Since the Void Queen made her presence known, correlating with the Raven Queen's inability to thrust her sister out of her home, the land has become too dangerous to enter through the northern territories. Merchants, workers, and slave marketers used to dock their ships in the Void Territory before it became known as such, and once they began disappearing before reaching the capital or their desired location, rumors spread that the next safest, and quickest territory to enter was through Winter's Past.

Another trouble halted their journeys. Dragon's Peak, swarming with beasts of no remorse and teeth sharp enough to break a body in half with one bite, became the land's worst obstacle. A dry spell comprising a lack of goods savaged the land throughout these troublesome times until the Raven Queen had no choice but to send a letter to Hasteaston, a northern kingdom, and her fondest ally, that entering through the Farm Territory was the next best bet.

Days like these on the docks are my least favorite. Not only are the fishermen as brash and unruly as normal, but distant travelers, merchants, beasts from all walks of life scatter around the docks like ants and they're as hard to get rid of as fleas. There's a reason many baskets of fish go missing on these days—though the cleaners face blame. We don't have a thief's bone in our body. It's Hasteaston, stealing what they wish for they know nothing else. And the queen considers them our closest ally.

I glance over my shoulder at Chaska to see she's facing a similar testament. If it weren't for the bouncing child at her side, a feliram with the foundation growth of horns rupturing from the base of his hairline, she might lose her mind. It's the cluster of people next to her. Maids, by the looks of it, that watch her every move. They point out her mistakes and the more she wipes her brow with the back of her arm, the closer she is to snapping.

The crowd is one trouble. The heat is another. Cleaners receive no shade unless they arrive early enough to stand at a table hidden underneath the awning of a stone building for the foremen to hide in. Their positions were handed to them once they retired from a livelihood of killing and jailing. To sit in a cool office and watch others stand in the sun...the foremen must have the time of their lives. If they're not slumped back in chairs with their boots crossed on the table, that is.

Just when I think the afternoon can't get any worse, I hear bells. Not the loud drum of a church bell that settles deep within my chest, a rumble I can't shake until it departs on its own, but like that on a sleigh. Consistent with the step of the beast they're strapped to. My lip curls back from my teeth, revealing a sharp fang, and I hear, "Oh, come on, Rithorne. You can't hate me before I've spoken."

Wiping any trace of detestation from my face, I look up to find Eligius, Rylan's closest confidant, standing in front of me. He wraps his long fingers around the lips of his chest plate and cocks his head to the side, scrutinizing my every move. I've cleaned enough fish to not have to look down at the meat separating from skin.

He jerks his chin at my craft. "You're getting quite good at that."

"You're not one to hand out compliments, Eligius. Whatever you want, I'm not willing to grant it to you," I mutter, hoping my disinterested tone is enough to get him to scamper off and play with someone else. Hopefully, a grumpy fisherman tired of other ships impeding on his harbor.

"I don't want anything."

I slide a cleaned fish to the end of the table, but Eligius blocks the final steps to drop the fish into the bucket.

His amber eyes glow as he says, "You missed a spot."

I don't have to look down at the fish to know he's lying. "Really? Tell me where it is." Crossing my arms over my chest, I step back. Only on the rarest occasions does Eligius turn his rotten fingers on anything other than a woman's waist. The difference to that and a fish is a risk he doesn't desire to take.

"That's no way to talk to your superior." The sinwolf folds his fingers back to the lip of his armor and I slide the fish into the bucket on the ground. He doesn't take another look.

To piss him off further, I drop the next fish onto the table with enough force to make the final flecks of water splash against his clothes. The only sign of distress in his face is a quick twitch of a flat snout. That of sinwolves. No one in their right mind wishes to get on that side of the beast's teeth.

"You're not my superior," I counter.

The cleaver knife hanging from a hook at my table finds my fingers and I grab onto the handle, twisting the blade in my grip, and slam it down onto the fish's head without looking. Eligius's eyes dart back and forth to the decapitated, slimy species, then back to me. He blinks to hide utter dismay and taps the seal on his faded armor. "Last I checked, anyone directly under the queen's command is in control. Technically, I am your superior."

"Chaska!" I call over my shoulder.

"What?" she snaps. The child continues to bounce at her side, in awe by every move she makes. At least the maids have scurried off to the other side of the docks, pushed by the fishermen trying to get through. The other cleaners look as displeased as my fellow Luminary. "I'm busy here."

"Is Eligius my superior?"

She snorts. "Eligius isn't shit. Our superior is Ocanthio Cinnius; dock foreman. We answer to him, and only him."

The sinwolf's nostrils flare when I turn back to him, smirking. If I can piss Rylan off, there's a high chance I'll do the same to the one guard he considers being worthy of work at Gudgeon Docks. He only says that to suck up; Eligius's family has a long line of secret dealings in the slave trade. Unfortunately, for the lost souls shipped from one palace to the next, that makes the Salfius family richer than most nobles.

"I believe you have your answer." I stop just short of spitting on his boots. The fish blood and reek are enough for one day's worth. "You're a dock guard searching for Luminaries, and you're looking in the wrong place."

My father teaching me how to lie has come in handy more than once. Quick fingers and soft steps are other skills he taught, but having to lie about my power, about Chaska's power—the legacies left behind by both my parents weren't meant to help me in this way, but they did. I miss them. I miss having something secure and normal.

To show me he's more than a simple guard extending his best efforts to get underneath my skin, Eligius jerks his chin towards the fish on my table. "You're on break. Don't take long."

He absconds my table, bells and armor ringing out in a jolly tune as he goes. Wisely, he avoids every opportunity to interact with the annoying child trying to reach for Chaska's knife. She wags a finger at him, drawing her brows in, and receives a saddened pout in response.

I wipe off my hands, flashing her an apologetic look when she silently begs me to remain, and head to the spot I know I won't be bothered by Hasteaston's invasion.

The wooden crate, empty and abandoned in an alleyway, is my safe haven. I ease myself down onto the seat, immediately feeling the relief in my back and legs, and close my eyes. From the constant protection of shade from arched roofs, water drips into the shadows of two close buildings and forms a puddle for rats and gulls alike.

The gulls are still loud; rats still stink. My only company remains to be the other wooden crates tossed into the shadows after they've cracked or fell off the sides of merchant wagons. The splinters dig into the back of my thighs but I can hardly feel that prickling sensation as my entire body is dazed. One negative about working at the docks is the lack of breaks given to cleaners at the hands of the fishermen. As long as more boats come into the docks, we must keep working.

Sitting in the alleyway, slumped forward and my elbows braced on my knees, I wish for nothing more than to remove the splitting pain in my lower back. Many reasons lead cleaners to seek other positions in the village or throughout the entire Farm Territory, but the strain on one's body is enough. Heat exhaustion, weakening of muscle coordination, slices, cuts—nothing amounts to the debility in my body once I make the long ramble back home. Merchants are stingy with their wagons; they don't allow fishmongers to ride in the back to save them slumping, shuffling steps a few blocks away from what I consider the underworld's opening.

My Luminary abilities are expansive, but they refuse to stretch to all corners on a magic spectrum. After accidentally slicing into my palm with a filleting knife, I have concluded that I cannot heal myself. No matter how many times I've tried, my abilities prevent self-healing of any sort. Only Chaska, or another Luminary, can make themselves useful to my great displeasure.

The world goes on without me. I pull an apple and two slices of bread from my satchel, all Theoden could pack this morning. The rest of the kitchen remained barren, and I knew we didn't have enough to purchase more food for the week when he fisted three copper coins in his pocket and tried to count them out in hopes of there being more than what every eye saw.

Castiel had looked on with discontentment but handed over three more copper coins from a pair of boots he fixed for a guard visiting from the capital. He tore his boots on the way to the village and didn't desire to purchase another pair. Hearing about Castiel's operation from a merchant, he knocked on Theoden's door hours later and demanded my brother's services for two coins and a tip.

Bread, cheese, bruised apples, peaches, and oranges. Some weeks are better than others, and until I receive my dock pay in three days, we'll have to stretch our stomachs beyond their limit. As we've done many times before.

A group of guards strolls by as I bite into my apple, watching them go. No one notices me; I'm a random face in a crowd of ghosts. Being married to Rylan has its advantages, I suppose. Wearing the silver band on my finger keeps others from what doesn't belong to them.

In the echoing silence away from the docks, I allow my head to clear. A fish's stench never leaves my nose, but I've forgotten what that smells like. The scales of ocean species I'll clean over and over again lodge under my fingernails and I don't bother to clean them as I tear into my bread. There are worse things in the world, and the only water I have access to is the ocean—salty and full of scales—and the puddle in the middle of the alleyway that is likely more urine than what falls from the sky.

Even in that, my choices are limited.

Angered voices bounce off the walls in the direction of those muttering guards. They're not at all kind. A second later, a woman stumbles into the alleyway, gripping onto the stone wall with shaking, pale hands. The guards curse insults and threats, but her red-rimmed eyes and sickly appearance don't appear to care.

She heaves a breath and bends forward, vomiting a puddle of blood, mucus, and undigested food into the alleyway. I grimace and tug my body closer into itself to avoid what she might carry. The guards, though hidden on the opposite street, continue to make their presence known by commenting on her too-thin figure and muddy skin. A peasant, likely. The streets of Gudgeon are covered with them once they can't survive surrounded by the capital riches. Stingy and overrated.

"Are you all right?" I call out to the other side of the alleyway. By now, the guards have receded and focused on something more important. Their jobs, hopefully.

Blood and spit dribbles from her bottom lip. The blonde strands of her hair haven't seen a brush in months and her skin is as sickly as she appears to be. Pale to offset a sheen of sweat. She's ill with something that can't be treated with time and hot tea.

I stuff the remaining slice of bread back into my satchel and brush my hands on my pants as I stand from the crate. If no one else will help this woman, it's in my best interest to protect others from becoming ill. At least I can point her in the right direction of care.

As soon as I reach her, stepping over the puddle of vomit, she collapses. I catch her before she falls and ease her down onto the cold stone. Her skin burns under my touch and her ribs stick out so far I can almost poke my fingers between the bones. This woman hasn't felt alive in a long time.

"You're all right," I promise, but I know that isn't the case.

A moan escapes her blood-stained lips, and she tries to curl into herself. No food, no medicine, no soap, and hot water. A few hours and she'll die. Too many mass graves surround Gudgeon Docks. The living used to send their bodies out to sea, tying rocks around decaying flesh to use as weights. After too many washed ashore, torn apart by sirens as warning to stop polluting their oceans with rot, they had to shift tactics.

I cannot smell the sharp reek of fish, but burning flesh is a different story. I fear I'll never forget that horror for it happens nearly every week. The guards stand around the burning pit of bodies and tip their heads back to get the last sip of ale from a glass bottle they found outside a tavern. They laugh and joke as if there isn't a pile of death decaying in front of their eyes.

At least Rylan has the common sense to be decent. He strays from the pack and waits around the longest while the others grow bored and scatter to different parts of the village to find another form of entertainment. Once the bodies are burned to ash and few bones remain, he orders slaves to dig a grave and push in as much as they can. We're running out of unused dirt.

She coughs up a considerate amount of blood and I grimace. I've never been fond of abnormal bodily functions, and this is one. Illnesses are viewed from a distance, but feet away, I cannot avoid the inevitable truth. This woman will die if I don't help her now.

"Please," she whispers. "Please help me." Even her voice sounds close to the grave, like the army of the soulless. The Void Queen wouldn't take her chances with someone that can hardly walk.

I glance from one end of the alleyway to the other. The streets are empty; I chose a secluded part of the village for a reason. Privacy and lack of guards. Not enough happens here to draw their attention; the docks and entrances for merchants are where the bustle starts. A mercy, considering I can stimulate my magic without drawing any eyes.

The woman hardly registers my presence when I kneel in front of her withering frame. A faint glow grows from the palm of my hand, a soft shade of blue to remind me of a spring's sky. I check the streets one last time, glancing both ways to ensure I'm actually alone, and press my palm to her chest.

The light grows and my heart races faster and faster. I must make this quick, but she needs to know why she's ill. My power seeps into her chest, past the sweat-lined skin, and begins a fogged search. I don't control the path; the power moves on its own and snakes through her bloodstream, past veins and through arteries.

The blossoming in my chest, a warmth I can't describe beyond a fullness of fluttering and light, gives me a clue as to what her ailments are. Fluid in the lungs, an infection. Severe in the fact that she hasn't sought treatment from a nearby herbalist. Judging by her tattered dress, she can't afford it.

This is worse than Theoden counting out the coins in his palm, trying to maintain a happy expression, but knowing it'll never be enough. Fletchers don't make enough money to support children that were never theirs. A guard, a shoemaker, a fish cleaner, and a fletcher. We're not enough to pay for Castiel's treatments and afford a life elsewhere.

If I don't treat her now, this woman's symptoms will worsen. If she's not on the path to death as it is, she only has a few days before her route turns downhill.

I take a deep breath and press my healing capabilities into her. A cold, trusting wave follows the path of magic underneath her skin and peels away the layers of infection and inflammation. Her breath catches in her throat and her eyes widen, but she makes no move to alert the guards of the illegal activity taking place inside her.

My eyes close to concentrate and my senses turn dark. The sounds of the nearby docks disappear, and I don't care about the guards that may be too close. I've never used my power in public before, not like this, and the freedom is impeccable.

The infection clears, the last of it fading into dust, and I open my eyes. My senses return and I spot the woman first, a brightness restored to her blue eyes, then the movement of someone out of the corner of my eye. And my worst possible nightmare.

Eligius looks me up and down as I stand slowly. But it's not my face or the now-healed woman he looks at. I follow his caution to my hand, still glowing a shade of unnatural blue. Abnormal and illegal in all forms unless permitted by the Raven Queen.