To go back to Grimefell will mean death for you.

Elara pulled the hood of her cloak further over her face, moving quickly through the network of alleys and footways in the upper east quarter. She was glad of the muted dawn light but knew full sunrise was not so far away and that time was now but a fool's hope.

She'd lost so much time. Wasted it wrapped up in a dream. And now, Juda's prediction felt all too real.

She'd not laboured under any illusions about how killing Koh-Miralus would change everything. There was no way of getting close to the silk merchant without it eventually leading the Order directly back to Sanus Vise and in turn, back to her, but the plan—if it could even have been called that, for it seemed like a madness now—was to return to Grimefell before the bathwater had turned cold and get to Kelena, Bazel and Anton before the dark moon fell. She would tell them it was a spontaneous act of revenge, an opportunity that had to be taken, if Kelena was to be free of her past forever and then she would leave, flee to the Naiad temple and finally do what needed to be done.

Life rarely follows the pathway ahead, Naiadini, some tides it will hit obstacles so insurmountable you will have to find a different route, some tides it will take you in directions you do not wish to travel.

Of course, Elara had never once considered she would have to find a different route for herself, nor that her longing for Juda would take her in a direction so far off course that she'd almost lost her mind, as well as the time she'd assumed she would have.

Kelena always said her arrogance would one tide lead her into a pit of trouble out of which she would never be able to climb, but Elara had always scoffed at that, just as she'd never once believed her plan to kill Koh-Miralus would fail. By her foremothers, how her mother would have scolded her for that ego. Now, she was going to pay for her arrogance, but not before she did everything that she could to ensure her friends did not pay for it too.

The deck of the rickety bridge was slick with wood-moss, its feather-like fronds reaching around the beams and rendering the surface slippery underfoot. Unlike most others in Grimefell, Elara held no fear of losing her footing and plunging into the dark waterways of the Setalah below, but she also couldn't risk being seen taking a tumble only to resurface unharmed. In this part of the quarter, there was always someone watching. It was, after all, the reason she had come directly here, instead of home.

Reaching towards the end of the footbridge, she stopped, sensing the shadows shift ahead.

The air was fetid with the stench of riverweed, green mist swirling in smoke rings out of the gloom.

"How do you ever expect to master the element of surprise when your addiction to that rot precedes you, Erron Rhomm?" Elara said, pushing back her hood a little.

Childish giggles echoed out of hidey-holes, far more than Elara had been expecting. She shouldn't have been surprised. More and more of the Grimefell young had gravitated towards the protection of the slum gangs. It was the easiest way to earn a coin or two and ensure hunger was held at bay. Here in the slums, education was taught on the streets, not in schools, and you'd do better in life to learn how to lift a purse from a rich man's belt than how to read.

Erron stepped onto the end of the bridge, the tips of his white-blonde hair poking out from under a tailored hat that had clearly belonged once to someone else, its workmanship too fine for a slum rat such as he. The tall crown and wide brim looked faintly ridiculous on the boy, but he was proud of his treasure, tipping it back with one finger as he sucked on the end of his clay pipe and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth.

"Fair morntide to you, Elara Consuli," the boy said, his grin lazy and loose. It was all a game, of course. To believe Erron was too dazed from the smoke to cause harm would be a foolish mistake and not one Elara had ever made. "It's unlike you to be out so early. Bazel says you're more likely to be sleeping off the ale after a lively time at the tavern. Did fortune strike yestertide? Is that it? Are you crawling from some lucky bastard's bed?"

Elara smiled amiably, even as she still felt the lingering touch of Juda on her skin. "Where I have come from is not your business, Erron, as well you know."

Erron shrugged his bony shoulders. "Truth. Although Riggs might believe it is his business, which therefore makes it mine. A coin in my palm would ensure he didn't discover you were passing through here at this time on your way back from a rough tumble with another."

"The last I heard Riggs was far too busy between the legs of Calista Thas," remarked Elara, referring to the charming gang boss Riggs Cree she'd lain with but a few times. He was handsome enough, and had been a fun diversion for a while, but he was far less interesting than he believed himself to be and Elara had bored easily. She always bored easily. "So, I think he won't care too much for where I have been. He will care, however, about what I am here to tell him. Fetch him for me."

Erron scowled, taking another drag on the pipe. "I'm not your hound, narrag. You should know better than to order me to fetch."

Elara raised one brow. "And you should know better than to call me a whore, unless of course you want me to dangle your scrawny arse off the side of this bridge."

Laughter rang out again, and the boy hushed them with a sharp word and a stern look.

"Careful, Elara, Riggs wasn't so fond on you that he'd let you talk how you please."

Elara smiled, and flicked her tongue over her teeth. She could still taste him. Juda. Fucking Juda. "Riggs was fond of a lot of things I did and was always very pleased." Catcalls and whistles peeled out of the shadows. "Now, go and get him. I know he won't be too far away. And besides, I'll not expect you to do it for free."

From her pocket, she withdrew a King's dram, and tossed it across the bridge.

The hand that caught it, deftly between thumb and forefinger, was larger than Erron's, and Elara remembered it only too well from when Riggs had taken her to his bed. He'd always been good with his hands; she'd give him that at least.

Gang boss, Riggs Cree, had a reputation that preceded him, and it was not one made from riverweed smoke rings. Instead, it was one that had people fearing the name, before they had even set eyes upon the man himself and, if ever they had the misfortune to be granted an audience, then it was doubtful those eyes would remain in their skulls for long. A child migrant from Carraterra, Riggs had grown up on the slum streets of Druvaria, his particular brand of viciousness suited to the harsh world he'd found himself in and he'd been running his own gang since his fifteenth moon. Skilled with the knife and the needle, it was Riggs who'd etched the delicate tattoos upon Elara's body, and who'd then taken the opportunity to admire his own artwork on a number of occasions since.

Elara had been right in that Riggs cared nothing for whose bed she might sleep in. There had never been anything more between them than a mutual respect and an attraction that never once bound them to one other. Come the morntide, they would go about their business and not once look back, until the next time they found themselves lonely and bored.

Not that Riggs Cree ever went lonely for long.

Tall, strong and sculptured, Riggs' muscular body was a shrine to his love for the needle and from the neck down, there was barely a scrap of skin untouched, much admired by whomever he took to his bed, be it man or woman. A ferocious, merciless beast he might have been, but Elara had found a tenderness in the man she hadn't expected, no doubt why so many of his lovers assumed that his heart was for the taking as well as his cock. Fucking drouzkas. There was no heart inside Riggs Cree. Perhaps that was why she had understood him so well and he, her.

"Good catch, Cree. Silver always was your colour," Elara said with a smile, referring to the silvery etchings he favoured on his inner thighs, which she'd traced with her tongue the last time they'd spent moontide together.

"There is not much that escapes my grasp, as you well know, nesyna." Riggs granted her a knowing smile of his own, but suspicion troubled his gaze as it swept over her. He moved closer, spinning the coin through his fingers. "What are you doing here, Elara?"

Elara hesitated as she looked up at him. She knew what she was about to say came from a grasping, selfish place, for to divert the Order's attention away from her might buy her the time she so desperately needed, but revealing what she knew would have consequences—deep and far-reaching consequences that would change everything here.

"Come now," he said, holding up the coin. "It's not like you to be so shy, nor do you have the wealth to be throwing around silver like this. What can be so important that you're willing to pay Rhomm so handsomely without bartering for it first?"

Elara wet her lip with her tongue. "The Dreynian water shipment arriving this tide won't be shared with Grimefell. Not a single drop."

Riggs stared hard at her. Murmurs arose from all around, and Elara saw the first glimpses of Erron's fellow slum-rats, small, dirty faces staring at her with wide, panic-filled eyes. The boy himself gripped the parapet, skin tightening over knuckle bone.

"On the King's orders, the Highguards will be sent to the port to divert the entire shipment to the mid and upper echelons."

"And you know this, how?" Riggs demanded.

"From a source. A reliable source."

Riggs snorted in disgust. "A reliable source is not good enough. You know that."

"Well, it's all I'm going to fucking give you, Cree," she shot back, annoyed at how quickly she'd risen to his sneering comment. She sighed, dropping her hood partway to show him the wound on the back of her head, ensuring to pull it back up after. "I ran into some bother with a couple of Highguards. I heard them talking about it and my eavesdropping earned me this."

Riggs' gaze never left hers and she knew her lie was not going to cut it. Not with him.

"Please, Riggs. This is real. This is happening." She inched closer to him, keeping her voice low. "You know me. I wouldn't have come here if I didn't know this to be true. The King seeks to punish us for the death of the Highguard, Luca Zar-Kuron."

Riggs shook his head. "But no one knows what happened to the novice. We've asked everywhere, Elara. Turned every stone. The gangs themselves put all grievances aside to meet and find out who was responsible and no one knows a bastard thing. There's not one single whisper on the streets. Do you even know how fucking peculiar that is? It's as if Zar-Kuron walked himself into the Setalah by choice. If we knew the man who had done this, we would have discovered it by now."

Elara's stomach churned, guilt soaking her bones with dread.

"Look, whatever happened, it's all brogboar shit anyway. If it had not been this, Ban-Keren would have found another reason to deny us the water," she said. "Think on it, Riggs. Grimefell's share is becoming less and less each time and yet the nobles wash their houses in it, fill their huge baths with it, while we scrabble and fight over whatever rations remain just so we can survive. The King means us harm. We have all known it for so long now and yet we do nothing!"

The slum rats bristled, venturing farther out into the growing light behind Riggs. Small they might have been, but the anger and fear on their faces was a monstrous beast. After all, Elara knew that to corner a rat was a dangerous thing—their teeth and claws were notoriously sharp, their attack, sudden and vicious.

"We cannot allow this to happen. You need to get word to the other gang bosses. If we get everyone down to the port..."

"And then, what?" Riggs snapped. "What then should we do? If we oppose them, the Order will slaughter as many of us as they can and then they will burn Grimefell to the ground!"

"Oh, wake up, Cree! They're going to do that anyway. Maybe not this tide, but it's coming and you know it is. How long before they realise denying us the water isn't killing as many as they would like? Grimefell grows with each passing tide and with it, so does Druvaria's hatred for the King. Do you think he sits on his black throne oblivious to the unrest which infests these slums? Do you think he does not see more and more of us staying away from the Gathering, hiding out in our homes and anywhere we cannot be found by the Order? Why do you think he sends more Highguards onto our streets each time?"

Riggs' scowl deepened. He knew everything she said was the truth. By the dead gods, they had all come to know this, and yet what had they done? What had any of them done, apart from pull their hoods up about their faces, keep their heads down and bore the burden of their King's unjust reign over and over?

Elara looked beyond Riggs to the fearful, furious faces behind him. "Many moons have gone by and still this Kingdom remains cursed, and where is our noble King to save us?" she said, raising her voice as much as she dared. "What has he done to try and rid this place of the Naiad sorcery? He refuses to let anyone seek refuge in other lands, and yet he knows that we cannot sustain the demand for the Dreynian water."

"The King needs Grimefell, Elara. He needs our taxes," Riggs insisted. "He cannot kill us all."

"And he does not need to," Elara replied. "He just needs to ensure we understand his grip upon the crown is not something to be challenged, and if that means making us suffer, then so be it. You feel it on these streets as well as I do, Riggs. Hatred seeps up from the very ground we stand upon. It lingers in every shadow. We have spent a long time being so fearful of the King that all we have done is turn on each other, but things are changing. Do you think he does not feel that too? This tide, Ban-Keren will deny us the water, not to simply punish us for the death of one novice, but to put us very firmly back in our place. And what will we do?"

Elara stepped back from him, her gaze sweeping over them all as she laughed coldly. "We will do nothing. We will watch as it happens and then we will go back to our homes and we will bear the suffering, just as we have always done."

Silence greeted her words, at least silence from them. Below her, she could hear the call of the water, loud and strong and beautiful, and she longed for it then, just as she always did, and yet this time, she heard the call of something else—something that encased her heart in fire. Flames that the embrace of the Setalah could not douse.

Riggs Cree spat, and raked his fingers through his hair, glancing back at his slum-rats. His eyes glinted dark and venomous in the early morntide light that penetrated through the high roofs of the ram-shackled buildings stacked around them.

When he finally looked back at Elara, his gaze was weighty with admiration, a small smile upon his lips.

"By the dead gods, Elara Consuli," he breathed. "What the fuck happened to the woman who only cared whether she could drink me under the table and still report to Sanus Vise on time come the morntide?"

She felt Juda then at her back, pressing soft kisses behind her ears, his heart pounding against her spine.

"I learned what it is to be free and unconstrained in this world," she replied, raising her chin. "And let me tell you, Riggs, it's worth risking everything for."