mean-looking. Knife already out. A bandana over half his face.
"You've been busy, haven't you?" he said.
She didn't answer.
He gestured with the blade. "Let's not make this messy. Give me the coin, the book, the thing on your wrist. And the pistol."
She didn't move.
He stepped closer.
"Last chance."
The knife came forward.
Eira caught his wrist.
It shouldn't have been easy.
But it was.
With one twist, she bent his arm backward until he screamed and dropped the blade. Then she kneed him hard in the ribs. His breath left him in a choked gasp as he collapsed to the ground.
She stared at him.
She wasn't even winded.
She crouched, rifled his pockets. A few crumpled bills. A coin pouch. Nothing fancy.
But it was what she'd felt that stuck with her.
The way his bones gave way under her fingers.
The way he couldn't resist her strength.
That wasn't luck.
That was real power.
She left him in the alley and climbed back up to the roofs, where the city was quiet.
Her coat flapped in the wind. Her muscles still buzzed with adrenaline.
Back at her squat—an abandoned bell tower loft with one shattered window and an old blanket—she spread out her haul.
A handful of coin pouches. A few folded bills. Some trinkets she could maybe fence. She hadn't kept track of the exact number. Didn't need to. She had food for a few days now.
What she did keep track of was the pistol—still two bullets—and the worn leather book pulled from the ship's safe. She hadn't opened it since. Not yet.
The log pose rested beside it, ticking gently in its glass face. Its needle still pointed north-northwest.
By mid-morning, she was back to it.
She slipped a ring off a noblewoman's finger during a staged stumble.
Palmed a wallet from a distracted courier.
Snatched a pouch from a crate while a dockworker argued with a tax official.
She was quick. Efficient.
And invisible.
That was the key.
But the real confirmation didn't come until dusk.
She was walking back through a lesser-used path near the dry docks when someone tried to jump her from behind. A tall man, lean and fast, came at her with a piece of jagged pipe.
He swung. She ducked.
And without thinking, she elbowed him in the gut.
Hard.
He folded, gasping, pipe slipping from his hands.
She blinked.
That had taken no effort.
None.
She didn't run this time. She stood over him, watching him scramble away like a wounded dog.
She flexed her arm.
No fatigue.
No shakes.
Her breath came slow and even.
That sealed it.
She wasn't normal anymore. That wasn't just instinct or good luck. She was stronger. Faster. Her body reacted like it had been trained—but she knew it hadn't. Not in any traditional sense.
Whatever the Mandate had done to her…
Whatever the fruit had done…
It made her something else.
And in this crooked little town?
That was going to make all the difference.