Chapter 100: 100: That Slled Like Trouble III
---
Auri’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the street noise like a thin blade. "Master," she said, "Reyan’s eyes are dishonest."
They were already outside the office, back in the crowded shop district. Chaos stone carts rolled past with clattering wheels. Two beastkin argued over the price of a polished spearhead. Sowhere nearby, a child was crying because soone had bought the last honey-cake.
Sekht did not look at Auri. He kept his pace even, hands clasped behind his back like a calm young lord on a casual stroll, not a man who had crawled out of purgatory with divine blood in his veins. But his lips curved faintly.
"I saw," he replied.
Auri’s gaze sharpened under her hood. Her posture did not change, yet the air around her tightened as if her wings wanted to open. "Do you want
to investigate him," she asked.
Sekht paused for a mont. Not long enough to look uncertain — only long enough to let the city’s sound wash over him.
Shout... haggle... clink... clink...
He pictured Reyan’s smile. Too quick. Too clean. The kind of smile rchants wore when they were selling soone else’s goods and pretending it was their own.
Sekht shook his head slightly.
"Not yet," he said. "If we strike too early, we reveal our hand. Let him think I am blind."
Auri nodded once, imdiate and absolute. "Yes," she said.
They continued down the street. Sekht’s mind moved faster than his feet. He was already sorting the orc treasure into piles in his head — auction-grade, shop-grade, hidden-grade. So items could be shown safely. So items could be sold only to specific buyers. So items carried residues so sharp they would attract the gaze of half-gods like blood in water.
"Not everything is wealth,"
he reminded himself. "So things are bait."
And he had no intention of dangling bait in public unless he was prepared to kill what ca for it.
He did not get far.
The street ahead subtly changed. It was not dramatic. It was not an obvious crowd reaction. It was a shift, like a flock of birds sensing a predator’s shadow. Conversations dipped. Heads turned. Vendors suddenly found urgent reasons to rearrange their goods. People made space in the walkway without being told.
Tap... tap... tap...
That sound reached Sekht before the man did.
Not the sound of normal boots.
The sound of expensive boots that believed the ground should be grateful.
Sekht lifted his eyes.
He saw them.
Dickon Iron.
Young Master of the Iron family.
Dickon walked like the street belonged to him. His clothes were tailored and bright, not a speck of dust on his sleeves, the kind of outfit that scread, I do not touch the dirty parts of life; I pay others to touch them for . His hair was styled neatly, his smile practiced, his face handso in the clean, predatory way of noble sons who had never been denied anything except consequences.
Two guards flanked him.
Not city guards.
Personal guards.
Their eyes were cold, trained, and already asuring the distance between Sekht’s throat and the nearest blade.
Dickon spotted Sekht instantly. His smile widened in public performance.
"Oh," Dickon called loudly, voice dripping with mockery. "Look at that."
People slowed down. So pretended to browse the nearest stall while angling their bodies so they could watch. So stopped outright and folded their arms like they had purchased seats for entertainnt.
Everyone liked drama.
Especially when rchant houses clashed.
Dickon stepped closer, his voice rising so the street could hear every syllable.
"I heard you died in purgatory," he said with exaggerated surprise. "What a miracle. What a sha."
Sekht kept walking. He did not answer.
He had learned a long ti ago that the fastest way to feed a barking dog was to throw it your attention.
Dickon’s smile sharpened.
"You are ignoring ," he said, voice rising. "Are you too proud, Dawn boy, or too embarrassed to show your face after your house beca a starving dog."
Sekht’s jaw tightened slightly.
Auri’s hand moved subtly beneath her cloak, ready. Not eager. Ready. The difference mattered.
Sekht kept walking anyway.
Dickon stepped into his path.
"Stop," Dickon said.
Sekht stopped.
The street held its breath.
Dickon smiled wider, tilting his head as if he were inspecting an object on a shelf. "You really are alive," he said, eyes scanning Sekht’s coat, his posture, his face. "I thought you would be bones by now."
Sekht spoke calmly, voice flat.
"Move," he said.
Dickon laughed like he had been offered a joke.
"Oh," he said, "the famous Sekht Dawn. The little rchant prince. The boy who used to glare at
like he could bite."
Dickon leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound intimate while still being heard by anyone within a few steps. "I want to thank you," he said softly, a cruel delight in his tone. "Your absence has been... profitable."
Sekht’s eyes narrowed.
Dickon stepped even closer and placed one hand on Sekht’s shoulder as if they were friends.
That was the mistake.
It was not an insult. Not the mocking. Not the rumors.
It was the touch.
Sekht’s body reacted before his mind did.
A reflex born in purgatory.
A reflex born from chains.
A reflex born from three weeks of helplessness, dragged and beaten and forced to endure the sound of water like a torture bell.
His arm moved.
Wham!
He grabbed Dickon’s wrist, twisted, stepped sideways, and threw him.
Dickon’s body flew through the air like a sack of expensive arrogance.
Crash!
He slamd into a cart of vegetables. Cabbages bursts apart. Tomatoes rolled across the stone like fleeing soldiers. A vendor scread like his entire bloodline had been murdered.
"Aaaah! My cabbages!"
The street froze.
Then the whispers exploded.
"Oho!"
"Did he just throw him?"
"That is Dickon Iron!"
"Dawn boy is crazy!"
Dickon groaned and pushed himself up, face red with shock and rage. Cabbage leaves clung to his hair like a crown of humiliation.
Reviews
All reviews (0)