The drunken man's mouth continued its ceaseless production of curses, each one more inventive and less coherent than the last. His words spilled out in a torrent of stale ale and fury, a litany of threats and claims that grew more elaborate with each passing breath.
"I'm the Master's man!" His voice cracked, rose. "You hear me? The Master's! You want to breathe on this island another day, you get your scrawny ass out of my spot now!"
Ashan's annoyance crystallized into a sharp, silent signal to Toric—a glance that contained multitudes, that spoke of patience exhausted and violence waiting.
"No hard feelings, brother!" Toric's voice boomed with false cheer. His hands clamped down on the man's shoulders with the weight of a falling mast. The fishing rod clattered to the gravel.
"Idiots! What in the nine hells do you think you're—"
Crunch.
Toric introduced the man's face to the coarse sand. The sound was wet, satisfying, and drew immediate attention.
"YOU FUCKING—"
Crunch.
Crunch.
Each attempted curse was answered with another introduction. The man's protests became muffled, then gurgling, then merely rhythmic.
Along the shoreline, activity ground to a halt. Fishermen lowered their poles. Laborers stopped hauling nets. Even the gulls seemed to pause.
"Who are those two?" The whisper came from somewhere in the crowd.
"No idea. But they've got spine. Or death wishes. Sometimes hard to tell apart."
"Enough."
Ashan's voice cut through the scene like a blade through fog. Toric released his grip immediately, stepping back.
The man on the ground was a study in damage. His face—what was visible through the mask of sand and blood—had been thoroughly retextured. Crimson trails traced paths through the grit like strange rivers on a foreign map. His nose listed at an angle that suggested it had surrendered its structural integrity.
Ashan approached. His blade cleared the sheath with a whisper.
The man's eyes went wide. His body began a tremble that started in his core and radiated outward. "I'm—I'm the Master's—"
The blade moved.
The protest ended mid-syllable, replaced by a wet gurgle. Blood painted the gray gravel a rich, spreading crimson.
"So you're the Master's man." Ashan's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "How fortunate for you. We're the Mister men." A pause, cold as deep water. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
The body settled into the sand, still twitching with the last echoes of life.
The onlookers whispered. No one moved. No one stepped forward. On Ogefil, interference in another's blood business was its own death warrant.
Ashan bent, retrieving the fallen fishing rod. He walked to the now-vacant spot, settled onto the gravel, and cast his line into the gray-green water with the practiced flick of someone who had done this a thousand times.
The silence stretched.
He turned his head slightly toward his nearest neighbor—a thin, nervous man whose pole was trembling in his hands. "You. Bait."
"Oh! Yes! Yes, of course!" The man thrust an entire bucket of wriggling baitfish at Ashan, then abandoned his own spot, his pole, and his dignity, fleeing down the beach without a backward glance.
Toric crouched beside Ashan, his voice a low, urgent rumble. "Captain. Was that... necessary? We just painted a target on our backs with the Master's faction. And we used the Mistress's name—brazenly. If she hears we're throwing around 'Mister men' like it means something—"
Ashan threaded bait onto his hook with precise, unhurried movements. He cast again. "Only one shark can remain in these waters, Toric. It's invincible logic."
Toric's brow furrowed. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again as realization slowly dawned.
Oh, storms above... he's not—he CAN'T be—
He wants to pit them against each other. The Master and the Mistress. Sow discord, let them bleed each other, and then—
Where does a twelve-year-old get this kind of confidence? This kind of certainty?
"Stop daydreaming and fish." Ashan's voice cut through Toric's spiraling thoughts. "We have work to do before the sun moves."
Toric blinked. He moved to the abandoned spot, settled his bulk onto the gravel, took up the forgotten pole, and cast his line.
The sun remained fixed in its vast azure domain. Its rays struck land and sea with equal indifference.
Tuk!
Toric's rod bent sharply. "Yeah! Got one!" He pulled. The line went taut. "Tough bastard, aren't you?" He let a thread of prana flow into his arms. "Let's see how tough you really are!"
He hauled back. The line screamed. Then—release. A silver shape burst from the water, twisting in the air. Toric's hand shot out, catching it mid-flight. The fish thrashed. Toric held firm.
"That's enough for today." Ashan was already rising, his own catch—four respectable fish—gathered and strung. "We have work."
Toric looked at his prize, then at the abandoned rods. "What about the fishing gear? The bait bucket?"
Ashan's shrug was minimal, dismissive. "Leave them. If they're stolen, we'll steal them back. Circulation of goods. Very pirate."
Toric's chest swelled with something approaching pride. "Now that's spoken like a true pirate, Captain." He followed.
"Move."
The market district swallowed them whole.
It was a symphony of commerce, played in a minor key of desperation. Vendors shouted over each other, each claiming prices lower and quality higher than the next. Buyers shouted back, each insisting they'd been cheated, would be cheated, had been cheated yesterday and would not suffer it again today.
The air was a thick stew of competing odors—the sweet ferment of overripe fruit, the copper-thick tang of raw meat, the earthy funk of live animals awaiting slaughter, the sharp bite of fish not quite fresh enough to hide its age. Offal lined the gutters in colorful piles. Flies had established their own civilization on every available surface. The rhythmic thok-thok-thok of butchers' cleavers provided a percussion track beneath the vocal chaos.
It's certainly... lively. Ashan stepped carefully around a pile of entrails that might have been sheep or dog or something less identifiable.
Toric followed, his three fish adding to Ashan's four, both moving through the crowd with the peculiar purposefulness of those who know exactly where they're going even when they don't.
The market roared on around them, indifferent to their passage, hungry for their business.