The Shattered Crowns

"Take a breath, Mirak. We're almost there," murmured Lock, his tone calm and lulling as the two limped through the shrouded streets.

The Lunar mist curled around them like tendrils as Mirak muttered, "Lock, this better not be one of your fantasies again. You always talk big."

Lock chuckled softly. "We just escaped waves taller than city walls. Have a little faith."

Mirak shot him a skeptical glance. "And the thing chasing us?"

Lock's grin didn't waver. "I know as much as you do, Mirak. Keep moving."

With a flick of his wrist, Lock tossed something small toward Mirak, who barely caught it. A silver ring, faintly engraved, gleamed in the dim light.

"Wear that where the Saki can see it," Lock instructed. "You don't want them dragging you off to a cell."

Mirak turned the ring over in his hand, his brows knitting. "This is for someone from the third district—or higher. How the hell did you get it?"

"Best not to ask," Lock replied with a lopsided grin.

They stumbled to a narrow building tucked behind others, its unassuming facade blending into the gloom. It seemed to shrink into the shadows, as though trying to avoid attention. If someone weren't actively looking, it would seem like just another forgotten home.

Lock strode confidently to the door, knocking softly once, then again after a brief pause. He folded his arms, waiting.

A gruff voice called through the wooden door, "Who's there?"

"Only happy men are those with purses full of resin. And I've got resin in my purse and a thirst to spend," Lock said smoothly.

A long silence followed before the voice returned. "And what does the buyer seek this evening?"

"A safe place to wait out the Lunar Storms—and mugs of ale to drink," Lock replied.

The voice pressed, "Any guests?"

Lock didn't hesitate. "One who's taken to the trade."

The door creaked open, letting tendrils of mist swirl inside. A burly man, his arms inked with swirling tattoos, stood holding a dim candle. His bulk filled the doorway, a silent warning to anyone with bad intentions.

Lock leaned toward Mirak, whispering, "Follow my lead. This is the Thieves' Amphitheater. No stealing resin, no fighting. Break the rules, and you're out for good."

"Honor among thieves?" Mirak murmured dryly.

Lock snorted. "Something like that."

The bouncer stepped aside, allowing them in. They passed into a small room where a barmaid worked behind a counter, idly wiping a mug. Lock tapped an insignia etched into the doorframe, drawing her attention.

"Been a while, Lock," the barmaid said with a smirk. "Need a drink?"

"Songs, peace, and ale," Lock replied, spreading his arms dramatically. "I've had some jobs to run, but now I'm ready to relax."

Her eyes flicked to the mostly empty bar. A few older men sat in the corners, nursing their drinks. She smiled faintly. "You know the King of Thieves still needs his cut."

Rolling his eyes, Lock fished into his pocket and dropped several resin flakes onto the counter. "Think of this as payment for my next four stays—and for my friend here."

The barmaid raised an eyebrow, her gaze shifting to Mirak. "New blood?"

Lock grinned. "Yeah. Found him on a job. Liked his style."

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. "You don't like anyone's style but your own."

"Well," Lock countered, "when someone saves me from death, you can overlook a few quirks."

The barmaid tapped a hidden latch beneath the counter. Wood groaned as a section of stairs shifted, revealing a passage leading underground. She winked at Mirak. "Enjoy your stay in the Thieves' Amphitheater."

Lock waved her off. "Ignore her. She flirts to pad her tips." He motioned for Mirak to descend. "After you."

Mirak moved cautiously down the stairs, the noise growing louder with each step. The underground space was alive with music, laughter, and clinking mugs. It was rowdy in the best way, the air thick with the scent of ale and unspoken deals.

Lock guided him to a corner booth. As they sat, Mirak let himself sink into the seat, exhaustion pulling at him. His mind churned with the events of the day, unable to shake the image of that otherworldly sea.

"How are we even supposed to talk about this?" Mirak muttered under his breath.

Lock raised a hand to flag down a waitress. "Two of your strongest ales and the house meal," he ordered as she approached. The woman's smile faltered when her eyes landed on the Publici shackles still clamped around their wrists.

"Bring out the resin," Lock whispered to Mirak.

Hesitating, Mirak reached into his pocket and pulled out the resin he'd been clutching. It wasn't much, but it was his. A miner's life had been bleak, and the resin flakes were one of the few things he could call his own.

But hunger won out. He slid the resin across the table, and the waitress's smile returned as she collected it.

"Resin is king," Lock said, raising an arm in mock celebration.

Mirak leaned forward, his patience worn thin. His voice was sharp as he hissed, "What was that, Lock? What is this place? Where the hell did we go?"

Lock's eyes darted around the room, his expression cautious. "Lower your voice," he warned.

Mirak followed his gaze, noticing a few patrons glancing their way.

"We're Publici in a den of thieves," Lock continued in a low voice. "There are rules in here, sure, but out there? It's every man for himself. Keep your head down, or you won't keep it at all."

Mirak swallowed his frustration and spoke more quietly. "I don't understand any of this, Lock. One moment we were in the mines, the next we were lying on the cobblestones. And that sea…" His words faltered, haunted by the memory.

Lock's easy grin faded. "You're talking to someone who knows even less, Sorcerer. I've lived on the streets of Koona since I was a kid, and I can tell you—that wasn't Koona."

"Then we need to figure out what it was," Mirak said firmly.

The Atta inside him pulsed at his rising emotions, swirling like an eager tide. The air around him shifted subtly, though no one else seemed to notice. Mirak could feel it now—this strange energy moving under his skin like a second layer of existence.

"That's why we're here," Lock replied. "A few of my contacts visit places like this. We'll wait for one to show."

Mirak arched an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't like anyone else's style."

Lock smirked. "Connections can still be useful."

The waitress returned with their ale and meals, her expression expectant. A childish part of Mirak wanted to hold onto his resin, to keep it as the last reminder of his old life. But his hunger gnawed at him. He pushed the resin to her. She placed several flakes of change on the table, then vanished into the crowd.

Lock leaned closer. "You might want to calm down, Mirak. The lantern flames are flickering funny."

Mirak glanced at the nearest lantern, seeing its flame dance unnaturally. The Atta in him pulsed harder, responding to his emotions. He clenched his jaw and focused, willing the strange energy to settle.

At first, it resisted, prickling his thoughts like an annoying insect. But when he stopped fighting it, the sensation ebbed, fading into the background like a wave retreating from shore.

Lock watched him carefully. "Whatever's happening to you, you'd better figure it out fast. This city doesn't have patience for uncertainty. Koona eats the unprepared alive."

Mirak nodded, his mind heavy with the weight of survival. In the world of thieves, it wasn't enough to scrape by. He had to adapt, and quickly, or Koona would claim him as it had so many others.