It is no secret that Ketterdam is ruled by the corrupt king known as Dirtyhands to his victims. It is no secret that there are people in Ketterdam who don't like the Staves. It's no secret that the city's price has always, and will always be blood.

The clock is ticking towards midnight, the hour that has plagued Kaz since he was a boy. With dreams of golden fields and a queen of pirates in his head, and his pride and all he has built on the line, Kaz knows now the time has come for one more fight, and the world will bleed.

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Trigger Warnings: Aftermath of Torture, Alchohol, Anger, Canon Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Implied/ Referenced Child Abuse, Child Death, Interrogation, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Mentions of Drowning, Pneumonia, Torture, PTSD, Self Hatred, Suicidal Idealosation, Suicide Pills, Waterboarding

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

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15,704 words

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This fic contains spoilers for Rule of Wolves

Authors notes will be in comments

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i'm just a ghost out of his grave

•

•

•

"Darkness crept back into the forests of the world. Rumour grew of a shadow in the East, whispers of a nameless fear..." - Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring

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i: BYGONE

ii: BRICK BY BRICK

iii: DEVIL

iv: TREACHEROUS

v: VIE

vi: MONIKER

vii: DEMON

viii: BLOOD

ix: WRAITHS

x: SANCTITY

xi: TYRANNY

xii: UNEQUIVOCAL

xiii: THE CITY OF SIN

---

there are three rules in ketterdam

to survive, you should know these by heart

i.. do not travel into the barrel at night without a weapon

ii. money will grant you power, and greed is the only currency

and three?

well three is the most important, the lucky number

so it very well may save your life to know:

iii. do not give kaz brekker a grudge against you

---

BURN IT DOWN...LINKIN PARK

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i: BYGONE

by·gone | \ ˈbī-ˌgȯn also -ˌgän \

1: gone by: PAST

---

Brekker Machinery was a forgettable company, but perhaps the name was prophetic.

The name came from its founder, Joris 'The Breaker' Bouman. Over time, his name—which had been given to him for his strength—moulded into Brekker, and when he was trying to name his company, he remembered the name from his youth. And thus, Brekker Machinery was born.

Brekker Machinery was not a big name but it was strong and sturdy, and its founder could find some irony in the fact that the machinery with breaker half-written on it was so strong and hardy. But it was expensive, and only the uber-rich could afford it. But Joris had his customers and comfortable life, and he passed from the Queens-Lady's Plague a content man.

He took his last breath, and a demon was born from the waters of the canals.

Now, Ketterdam...she likes her demons.

No matter what, The Lives of The Saints always started with the story of Sankta Margaretha and a demon in Ketterdam living beneath the bridges over the once blue canals. It seemed that the first lesson of the Saints was that demons and Ketterdam could not exist without the other.

The demon died, Margaretha became a saint, life moved on. The Lives of Saints reminds the faithful that "As sometimes happens in Ketterdam, a demon took up residence in one of the canals...", so the city soon grew used to the demons that flocked to the power of a city that a Saint had gained her acclaim in.

Over time, demons left and all that was left to fill the hole was humans, for lowly Otkazat'sya to test the people's faith. And thus, the staves began to spread from a few decrepit gambling halls to the shining star of tourism across the entire world, amongst Kings, Queens, Grisha, and Otkazat'sya. They all flocked to the thrill.

Now, the words Enjent, Voorhent, Almhent (Industry, Integrity, Prosperity) had not been the words carved into the Exchange's eastern entrance for nothing. Voorhent, Integrity, was more or less forgotten in the Barrel, but Enjent and Almhent seemed to be the deciding factor in the city.

In Ketterdam, most anything would be done for profit. That was how things had always been, but when a strapping young man named Evert Maat came to Ketterdam from the countryside, he found himself to be one of the few people who were horrified by the things that were allowed to happen.

By some miracle, he was able to join the Stadwatch. From there, his handsome face and quick wit sped him up the ladder until he was one of the senior officers in just under five years. He was strict, and yet the Stadwatch thrived under him.

Evert was a darling to the press and the rich folk who'd felt that their government had forgotten them and their needs. The Barrel was much too threatening, as it was no man's land for the likes of them. Yet, they all knew how much profit the Barrel could give them. It was frustrating to them to watch money be made quicker than they could ever dream and know they were for once, not welcome.

Evert would send out monthly promises to each major publishing house, paying handsome sums to be front and centre. He promised a peaceful and holy city, a crackdown on the Staves and their 'wicked workings.' The rich ate it up, and the merchant council found themselves uneasy.

They couldn't just...end the Staves and all their businesses. That would be a huge blow to the economy, and with the situation between East and West Ravka— not even mentioning the Fjerdan and Shu Han border wars —growing tense as the fold remained, they knew they were walking a thin tightrope.

---

Evert smiled at himself in the mirror, smoothing the lapels of his purple Stadwatch uniform.

It was a beautiful day, just as he'd hoped. The sun was shining for once, gold against the blue expanse of sky that was so often clouded. The birds chirped on the proud oak tree outside his humble home, tucked between rows of other houses in the heart of the Zelver District.

If he looked over the Handelcanal, he could see the edge of the East Stave, but he seldom found himself doing that. He only looked when he found himself in need of a reminder of his goal, and today he needed that.

It was time to propose his strike, hard and fast, against the Staves. The plan sat in a file on his desk, which he gently grabbed and put into the bag across his chest.

Checking one more time that his fine pistols were holstered and his—at this point ceremonial—sword was tucked into his belt, he put on his hat and left his house, locking his door behind him.

Evert paused at a bridge that crossed over into the East Stave, as two young men ran in front of him, cutting him off. Both were dressed in barrel flash, laughing loudly and shoving the other playfully.

One, a dark-haired man, pushed the other, who had flaming red hair. The red-head stumbled, crashing into an unsuspecting Evert. He scowled, pushing the boy off of him dusting off his uniform.

"Watch it, you barrel rat," He spat.

The young man's face twisted up in a rage, but his friend swooped in, helping him up. Evert barely heard him whisper, "It's not worth it Pekka. Let's go or the boss will have our heads." Before the boys turned and ran back into the rotting shithole they'd crawled out from.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window, and thankfully, his pristine uniform was unstained, just a bit wrinkled. No matter, he thought, I'll be fine.

He was approaching the Church of the Barter now and made way to cut past it and into the Government District. He made the sign of Ghezen over his heart, letting memories of the coldly welcoming place of worship calm him.

He was just passing the Fjerdan Embassy when a man fell into step beside him. Evert smiled, recognising the son of Councilman Van Eck instantly. He, like Evert, was a mere 22, and just as successful. He was already married, but he and his wife were not in a rush for a child quite yet.

"Jan," he said warmly, nodding to him, "Fancy seeing you here."

"Wanted to wish you luck, my friend. You know you have my fathers support, so I'm sure the proposition will go smoothly." Evert nodded along, but apparently, his worries showed through. "But you know that. Let's talk about happier things, and celebrate your sure victory, ja ?"

Evert nodded, "You always have such brilliant ideas, Jan. What do you say you and Marya join me for dinner tonight? We could go to that one restaurant, near the Church of the Barter. I haven't been but I've heard the food is to die for."

"I think we'd like that. My Marya's felt so cooped up recently, my poor dear, with the weather and all. She was so happy to wake up to sunshine this morning, she's off with her friends. They all wish you good luck."

"Tell them thank you," He said, "For me."

"Will do, my friend."

---

"The votes have been counted."

Evert straightened, glancing at Jan, sitting in the front row.

"Yes?"

He could see it now, a clearer, better future.

"Fourteen votes for yes."

What?

"Sixteen votes for no."

No.

"The Maat Stave Proposal of 1856...will not go into effect."

---

Evert would not know how much that one vote would change. The Staves would continue, and so would the cons. And one day, it would all be too late, the demons have come calling, but all he knew is that he had lost something much bigger than himself.

He just didn't know how big, how close an age of shadows was coming to an end.

This age was teetering on so many wars, so many deaths, but it would be the death of two boys that would one day destroy it all. One reborn, one burned, but both key players at the end of the old ages, key players at the beginning of a new age, The Age of the Saints.

The clock was nearing midnight now, and one day it would all be too late.

For Dirtyhands would come to see the rough work done.

---

brick by brick

brick by brick

brick by brick

i will destroy you

a boy vowed

and so he did

---

ENTER SANDMAN...METALLICA

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ii: BRICK BY BRICK

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(idiomatic) To create or build something in a steady , step-by-step fashion.

---

First, there were lions.

The lions hunted and killed, leaving carcasses behind, shells of humans. There was no regard for who they killed, each person a pigeon in their dark eyes, lusting for blood and gold coin.

The other gangs, whether that be gulls, crows, or the fists of the Black Tips, would ravage what was left. The Dime Lion's had their established territory, and the rest fought over the rest, the bleeding and winding alleys that made the fabric in the Barrel.

These territories changed so much that any map of the Barrel marked the Dime Lion territory and the Not-Dime-Lion Territory, and major things that solidly belonged to one gang, such as the Lion's Emerald Palace.

But that's...tiring, no?

It was the Dregs who started the push. Per Haskell was getting bold, and if rumour was to be believed, there was a young member of the Dregs, somewhere between the ages of 11-13 with a quick mind, and an unexpected pension to violence, who Haskell was beginning to look to.

He was twelve, although he could have passed as 14 or 15, face sharp and tallness only country boys had. But for all anyone knew, he was born from the Barrel.

He got bolder and bolder, Per Haskell got lazier and lazier, and the Dime Lions began to get hit for the first time in a decade. The others joined, and the Barrel split into organised chaos.

The boy broke his leg, but he forged himself harder, added more armour with his cane. He would make the world listen to him, make the motherfuckers who only saw a kid regret ever letting him be anything else.

The first time he saw himself drawn as a demon, mere months away from sixteen, he tilted his head and smiled at the graffiti. He saw himself smiling, twin horns of bleeding fire spreading from his head, 'The Demon of Ketterdam sees you' sprayed over.

He liked the sound of a demon. Demons ate hearts, inspired fear, and only made destruction. They didn't have hearts, they had rage and fury packed tightly inside of them instead. They weren't human, and the boy didn't want to be human. Humans were weak and conquerable. He would never be conquered. He was the conqueror.

Brick by brick.

He was quite ready to be that, he decided. So he continued to walk to his destination. He had a peacock to speak to and was not in the mood to be late. He, Dirtyhands, was never late. Were demons ever late? No, he didn't think so.

He checked the watch that had been his brother's, and before him—his father's, his family name hidden under the numbers. Five, six, seven.

It was almost midnight.

---

THE KETTERDAM DAILY

POLITICAL UNREST IN KETTERDAM

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17th, 1879

By: Sander Harwig, Senior Editor

On Tuesday, Mister Ad Pijfers, leader of the Constitutional Industry Party, was found dead in the headquarters of the party. The Stadwatch is yet to disclose the details of the murder.

This comes after weeks of unrest within the political parties of Ketterdam, involving conflicting ideas surrounding trade, tourism, the harbours, and the East and West Staves in particular.

The Constitutional Industry Party called for stricter regulation of industry and holdings of places of trade. They pointed to the fifth harbour, which is under gang control. The Merchant Council is unable to regulate and control the money coming into the harbour, causing a huge loss of opportunity when it comes to Kerch's economy.

Mister Pijfers, a member of the council himself, was known to give long sermons on the staves and how damaging they are to the city. Other parties counter that the presence of the staves keeps criminality in an enclosed and central area, and the presence of organised crime prevents smaller petty crime.

While both views are true, it is the presence of one Mister Kaz Brekker that was the main topic in Pijfers recent sermons. This, coupled with Brekkers known pension for violence and Pijfers calls for his arrest, point to Brekker being the murder.

As of right now, Kaz Brekker is yet to comment on Pijfers sermons or his murder, and no evidence relating to the crime has been released to the public.

A man, once a Stadwatch captain, once proud, once arrogant read the newspaper, rings of smoke from his cigar catching in the only light, coming from an oil lamp. His eyes were dark, as he closed the paper with a scowl, throwing it into the fire in front of him. He had known Ad.

If only those fools had listened, he mused, they wouldn't be squawking on about Kaz Brekker.

Their loss.

He would follow this man's activity as he grew, if only for curiosity. Any sympathy he had was buried deep, the memory of the merchant councils unholy slight against him still fresh in his mind, even after the long twenty-three years.

In that time, Ravka had found her sun saint, the black-general had died, and the fold with him. In that time, the staves had grown even more violent, and a plague had brought Ketterdam to her unholy knees. He'd just snorted, convinced himself it was what those heathens deserved.

The holy ones (And by holy, he was thinking of the rich, the ones who could hole up in their homes—nevermind the children trapped in the streets, the people who had no money, those fighting against a cruel world.) would survive, and the unholy would be weeded out.

Of course, the "holy" survived, they always did. But something worse had crawled out from the bodies of the "unholy", dead-eyed and soaking wet, the faint, imagined , image of bleeding horns upon his head already taking shape. The boy could see the bricks crumbling around him.

The smoking man had holed up in his countryside home, arrogant and grumpy, unknowing his grave was already awaiting him. As the bricks of an old king fell around the world, as time moved on, one would hit him, and he would fall as the others did, for his time was already too late.

As always, it was midnight.

---

Death was beautiful.

Whoever had created this-this wonder , was to be a saint, he decided. The final breath of a victim was more satisfying than it should ever have been, like some cruel twisted drug to him. He loved it, but he kept it in moderation. He only killed when necessary and killed those who deserved it.

She would laugh at him, but there would be no humour. Only disgust. Disgust at the demon, the boy crawling his way up to king. He needed to let her go now, this was getting much too dangerous, that feeling in his chest for her. Brick by brick, you motherfucker, he reminded himself.

Yet, why did he want to hold her against his chest again? Where was Jordie's voice where it once was? It still haunted him, but he heard her more and more with each day, each hour, each minute, each bleeding second.

He shook the thoughts from his head. Pekka Rollings was here somewhere. They would not kill him, take the sweet taste of his murder from Kaz. One day, he swore, I will kill him.

But first brother, the old voice reminded him, you will make him learn the language of suffering. You will invent it anew for him. Make him feel our pain.

He would make a wound in Pekka like none ever thought of. He would give him that hollow ache, the demon that ate the second Rietveld boy whole in the harbour. Who burned him away, leaving the barest echo of the man he should have grown up to be.

Death was beautiful, for it was suffering and damage and rage. The barest things a human could be stripped down to, and he needed to convince himself that was beautiful, for that was him. He was broken, unwhole, a black hole that ate the bricks and the dregs of society and their shame whole.

Death was beautiful because he was death. And he was beautiful.

---

ICE COURT BREACHED!

WANTED: KAZ BREKKER

100,000 KRUGE

KUWEI YUL-BO DEAD!

PLAGUE HITS KETTERDAM!

He stared at the newspapers, spread out across his dining table.

What god had forsaken them so? What sin had the people of Kerch committed to anger the higher powers into this fury, what had caused the creation of these dark hours? He racked his mind for prayers of forgiveness, for a way to repent but his mind, normally so quick to religion, was blank.

The gods had abandoned them, and all he had left was smoke rings and bitterness.

---

It was time to take what was his.

That was all he knew, standing here, on the roof of the Geldrenner Hotel. He saw the lights of the barrel, heard someone singing an old lullaby far below. His mother had sung it to him once, many years ago. It had been night. Had it been midnight? It had always been midnight.

He thought of her, of his father and brother, now. He would make a new world for them. It would be their monument, his reminder of what he'd lost. There were no graves, no mourners, no funerals, but he would remember them until the end of the world until there were no more bricks for him to take away, and he'd return home in his death, to the fields of wheat that stretched as far as the eye could see.

They were all he could cling to in this hell, in the waters of the harbour. He could see those waters now, just barely, over the horizon, the silver scraps of moon silently catching on the beating waves of a black death. He closed his eyes against the few stubborn tears that broke through, taking a deep, shaky breath of cold air.

Up here, the air was almost pleasant.

It was time to go, he knew. He checked his brother and his fathers watch one more time. It was still midnight.

 ---

who is kaz brekker, anyways?

a demon from hell?

someone who got lucky?

he was a boy like you once

and when the world gave him all the wrong cards

he made his kingdom out of them

how?

played his cards right

---

IT WILL COME BACK...HOZIER

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iii. DEVIL

dev·il | \ ˈde-vᵊl

1: an extremely wicked person: FIEND

2: archaic: a great evil

---

This whiskey was shit.

Kaz was distinctly aware of that fact as he sipped away at the watered-down alcohol, careful to not gaze too long at any particular thing around him, especially if it was a person. He was a multi-millionaire, and yet, he still couldn't escape times like this.

Ketterdam was slowly recovering from his faux plague, some month and a half before. Even now, people sat far apart, eyes flashing should one draw too near. Kaz was bitter to know they now understood his reaction now, if just a bit, in some fraction.

He was only half trying to hide who he was, with a hat pulled low over his face. He didn't really care if one figured out who he was, and judging from the empty tables around him, plenty of people had. He went here to clear his mind.

Inej had left the day before, and he'd never expected how weird it was to not have her dogging his steps. He realised now that he'd let everyone who'd ever come close go. Jesper was off living his best life, Inej was responding to her truest calling, and Nina...

He pushed the thoughts (And guilt) of Nina Zenik out of his mind, flexing his hands to reassure himself with the soft pull of the leather. She was not his concern any longer, and guilt over what he'd allowed to happen to Matthias would only hinder him.

He was a king now. He had already heard the new name he'd gotten, The King of Thieves . It seemed the people of Ketterdam had a thing for spreading nicknames around for those who they feared. He wondered if Inej would get new names as time bled on.

He gestured for another whiskey. No names necessary, this place only sold a single, unnamed Whiskey. That was how it was for every drink: Water, Wine, Rum, Gin, Whiskey, and Ale. No names here at the Penman's Inn, ironically.

But the penman had never had a name himself, so why would he name his alcohol? Or maybe he didn't name it because his alcohol was shit, and no one with any dignity or pride would name it. Who in the world charged for water? Kaz was pretty sure that was illegal. Maybe he'd write a complaint like those rich folks loved to do.

With a hefty sigh, he forced himself up, leaving a thin stack of kruge on the table to pay his bill. That was an unexpected perk of being rich, one he was not complaining about. The other patrons eyed him warily as he passed by, but he just shrugged it off.

He had been outside of the heart of the Barrel, so now? As he stepped back into his home turf, it felt like stepping into a whole other world. Here, people's eyes snapped to him the second they saw him, recognition in their eyes, despite the disguise that would fool the rich well enough.

He cut an imposing figure, tall, with relatively broad shoulders, and a cane that demanded attention with its clicks. He headed south, towards the Crow Club and the slat. He had business in both, of course. Ketterdam— he —stopped for nothing.

He arrived at the club first, picking up some paperwork relating to profits and some investments he was looking into making. With his territory slowly seeping north into Dime Lion territory, he was earning a shit ton more money and had more opportunity to set up a business that would front for his true income.

The Crow Club worked, but with his control over fifth harbour and everything coming in and out of it, he couldn't risk being picked up for any tax fraud. His smuggling would earn more money than the club could feasibly do on its own. And with the council set to start meeting again tomorrow, he needed to think quickly.

In his office, he glanced out the window, up the winding canal. He caught a glimpse of green, and a wicked grin spread over his face, as he considered the shell of the Emerald Palace. Six stories, already fitted to gambling. Tilting his head, he could already see what it could become in his mind's eye.

And he had the perfect name already.

---

The merchant council, after months, had finally reconvened. There was a nervous energy in the air, anticipation and fear in the air. Last they'd met, the Van Eck seat had not been empty, the world had been better, and they hadn't had thoughts of Kaz Brekker so close in their heads. Not all of them had even known his name.

But now, that's all they could argue about.

The collection of men who were anti-the staves in their entirety, now a man shorter, were yowling on about him and how he'd framed their most important member, Van Eck. They argued against the other point of discussion: Should Van Ecks son fill the position yet?

The men of the council with less power, and these men, were staunch in saying no. The boy was young, inexperienced, and had no right to be on the council yet. But the others argued that they were just trying to move up in power on the council.

In the end, it was decided that Wylan would join the council, with much grumbling. A runner was sent to his fine house on the Geldstraat, where little did they know, the Bastard of the Barrel was dining with his companions.

They argued more, over trade, over the staves, over every damn thing. A man sat quietly, remembering a strapping young Stadwatch captain's proposal. At the time, he'd said no, but now, he wondered what could have changed if he'd voted yes.

---

THE KETTERDAM DAILY

THE EMERALD PALACE: RENAMED!

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 25th, 1881

By: Sander Harwig, Senior Editor

The Emerald Palace, one of the most illustrious gambling halls in Ketterdam, has been revamped and renamed The Silver Six, by Barrel Boss Kaz Brekker.

This comes after violent gang territory wars, and the subsequent disbanding of the Emerald Palace's previous owner, Pekka Rollings, gang, the Dime Lions. This is yet another one of Brekker's profitable conquests in the past five months.

Brekker now owns most, if not all, of the Dime Lion's territory, and all the gambling halls that came with it. The other three main gangs, The Liddies, The Black Tips, and the Razor gulls, now collectively take up less than half of the staves.

This is dire news now, as Brekker is in complete control of Fifth Harbour, notorious for its smuggling. The Stadwatch is now in a compromised position, as the area surrounding the harbour, the Lid, is home to tourism and cannot be feasibly raided without disrupting the economy.

Calls for something to be done have grown louder in the past few months, but the merchant council seemingly has no intention to stop this for a good long while.

He read the newspaper with cautious concern, unsure of what this could all mean. So, a gambling hall had been renamed, and the gangs were having territory wars. What gave? Evert remembered that being a common occurrence there since he'd been a child.

Perhaps because it was that...boy again, Brekker. Bold ambition had led him far, Evert could admit, but he'd long since given up on Ketterdam. Those people had sewn their fates, and even though his sentiment and anger towards the staves was growing in popularity, he saw no future where that was truly the common consensus.

Evert Maat had given up. He would die bitter, still dreaming of a better and purer and holy world.

---

THE KETTERDAM DAILY

TALKS OF SAINTS IN FJERDA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 3rd, 1883

By: Mart Jannes, Editor

Fjerda has found the saints, in the very capital, no less!

In the past month, more demonstrations praising the saints have popped up in Djerholm, home to the Ice Court, insighting controversy. Especially considering the saints being praised, namely, Sankta Zoya, a clear reference to Ravka's general...

"Oh, my dear Nina, " he said with a sly grin as he read the article further, "You are ridiculous."

---

She ran her hand over the information that he'd collected for her, organised neatly in a file, "You know, Kaz," she says softly in the smoky room, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd found a better spider."

He snorted, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Roeder is good, but he's not you. And this was all so shittly guarded, I would have been disappointed if he couldn't have gotten it. And then, that would get all messy, and I don't want to deal with that—"

"Kaz, I know. Can you let me read?"

"What if I say no?" He teases, eyes gentle as he leans forward. She hits his arm lightly, and he falls back into his chair with a huff. "You met Nina's boy, no?"

Inej smiles, "Yes I did indeed. Ran into him at Zoya's coronation. She looked so happy, Kaz, I'm so happy for them. They're laying low in Ravka for a little while longer, but they'll probably move in at the end of this month."

"Hell of a time to move," he commented, "The weathers going to be shit. The forecasters are seeing a weeks-long storm on the horizon." She unconsciously glanced at his leg, and when he noticed, he grimaced. "I'll be fine, Inej."

"There'll be snow, Kaz," she reminded him, "I don't want you to slip."

His face twisted as he stated indignantly, "I don't slip ."

She sighed, "I know, I know. Just promise me that you'll take it easy, and eat, for the Saint's sake."

He raised a teasing brow at her, gaze and voice lacking any heat, "Is that a threat, Wraith?" She just laughed, and they fell into an easy silence. "At least," he said after a moment, "They'll be here for Jesper and Wylan's wedding."

"It's still a year out, I'd be concerned if they hadn't moved yet. Although, I think Nina and Ilya are considering marriage themselves, within the next few years," Inej commented, sifting through the papers. "What's this?"

Kaz looked over her shoulder, brow furrowing. He took the paper, turning it over, "This has no relevance to anything here. Must be a mistake, but it looks like an old proposal about the Staves. May help to learn."

She nodded, taking it back from him and slipping the copy of The Maat Stave Proposal of 1856 into the file, uncaring and unconcerned. She had everything she needed right here, and she could concern herself with old proposals later.

"Inej," Kaz said suddenly, a blinding, boyish grin spreading across his face, "I almost forgot. I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" She questioned with a raised brow.

"Well, we live life on the edge, no? I have something from Sturmhond that should keep you safe, should the worst come to worse."

"Kaz..." She said suspiciously, "What did you do?"

"Patience, my dearest Inej," he said, sweeping his office door open. They filed out, into the slat, into the city, towards something, something safe, something good, something he'd fought for. A gift from the once boy-king.

---

To Mister Evert Maat,

December 1st, 1892

My name is Naud Swan, son of Councilman Swan. I am the current captain of the Stadwatch and have a request for your aid as an experienced and revered veteran of the force. To put it shortly, we need your help.

I am certain you have heard of one Mister Kaz Brekker and his exploits here in Ketterdam. As of late, concerns have risen over his control of trade. If rumour is to be believed, he has entirely bought out every gambling hall on the Lid and is in control of many other businesses. Unfortunately, this means these businesses are privately owned, and less revenue goes to the Council.

There are additional concerns about blackmail, smuggling, and his ties to piracy. The last one, in particular, is crucial, as piracy has become a thorn in the navy's side in the past ten years. It is believed he is supplying the pirate The Wraith with information, and safe lodging in the fifth harbour.

If you accept, you will be provided with lodging in Ketterdam for at least one year, extending as long as the job takes. Before you arrive, hopefully on December 11th, you will need to assemble a small team of experienced, but not overly well known, men who are not from Ketterdam, and who you know can keep a secret and can be trusted.

Mister Maat, we need you and these men to arrest Kaz Brekker.

May Ghezen bless you,

Naud Swan

---

The whiskey was still shit, after eleven years.

But things had changed, of course; The Penman was on the outer of the vast expanse that was Dregs territory, so far out it was not linked with the gang. It was clean and fairly well respected, so some of the richer folk would occasionally frequent, and he was looking for them to blabber. He eyed a group of men in the corner, who looked like retired officers of the Stadwatch .

And who could forget, all the other alcohol had been upgraded over time, but the Whiskey was still shit, due to lack of interest in it. Or perhaps , Kaz mused, I have gained expensive tastes.

Never mind the shitty, unnamed whiskey, now, Kaz had to listen. He was in a fairly good disguise. People who knew him would only quickly recognise him by his subtle mannerisms, invisible to anyone here, but should he reveal himself, it wouldn't be hard to see.

There was, rumour, of the Council making plans. Wylan, who had been excluded from the conversations restricted only to the top three merchant houses (The Van Eck house was no doubt number four, unfortunately), told him what he knew.

It had to do with the Staves and an old Stadwatch Captain named Evert Maat. Kaz vaguely remembered a proposal, tucked between other information, the details swept away by the memory of Inej and his first kiss when he presented her the counter to the Izmars'ya.

Unfortunately, it was December, and his queen was not due back until May, at the earliest. So he would have to learn about Maat on his own, hence the sitting in this damn pub. He pretended to be writing something in a notebook in front of him, but he was just repeating mindless phrases in a whole host of languages.

He was writing out a dirty sea shanty that Inej taught Jesper, who taught Nina, who terrorised him with it when he heard one of the retired Stadwatch men speak to his companions. " Ja, the old Captain, Maat, remember him? He's back in the city for some official business. We best go out with him, ja ? He was the best captain the Stadwatch has ever had. Hopefully, he could clean those old punks up. The whole operation's fallen into embarrassment. In our time..."

He continued to blabber on about how in his time, they could have pinched even Kaz Brekker. One of his friends shushed him loudly, clearly drunk, and Kaz saw his eyes dart around. They slid right over the man they just spoke of, landing on a man in a dark suit.

"Hey, you!" He called, words slurred. The young man glanced over nervously, " Ja , you. I know you're Kaz Brekker, you little punk. I'm going to get you, just you wait."

"Sir-" The man stammered but was drowned out by a roar of laughter from the Stadwatch men.

"Sir!" One of them mocked, and Kaz frowned tightly, scribbling out a note. The man continued as Kaz tore the paper away and fished out his wallet, "Don't play with us, Brekker."

Kaz's frown grew tighter, as he rolled one hundred kruge into the note he'd made, and the poor man, who looked like a university student, continued to be harassed. Kaz, having the information he needs, stood up, slipping past the student and slyly putting the cash and the note on the table.

"Hey, you!" One of the officers called, and Kaz just knew he was talking to him. " Ja you, you, the cripple!" Kaz cooled his face, turning around slowly.

"Is there an issue, Mister Kers?" He said, and the room froze as the officers and the rest of the patrons recognised him. He almost grinned, fighting down the satisfaction. "No?" He smiled as the man nodded his head, "Good boy."

"Vaarwell, Mister Kers!" He said, turning and walking away and out of the bar. He could feel the university students' shocked eyes on him, but he was too busy turning over the information he learned from the drunken men.

Roeder, he thought wryly, You better have gotten some sleep recently. We aren't sleeping until we figure this out.

---

he was a treacherous boy

with treacherous companions

selling secrets, selling death

and the world could only despair

---

LITTLE PISTOL...MOTHER MOTHER

---

iv: TREACHEROUS

---

treach·er·ous | \ ˈtre-chə-rəs , ˈtrech-rəs \

1: likely to betray trust: UNRELIABLE

2: providing insecure footing or support

3: marked by hidden dangers, hazards, or perils

---

Evert and the men he had assembled did not come to Ketterdam together, for fear of drawing unnecessary attention to the other men, who were supposed to be unknown. They came over the course of three weeks, while Evert was paraded around.

He supposed they wanted him to look like an incompetent fool to the watching eyes, so they could slowly chip away any worry their target had over him. And when the men were all here, they would spend the next week making final adjustments to their plan.

The goal was to strike hard and fast before Brekker had a chance to make a fully realised plan. He would obviously be suspicious, but as long as he had no one to bribe and their headquarters were spider proof, Brekker would be in their hands by early next year.

Upon his arrival, he'd met Naud Swan, the man who'd written him, and his Councilman father, and he'd been invited to dinner at their estate. The food was divine, as he expected, but the conversation was dire.

They caught him up on the things newspapers could not speak of. He learned of his old friend Jan Van Eck's fate, and he sighed, disappointed in his friend. "He should have known better," Councilman Swan, Dries , said, "Than to deal with the likes of Kaz Brekker."

Evert looked at Dries in confusion, and Naud stepped in, "When Jan was arrested, he kept on saying that Kaz had framed him, and at the time we all shrugged it off. He was raving like a lunatic, but over time, pieces haven't added up, if you will."

Evert nodded, "So Jan worked with Brekker at some point, and crossed him? And in return, Brekker— Kaz —threw him in Hellgate?"

"And gave his entire estate to his son," Dries said darkly.

"And what's the issue with that?" Evert asked.

Naud sighed deeply, "Wylan Van Eck is an interesting young man. Always going places with soot on his suit, half the doors in his house are under lock and key, and worst of all is his husband."

Evert motioned for him to continue, "Wylan married Jesper Fahey back in 1885. Mister Fahey used to be Kaz's right-hand man, that's very well known. He's probably the best sharpshooter in Kerch, if not the world. And while he hasn't been seen within the general vicinity of the gangs in over ten years, those folks are conniving. They know how to hide what they do."

"So there's reason to believe they're still in contact," Evert said, scratching his chin, "So why the hell aren't we arresting them too?"

"Two reasons," Dries said, "Unfortunately, the Van Eck household has no heir as of yet, so if we were to arrest them, the whole house and business would fall into shambles. And seeing as they are, so important," his tone was bitter, "We can't let that happen."

"And," He continued, "There is simply not enough evidence beyond a hunch and a few other small coincidences."

"Like what?"

"Van Eck ships have not been raided by pirates once in the past few years. And with piracy on the rise and the fact the 'Queen of the Pirates' was one of Kaz's associates at a time, it gets murky and weird quickly. But it could also easily be that they're just good at evading pirates, or very lucky."

"This Pirate Queen," Evert said, thinking, "What do we know of her? Name? Age? Race? Is she Grisha? Is she married?"

"Her name is Inej Ghafa," Dries said, voice cold. "She's in her late twenties or so, maybe early thirties. She was Brekker's spider for a while, people called her the Wraith. That's the name of her flagship, and as far as we know, she is not a Grisha."

"How hard would it be to get her too?"

Naud sighed, leaning back in his chair, as his father called for another round of wine. "My friend, that is much harder than you think. She dodges all of our missiles, and she's impossible to sneak up on, let alone get eyes on when she's in the city proper. Taking here would require much more surprise and much more planning."

"And after all," Naud said with a grim twinkle in his eye, "How could one kidnap a Saint?"

---

Kaz was in his room, getting dressed for the day when he heard knocking at the door.

"Who is it?" He asked sharply as he buttoned up his patterned waistcoat over his black shirt and tie. He was thankful his shoes were already on, but his old, torn, gloves still rested in the washbasin under the mirror.

"Anika," her voice carried through the door, "Roeder has brought back his report."

He sighed heavily, limping over to the door to unlock it and throw it open. Anika stood there, her yellow hair wet from the rain. If she cared that Kaz took the pile of paper from her with his bare hands, she made the wise decision to not comment.

He nodded to her, calling out to her as she walked away. "Go dry yourself off, I don't want water all over the floors." He heard her chuckle, and he closed the door heavily as he thumbed through the papers.

Setting them on the desk, he opened a drawer for a new pair of gloves. His old ones he would stitch back up when he had the time, but he currently did not have the time.

He skinned the report as he pulled them on, comforted by the press of the leather against his skin. He grabbed a cigar, (Not a cigarette, Inej would be so proud) , and lit it as he studied the papers Roeder had lifted and the account of the job Anika had delivered.

There wasn't anything heinously amiss in the files about Evert Maat. He'd been respected, and retired early, moving back into his countryside home. He was unwed and was reportedly a quiet, if bitter, man who kept to himself in his home. When he was younger, he had been renowned for his ability to move a crowd, and Kaz had no doubt he would have been a great politician.

He'd been notably critical of the Staves and the crime that ran rampant in their streets. It seemed that Kaz could never escape people who were insistent on cleaning up the Staves. First Van Eck, and now, Maat. He bemusedly wondered if this would become a pattern every eleven years.

But frustratingly, there wasn't much on the man. He'd been proud in his youth. Okay? So had Kaz. He was a country boy. So? Kaz had been at one point too. This man was frustratingly only a few whispers, some too similar to what Kaz was or had once been.

And maybe, he was just being paranoid. He needed Inej here, desperately. Roeder was good, but she would catch everything. He needed her back, to figure out the mess he could see looming on the horizon with him. He took a deep breath, steadying himself and reminding himself that he could do this on her own.

He realised, wryly, he just wanted to see his wife.

---

Evert couldn't sleep, anxiety for the next day plaguing him.

This was what he and his companions had planned for weeks now, but now that the crucial moment, the payoff, would come with the next dawn, he had sudden nerves. What if Kaz had learned of their plans?

He knew that it was all unfounded hope. He and his men, the men who knew the true scope of the plans, had all been here. There was no one's pockets Kaz could get to and line. And by the time the Stadwatch knew, it would be too late. They would learn they had business in the barrel at noon, then learn what they were there to do only when Evert and his men had eyes on Kaz.

It would all go smoothly, he was certain.

---

At exactly thirteen bells, on January 15th, 1893, there was a heavy knock on the door to the slat.

Most of the dregs were inside sleeping, preparing for whatever job the boss would give them to do when the sun set. But a good amount were in the front hall, laughing, talking over drinks, and just relishing in life.

A few suspicious heads looked up. No one knocked on the door to the Slat, and hell, it was only closed because it was cold. Anika, the highest-ranked lieutenant on the floor, rose and answered the door. The Dregs craned their heads to see outside the front door but paused when Anika froze in her boots.

Anika had opened the door to almost thirty Stadwatch men, rifles gleaming in the streetlight. "What business?" She asked tersely.

The man at the front, with dark eyes and greying hair, spoke, "We have business with Kaz Brekker and business in this establishment."

"The boss isn't here." Her eyes narrowed, "And on what grounds do you have business here?"

He fished out two papers and showed them to her. She recognised not only the search warrant but the arrest warrants for numerous dregs, including her. Including Kaz. Ghezen help us .

"One moment," she said, before calling over her shoulder, "Pim!" The man walked over quickly, not trying to hide the gun at his side. The Stadwatch grunt's fingers tightened on their guns, and he eyed the men.

"Unfortunately," The man at the front said, face unapologetic as he stepped forward, into the slat, "You and your boss are under arrest." Anika and Pim stepped back, and every Dreg's hand flew to their weapon.

"Did you not hear the woman?" One of the dregs who had been listening in called back angrily, "The boss isn't here!"

The man didn't look fazed. "Then find him."

Anika exchanged a glance with Pim, and he swallowed, taking in a deep breath. "Rotty!" He called. The man, who had been asleep in the corner, jerked awake, blinking in confusion at the sight.

" Ja ?" He asked.

"Find the boss."

"Do I look like I know where he is?" Rotty said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "And why me? Why not someone he actually won't consider killing when they deliver bad news, because I have no idea what happened, but it can't be good. Saints Pim , are you trying to kill me—"

"Mister Henk Rotty," the Stadwatch leader said, "Do as Mister Bosma here says, and maybe you'll get a nicer cell in Hellgate." Both men blanched at the sound of their names, and Anika bowed her head slightly.

" Henk ?"

"Only my ma calls me Henk."

"You have a mother?"

"Shut up Dirix."

"He's probably at the Crow Club," A Dreg said, softly, understanding there was no use fighting here. The Stadwatch were outnumbered, but they had the advantage here, and they knew it. "I saw him heading there, an hour or two ago."

Anika jerked her head towards the door, and Rotty rose slowly, eyeing her in confusion. Her face was set, and he sighed, pushing past the tables and his comrades. He was just about to push past the officer when he stopped him, putting a hand to his chest.

Rotty reacted immediately, pressing a concealed knife to his throat. The Stadwatch were just as fast, and then the Dregs and the Stadwatch were pointing guns at each other. Rotty was just about to press further, when Pim's hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back. The knife clattered to the floor.

Pim whispered what had transpired to him as the Stadwatch captain picked up the knife, examining the kind steel. "You can't just do that! Come into our home like you own the damn place! This is private property, you—" Rotty yelled.

"Rotty!" Anika barked.

The man didn't even acknowledge Anika. "I can, Henk. I've gotten permission from the council, and now you're just resisting arrest. Run along now, grab your boss, be a good boy." Rotty frowned tightly, shrugging off Pim's grip on him.

"One second Henk," The man said, tone as pleasant as two friends catching up in the street, "Give me your pretty knives."

Rotty opened his mouth to protest but snapped it shut, unsheathing his knives, and unholstering the gun he had tucked under his heavy coat. Making a disgusted side glance at the Stadwatch, he pushed past them into the barrel, flipping the collar of his coat up as he ran to the Crow Club.

He had forgotten his hat inside, and it would sit on the edge of his chair for some time. No one would dare touch it, for fear of inciting a rage from the friends he left behind. So there it would collect dust and be an open wound for all who saw it.

---

Kaz sighed, running a hand through his hair as he read through the report Roeder had given him on a painting he was looking to steal's security. It was more than either had expected, but Kaz knew, with the right planning, he could get it.

The noises from the club were soothing at least. Roeder had disappeared there immediately after delivering the report, finally off duty for the night. Kaz could hear the old spider holding court with the other Dregs.

A cheer went up, and he was pretty sure he heard someone cry out Rotty's name. The man must be coming over for a break. He heard footsteps outside his door, though, and his head snapped up as someone knocked at the door.

"It's unlocked."

In came Rotty, who was panting for breath, soaked to the bone. He must have come running from the Slat. His hat was missing. Kaz slowly raised an eyebrow, bringing his still smoking cigarette to his lips, "Yes?"

"Boss," Rotty said, "The Stadwatch is at the Slat."

Kaz rose to his full height slowly, brow furrowed as Rotty continued. "They have warrants out for like twenty dregs' arrests, and they sent me to get you because you're one of them. Roeder too, Saints, I don't know what to do, were desperately outnumbered—"

"Rotty," he said sharply, cutting him off as he put his suit jacket on, "Walk and talk."

He grabbed his thick coat and his hat, limping out of the club with Rotty at his side. He motioned for Roeder, who gave his companions a sorry grin and trailed after him. He was silent as Rotty filled Roeder in, and they slipped into the Barrel.

He walked fast, lucky that the crowds moved out of his way. Obviously, Dirtyhands was in a bad mood, with the shadow over his face and the smoking cigarette between his lips.

Kaz had no brilliant plan. He didn't know what to do, unable to admit he'd been completely taken by surprise, a thought so horrible it could send him spiralling. He was in rocky territory now, spinning down, seconds away from some end.

He was a king . When had it come to this, when had this fear found its way into him? He was the man they called a demon, the sinner who traded secrets and death with the holy killer, the boy who'd fought until it was all he knew. He had brought this city to its knees once, and now, it seemed, she had come to pay him and his companions back with her treacherous fury.

Rotty and Roeder were silent behind him, eyeing their furious boss.

They were both considering every action, afraid that Kaz would slip and stab them both to death. Roeder especially. He should have caught on to this shit, they should never have been caught this damn off guard. But he chose not to say anything, just swallow his fear and his pride.

Rotty, his dearest friend, squeezed his hand. They had been lovers, once upon a time, but that didn't work out. But the familiar feeling of that hand in his reassured him, for the briefest moment.

---

Evert surveyed the gang with prideful amusement. The ones who weren't being arrested sat in a heap on the stairs, their own blockade. Evert would make them move eventually, intending to use his not yet revealed search warrant and the deed to the damn place to the highest degree.

The blonde woman, Anika Caris, glared with her companions in the opposite corner. Every single Dreg in this room had been patted down, and the confiscated were in a heap in a carriage outside the leaning house known as the slat.

He knew instantly when Kaz Brekker came close.

A hush fell over the crowd outside, and he turned, just catching the dreg's snap to attention. His men followed suit, hands straying closer to the triggers of their guns. His four fellow planners exchanged grins.

He saw the man cutting through the crowd, Henk Rotty and another man tagging behind him and his wake. He was dressed in a dark suit, a cane clicking in front of him. A dark hat was tipped low over his face, and Evert noticed his clothes similar to merchant wear.

His mere presence was suffocating, demanding attention and respect. His intelligent eyes were dark as he stared down the slat, pulling a cigarette from his lips and putting it out on his coat of all things.

He didn't even look at any of the Stadwatch men as he pushed past them towards the inside. Evert noticed, with some bitterness, the way these men looked at Kaz. Fear, trepidation, and a sudden awareness of their situation were all he saw. Evert thought them cowards for being so afraid when they had such an advantage.

Henk and the other man were immediately stopped though, patted down as their companions had been. Kaz was also stopped, by Evert himself. "Not so fast Mister Brekker," he said.

Kaz's eyes darkened, his chin lifting. "Evert Maat." He said sharply. "I suppose you think it's quite funny, no? Arresting my men in their own home?"

"You are criminals. This property is now the Merchant Council's, as of," he checked his watch, "Two hours ago." Kaz's face darkened, hand flexing on his cane.

His eyes darted over the men Evert had brought with him. He looked like he was trying to signal one out, to manipulate him. He looked like a dog backed into a corner, yapping and snapping at the people who came too close.

"Don't try it, Kaz," he said sharply, before putting on his most official voice, "By order of the Merchant Council, and the virtue Ghezen has imbued in them, you are under arrest. You can either comply here and face a fair trial or..." He nodded to the rifles.

Kaz was silent for a moment. Then he let his fury show, and he spit in Evert's face.

It was the only invitation Evert needed, kicking the young man in the leg he knew was bad and then the stomach. His leg gave out from under him, and he was thrown back just a bit, close to a table. His cane had left his hand so he used the table to rise shakily, and that's when Evert realized his mistake.

Kaz hadn't been patted down, and now had a nice, gleaming pistol in hand, pointed directly at Evert. He looked truly angry now, a small cut dripping blood down the side of his sharp face. But the Stadwatch just raised their rifles, pressing closer, as the anger gave way to deep, primal fear. He truly looked backed into a corner now.

Kaz was outnumbered, and he desperately knew it. He swallowed and saw Anika trying to meet his eyes. He let the gun clatter to the floor, and the roar of "NO!" was all he heard. One of the dregs on the steps cried, rushing up before being pulled back down.

His hand went to his glove button, where he'd hidden one of three suicide pills. The other, hidden in the other glove, had already broken. One of the Stadwatch officers understood, rushing him just as he pried it free. The man tackled him to the floor, and he tried to push down the memories of the dead, sinking, burning barge.

His head was kicked in, the weight of the body above him pressing him into the wood. He tasted the metallic sting of blood in his mouth, felt the mix of blood and saliva coming out his mouth. His body was wrenched up to face Evert as he stepped closer.

His eyes did not snap to Evert or the three men, or even the chains, but the little boy they dragged in. He heard her voice, remembered her dead eyes. He remembered the sweet twinkle of Nina's voice, the fury in her face at the state of her people. So, he lashed out.

He thrashed at the touch, trying to kick and escape the officers hold. The boy, who must have been Grisha, looked properly terrified, but when he tried to back away, a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

Kaz managed to wiggle out of their grasp, rushing to the boy, hand coming up to his tie pin for the third suicide—

He felt the shot through his leg before he heard it, and the pain erupted. He roared, dropping to his knees. He could hear his dregs screaming as he struggled to right himself, struggling to keep fighting. Another kick in the head, and he was on the floor, bleeding from his nose.

Rough hands grabbed him by the arms, forcing them back. He grimaced as pain spiked through his right shoulder, which he'd probably dislocated.

The chains were clamped around his hands, and he resisted all urges and the voice in his head that sounded like her telling him to help the little boy as he was forced to seal them closed with his Grisha powers. There was no lock for Kaz to pick.

Those apt bastards.

They shoved him back down as he fought to rise, and he yelled as his leg roared in pain, the blood dripping down his leg. He sat like that for a few minutes, gasping, panting , for air, all too aware of his dregs watching him be beaten down. He'd seen them come, try to help their boss, but he'd shook his head. They were not wanted by these men, and would not die for him.

He met one of their eyes now, young Alka, the boy who'd screamed 'NO' earlier. His eyes were wide, and one of the older dregs, Yasmine, had her arms around his torso, holding him back. He shook his head and mouthed "It's okay," as he tried for a smile. Alka just nodded, shocked.

He felt a boot collide with his head yet again and swore he saw stars. That had to have been the hardest kick. The men had noticed and were glancing at Alka with red in their eyes. The Dregs on the stairs noticed, and as Alka fled up the stairs, Yasmine guiding him, they made a tighter blockade. The Stadwatch grunts and them faced off for a moment, but there was such ferocity in the dregs eyes that they backed off.

Finally, Kaz was picked up off the floor, a white cloth being pressed against his nose. He smelled the sedative, and with one final glance, this time to the rafters she'd once treacherously haunted, he breathed in and his eyes rolled back into his head.

---

treacherous you are, boy

as treacherous as the sun

ending the silence of her moon

with her screaming carnage

but i, your next enemy, will end your carnage

you are a boy, you are a child

and you are nothing in the end

---

THE CHAIN...FLEETWOOD MAC

---

v: VIE

---

\ ˈvī \

1: to strive for superiority: CONTEND , COMPETE

---

THE KETTERDAM DAILY

KAZ BREKKER ARRESTED

MONDAY, JANUARY 15th, 1883

By: Sander Harwig, Senior Editor

Yesterday, at approximately fourteen bells, Kaz Brekker and almost twenty of the highest-ranked members of his gang, The Dregs, were arrested in a sudden and unexpected move by the Stadwatch.

The leader of the operation, Ex-Captain Evert Maat, is yet to disclose the nature of what Mister Brekker was arrested for, but he assured the public, "Kaz is heavily guarded, and as I speak, we are searching his numerous properties around the city. There should be no concern for his pension for escapes."

(To see more on the Ex-Stadwatch Captain, turn to page 20)

A queen sat under a cracked dome of gold, reading news from over the sea with dark eyes, the dragon curling in her stomach.

"Nikolai, my love," She called.

"Yes?"

"Where is the Wraith?" She handed him the paper, an emerald glinting on her finger.

He read, his eyes slowly trailing up to meet hers. "I do not know."

"Find her. "

---

Evert nodded to the men outside the door, opening it up into the room in which Mister Brekkers belongings had been piled. Closing it behind him, he sifted through the belongings. His clothes, his cane, the lockpicks and knives he had hidden all over his person he catalogued, taking note of anything and everything.

The hidden pockets he had sewn into both of his jackets. The lockpicks that were hidden cleverly in his cane. The powder that was hidden in his boots that Evert didn't even want to know did. And of course, the leather gloves, which looked like shrivelled corpses on the table.

There was nothing truly remarkable about those, except for maybe the slits at the tips, probably for dealing cards. Of which he had multiple decks on him.

Evert wasn't sure if he'd ever expected Kaz to be carrying anything truly devious. He had the sneaking suspicion that Kaz rarely ever did that, for fear of a pick up in which he would be searched and immediately caught red-handed.

Evert picked up Kaz's tie pin, a silver bird head, a crow head , with rubies for eyes. He examined it, smiling as he saw a small capsule hidden in it. Evert recognised the suicide pill instantly.

Kaz had reached for one, in the fight, Evert remembered. Was he just imagining things, or had he reached to this pin too? Evert found he didn't care much.

They had brought him to the southern coast, to a ghost town. There were no residents to shoo them away, so they took up lodging in a house that had been refurbished for the sole purpose of keeping Kaz Brekker down.

The Merchant Council would send for the information they needed out of him once they sorted through the well-hidden records they had found beneath two sets of floorboards in the Crow Club. Kaz seemingly kept good of records of his dirty little secrets

Satisfied that he had found all of Kaz's secrets when it came to clothes, he left, heading down the hallway to the prisoner's room. Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, Bastard of the Barrel, King of Ketterdam, looked up as he entered, nothing but murder on his dazed face.

"Goedemorgen , Kaz," Evert said, sitting in the chair across from him. Evert watched him for a moment, as he hung his head, arms chained up above his head, bare hands on display for the whole world. He had long, slender fingers, perfect for lockpicking. The low firelight in the corner of the room accentuated the scars upon them.

A man quietly entered, and Kaz didn't even look up. The man handed Evert a thin file, and he thanked him as he disappeared out the door. Evert flipped through the file on Kaz. He noted birthday, Kaz's pickups, the notes on him and his talent for manipulation and lockpicking.

Thankfully then, he was gagged.

"So," Evert said, leaning back. "You were last picked up at fourteen, sixteen years ago. I must say, I'm impressed."

He had no doubt that if Kaz was not gagged so tightly, the boy would have spit directly into his face. His eyes were dark, furious and cold. Evert pulled something out of his pocket, and Kaz froze instantly as if he only now noticed its absence.

"It's a beautiful ring," Evert commented, turning it over in his fingers. "Who's the unlucky bastard?"

Kaz was silent, the darkness in his eyes so sharp and murderous that if looks could kill, Evert would no doubt be dead. "No comment?" He asked lightly, "Then I suppose you won't mind if I..." He threw it in the fire.

Kaz lurched forward, horror in his eyes as it burned away. Struggling against his bonds, his words and curses were muffled by the gag. Evert could have sworn he saw tears in the boy's eyes, but he certainly heard the breathless sobs rattling in his chest. "Have something to say?"

Kaz stopped his shaking, a feat that could not have been easy, to glare furiously at Evert. The fire made the unshed tears in his eyes glimmer, and Evert grinned, rising out of his chair to crouch in front of Kaz. "I'm going to let you talk, now."

He pulled the gag off roughly, and Kaz took a deep breath from his mouth. Evert leaned back as he spat at him, wiping away the spit and blood off his face with his sleeve. They stared at each other before Evert slapped him across the face.

"Careful now," he warned as Kaz's chest heaved, "You are wanted for information, and there are no barriers on how I get it out of you. And you aren't set for trial for months, so I can do whatever I want to get you compliant."

"You son of a bitch," Kaz murmured, voice low and grated. Evert wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the rasp of his voice.

"Is that what I am now?" Evert asked innocently, "Or am I the man making this world better?"

Kaz had no answer, hanging his head and looking away.

---

Kaz was screaming.

Evert watched as the water dripped over the cloth, making sure that the man in charge of this didn't mess up. There was no room for error here because if they killed Kaz, they'd have a much larger issue on his hands. That wasn't to say they could render him unconscious time and time again, though.

Kaz's arms were bunched, pressed against the bonds holding him down. His body was tense, his corded muscles popping out with every convulsion. Despite how little he ate, he was still big and strong. It reminded Evert of country boys like him, big, tall, and strong no matter what.

If he wasn't blindfolded, and if the rag didn't cover his full face, Evert was certain that he would see the tears that accompanied his screams. He fell into unconsciousness mere seconds later, mumbling things under his breath. Evert hoped that when he woke up he'd be much more willing to talk than he had been.

They'd had him for over four months now. As his fourth month here came close, his old, incessant crows tried to spring him out, finally having regrouped. All that happened were a death, seven arrests, and the other two escaping on foot. That had been mere days ago, and security had doubled since then. As had Kaz's impertinence and stamina, so they had been forced to resort to this method to get him to comply.

Evert's eyes roamed Kaz's bare upper body. The purple bruises across his ribs and the cut down the front of him were expected. As was the tattoo on his right forearm, the crow and the cup proud against his pale skin. But on the same arm, there was an 'R' boldly inked into his bicep, some old memory.

Evert's jaw twitched as he thought, "Continue when he wakes up. I'll be back tomorrow."

---

She stood at the prow of her ship, smiling as the port of Os Kervo grew on the horizon.

She hadn't been in a port since a week after Kaz's thirtieth birthday, a little over four months ago. She'd been knee-deep in hunting one of the largest fleets of slave ships, and now that they were at the bottom of the sea, she could finally return to civilization. She planned to spend a few days here, catching up on mail, before heading home to Kaz to greet the summer.

The flagship of her small fleet, The Wraith , pulled silently into the harbour, and her crew set to work securing her. The rest of the ships would harbour themselves at a private harbour that had been so kindly given to them, but The Wraith needed to dock here, if for a few days.

She was up in the rigging when she heard the clearing of silver horns. She knew that sound, she realised as her head snapped up. And there he was, the once Boy-King, The King of Scars—Korol Rezni—, Re'b Ravka, husband to the Queen of Storms. Nikolai Lanstov was here, done up in Nazyalensky blue, astride a white horse, black hands out for the world, and face grim.

He, and his small entourage, were riding straight to her, she realised, a cold weight settling in her chest. His face was one she knew: the look of a man facing a growing storm, a man with nothing good riding on his tongue.

She got down from the rigging, landing on the deck just as Nikolai drew to a stop at the side of her ship. "What ho, Wraith!" He called. "May I come aboard?"

"Lower the gangplank!" She cried to her crew, permission enough. The wood creaked as it fell to the floor, and Nikolai wasted no time dismounting and striding aboard. He had a few letters in hand, and she walked with him.

"What news do you bring me, your majesty?" She asked as he handed her the letters.

"All in good time, my friend," She eyed him from the corner of her eye in suspicion. He seldom called her that, although they were good friends. She moved to break the seal of one of the letters, this one from Jesper and Wylan, but he stopped her. "Wait until we are alone, Inej."

The cold in her belly began to freeze.

The rest of the walk to her quarters was silent. Nikolai filed in behind her, locking the door. She sat at her desk, and Nikolai looked around the room. "What alcohol do you have? And where are your glasses?"

"Rum, whiskey, and gin. They're in that cabinet," she pointed to it, "And so are the glasses. Is it that bad?"

He sighed, "Inej, read the letter, please."

She did as he said, watching him pour generous amounts of whiskey into her glasses as she broke the seal. He placed one in front of her, sitting across from her, watching as he nursed his own drink. He looked like he had ridden straight from the capitol.

So she read the letter.

She wasn't sure when she started crying when her jaw fell open when the world lit up into flames around her. She read about how Kaz had been arrested, beaten down, and the failed attempt to get him. About Evert fucking Maat, that man who made that proposal they'd found, all those years ago.

She could hear him now, I would have come for you , and her heartbeat in that same, steady rhythm. It filled her ears, whispers and drums, everything and anything. She felt something shake her shoulder.

She was in her office, the King-Consort of Ravka in front of her, hazel eyes grim. But he wasn't looking at her like a subject, like a scrap of a girl who'd forged herself harder, or even like a fellow sea rider. He was looking at her like a friend, like someone he cared about.

"Zoya and I will do what we can to help. We will send Grisha if you need them. We know what he means to you, what he has helped. But we can only do so much, without waging yet another war," He told her, offering her glass. She took a hearty sip.

Her breaths were running away from her, her head was spinning. Who knew what hell Kaz was in. He wouldn't be on trial until the end of the summer, and according to Jes and Wy, the council had found the records of his dirty secrets. Secrets she'd hunted for him, secrets they spent nights on their bellies for, secrets that had cost lives.

That had to have been fake, a dupe, the information that didn't matter. She wasn't sure. She didn't know, and the ache in her heart was unbearable. There was so much she had wanted to tell him about these past months on the sea, stories she'd written to be sent ahead while she rested in this port for a few days. Stories and prayers and drunken midnight confessions that if she didn't work fast, would never reach his ears.

She was where she was because of him because he had pulled himself into a semblance of man for her. He had guided her hand to the carnage she reigned upon slavers, and she had guided him to hers.

He vied for her in the night, at midnight, when there was nothing with him but his thoughts. But when the sun rose, he let her go and let her be. The patterns of the sun and the moon were the patterns of light and dark, the times between when they were the saints in stories and the monsters under the beds and when they were Inej and Kaz, lovers in the dark.

A cold thought entered her head.

If she rescued him, what would come next? How much had he been unravelled by Evert Maat's hands? Had dirtyhands been reduced to the boy screaming in the harbour, begging for the uncaring world to care? Would she see Kaz, bold, proud, strong, marching on, or the boy he'd been, the sickly, naïve child, that had burned away?

She would come anyway, no matter what. He was hers, she was his, and they were the eternal soldiers of death. She would not leave him to suffer alone, she would never not speak to him and draw him back into his body, save him from the black waters. He had not left her the lynx, he had returned her from the dead-eyed whore she'd been shaped into. He had given her the world, and he had come for her, in her hour of need.

"Thank you, Nikolai. Your help is appreciated." He nodded I am coming, Kaz , she swore.

I'm going to get my revenge and I'm going to get my boy.

---

'run, run, run

as fast as you can

i'll still find you

boy of many names'

he swore

---

REMEMBER THE NAME...FORT MINOR

---

vi: MONIKER

---

mon·i·ker | \ ˈmä-ni-kər \

informal: NAME , NICKNAME

---

Brekker was the name of a machinery company.

The realisation hit Evert dead-on as he walked out of the room, causing him to pause in his steps. He remembered now, walking along the docks, many years ago, seeing 'BREKKER' proudly inked on the side of something. He remembered it being used at his home in the country as a child.

Why had Kaz assumed that name? Brekker wasn't a last name, in the slightest. There was no Brekker family, no name even close to it. What had Kaz needed to bury in taking that name?

Evert continued to walk while he mulled over what he actually knew about Kaz Brekker. He was born in December of '62, he was thirty years old. He had a smoking habit, (Don't we all?) he owned fine whiskey. He was a genius, a mastermind, with a mind that outpaced nearly everyone he met. He was tall, lanky, and had two tattoos.

Evert thought back to Kaz's height. He had the height of a country boy, but by all known accounts, and Kaz's own words, he was born from the Barrel. Or maybe...Kaz Brekker was born from the Barrel.

Evert had reached his office by this point, sitting down heavily on his chair. He had never been one to puzzles, even this one, the one that was slowly revealing itself to him. The file on Kaz Brekker was still on his desk.

He opened it, flipping through it. No listed family, only a brief note on marriage, spouse not known. A listing of his ailments, and those damn two tattoos. The crow and the cup was a reminder of his loyalties, so what did the R mean? Could it mean something?

Evert frowned, remembering something. He burst out of his seat, running down the hall to the supply room where Brekker's things sat, collecting dust.

He rummaged through the coat jacket, hands grasping the cold metal of the watch. Pulling it out, he ran a hand over the polished gold surface, engraved with the image of Ghezen's hands. He flipped it open, and there, just on the face of the watch, was a name, hidden under the numbers five, six, and seven.

Rietveld.

How...curious.

---

He entered the room at dawn the next day.

Kaz was slumped in a corner, eyes closed, black lashes fanned across his wet cheeks. He barely lifted his head at the sound of Evert's arrival, and the man had to grin just a bit at that. He sat across from him, as he had on the first day, all those months ago.

It was Kaz who spoke first, "What day is it?" His words were slurred, blood dribbling from his mouth.

Evert rose a brow, thinking. It couldn't hurt to tell him, he reasoned, so he did. "May 26th." Kaz leaned his head back, a low moan escaping his lips. He mouthed a word that Evert couldn't distinguish, but it looked like some name.

"What was that?" He asked with a smile. When Kaz didn't reply, "Oh come on, Kaz. I answered your question, so you should answer mine." He slipped his hand into his pocket, wrapping it around the watch.

He sighed at Kaz's staunch silence. "Fine. Tell me about this then. What or rather, who is Rietveld?" he pulled out the watch.

Kaz's eyes were hungry as they snapped to the pocket watch. Something passed over his face then, an echo of fear and grief. He mumbled something, voice low. "What was that?" Evert asked. Kaz didn't reply, jaw squared in fury.

Evert got up, crouching down so he was at eye level with Kaz. Wrenching his face forward to face him, Evert repeated his question, adding, "You can choose not to tell me. But I'd rather not throw it in the fire like your ring, it's quite nice."

For a moment, Kaz's eyes were wide, pupils dilated and afraid . Then he wrenched himself out of Evert's grip, forcing the words out as if they poisoned him to speak, "Family name."

"Yours, I assume?" Evert said, and Kaz shrugged non committedly.

"Tell me, Kaz...Rietveld," Evert said. He stiffened, a shudder running through his body.

"Shut up," He moaned.

"So, Mister Rietveld, why did you change your name? What secrets were you trying to bury?"

Kaz's answer came quickly. "Kaz Rietveld is dead. I'm not trying to bury secrets, I'm putting the past to rest." His words came quicker, the white-hot fury bubbling over as he pressed closer, against his chains. There were tears in his eyes, "He was a child, a boy when he died because people like you didn't fucking care."

Evert titled his head, filing the outburst away for later. "What was the name you spoke earlier?"

"When did you become an asshole, or were you born that way?" Kaz asked.

Evert kicked him in the chest, pressing a boot to his neck as he landed on his back. Kaz gasped for breath, as Evert pressed just a bit harder. The choked noises grew louder, and just as Kaz was truly beginning to scramble and panic, Evert took his boot off.

"You really thought I would kill you, didn't you? I thought you would be smart enough to know I can't kill you." He clicked his tongue, "Such a foolish boy. Now tell me, what was the name you spoke?" His boot moved to his neck again.

Kaz was panting for breaths, but he heard the name between the pants. "Inej."

"Your wife?" Kaz gave the smallest nod. "Your anniversary soon, or what?"

Kaz shook his head and managed to force out, "It's in August. August 13th."

"How many years?"

"Two as of this year."

"Hmmm," Evert said, "Maybe we'll set your trial for that day. Invite Miss Inej, have her watch your execution on your anniversary. Wouldn't that be sweet?" Kaz's eyes were murderous.

"Now tell me, Kaz..."

"Who is the Wraith?"

The look on Kaz's face was almost comical, but his eyes soon narrowed into slits. Evert knew that the boy under his boot was aware he was at his mercy, so he had to admire his nerve when he spat in his face.

"A pirate," He said, smiling with red-stained teeth. "Haven't you heard?"

Evert slammed his boot into the side of his head, not hard enough to render him unconscious, but enough that Kaz was groaning. He didn't move his boot back to his throat, but rather pressed down on Kaz's chest, right over his broken ribs and his lungs, which were weak from waterboarding.

"I thought you were a king, once."

"But you are a coward. Alone, shivering and afraid. You are a coward, Kaz Rietveld, and I cannot wait until you meet your maker."

Kaz was groaning loudly now, mumbling incoherent words under his breath. But over and over, Evert heard that woman's name again, Inej. Inej, Inej, Inej , he was saying. Evert backed off, smiling.

"Thank you for the information, Mister Rietveld." And with a too cheery wave, he was gone, leaving Kaz in the cold and dark, sobbing and begging for her to find him.

---

can demons have demons?

yes of course child

in fact

they have the most

---

DONNA...THE LUMINEERS

---

vii: DEMON

---

de·mon | \ ˈdē-mən \

1: an evil spirit

2: a source or agent of evil, harm, distress, or ruin

---

He wanted to strip himself, jump into a vat of lava, and burn away. His skin felt like it was on fire, his lungs were roaring, and when he wasn't overcome by pain from torture, or drugged and unconscious, all he could feel was the waters and the cold, oppressive weight of the corpses that had killed the boy he'd once been.

This man, Evert Maat, was a damn demon. Haunting and dogging his memories, bringing out the fear that reduced him down to nothing more than the boy he was at heart. The boy who was still in love with the world, the boy who came through in the moment of terror. The boy beneath the waves.

He had no right to hold his face, slap him, call him by his family name. He had no right to call him the coward that he was. He had no right to reduce him to this, the gurgling mess of a demon he'd become, who screamed and sobbed as the water poured through the cloth into his throat, into his lungs.

He knew that waterboarding made you drown. He knew that. So every time they put that damned cloth over his head, he fought. Every time the blindfold was tied, he tried to find comfort in the dark. But he wasn't Inej, he wasn't born from the dark.

He was born from the water, yet it still brought him to his knees, the only conquest he could not fathom fully winning. A part of him knew that anyone in his position would be unable to stop the screams as they drowned, but the voice in his head, the poisonous voice that wasn't Inej's or Jordie's voice, but his , told him otherwise. You are a coward. Fight them. Get up, you big oaf. Fight. Survive. Breathe. Live. No Mourners. No Funerals.

But he heard them too. Jordie's voice, always in his head. Come home little brother, and rest with me. The field is warm and nice, the stalks feel good. See? It doesn't hurt . Sometimes it was his father's voice speaking, as deep and strong as the rushing river. And sometimes there was the voice from his dreams, the sound of wind chimes in the breeze. His mother. Come to us, my son , they said, It's okay. You can rest now. Come home, to our arms.

But Inej was there too, with her lilt and her voice that cut and healed, prying him open only to sew other parts closed. I would have come for you, she said, the memory of him saying that echoing with her words, as the willows murmured on. I will come for you.

He'll never trade if you break me , she had confessed to screaming at Van Eck. He had shaken his head, then, pressing his hand to her face, before his forehead, and then his lips as he tried to ease away the doubt he'd sewn into her about him, the doubt that had manifested into him.

So here he was, torn between his family, and her. The family that he knew awaited him with open arms in whatever came next (The fields he'd grown up in, perhaps?), and the woman who he'd do anything for. The woman he would drop to his knees to please, the woman he'd let into the circle of his arms.

He closed his eyes, the phantom feeling of Evert's boot on his neck and ribs still there, his head spinning, his ribs begging for mercy. His lungs were the weakest they'd been since he'd had that damn plague.

He drifted into sleep, his dreams a disjointed mess of colour and hazy memories of bathrooms and nighttime rituals. The firing of a gun, the press of a knife against his torso as his clothes were cut away to not hurt him more, memories from years of fighting.

A field, golden in the dawn.

Music from the piano, dancing friends, the warmth of whiskey in him. The smell of cigars and cigarettes hanging in his office, the puff of smoke that accompanied him as he thought. If he made it out, the first thing he would do would be smoke, if his lungs didn't kill him first.

He woke up drowning.

The now-familiar feeling of the water dripping through the cloth sent him into an instant frenzy. They were asking questions, about the Wraith, about him, about who he had been. About the boy Evert convinced himself he knew because he knew his last name. It seemed that after months, they'd finally decided what they wanted from him.

He tried to keep his mouth shut, but when the water got worse when the reaper's barge started to creep into the edge of his vision, he caved. He had been a king, a man who had forged himself new, but now he was the boy in the harbour, shivering and afraid.

He wasn't Dirtyhands, putting people at his mercy. He wasn't the Bastard of the Barrel, the King of Ketterdam, the Sinner, the monster under the beds. He wasn't the demon king who ruled Ketterdam now, he was a child who had been stripped down, and all he could do was speak as he'd just learned how to. Vengeance was not coming, it was too late.

From there, the days bled on slowly.

He had been broken again, and all he could do was hastily rebuild the armour he'd spent a decade trying to unravel to be worthy of something better. He retreated to the apathy, pushing down every human emotion in a desperate attempt to keep moving. Live. Breath. Feel the beat of his heart. Alive, alive, alive.

He woke up to Evert's voice on one of those aching days, "What do you mean he is sick?" His voice was far away, a distant, half-realised dream. Kaz didn't feel himself stir.

"It's pneumonia, sir," The doctor stammered, rushing out as Evert ordered him away. There was nothing for a moment, and then pain erupted at the base of Kaz's head, amplifying the headache he now realized he had. He barely had the energy to groan.

He felt colder than he remembered being when he had fallen into sleep the day before? Or maybe he'd always been this cold, this away from warmth. No, there had been warmth once, years ago. He thought he felt wheat stalks against his body, against his bare, ungloved hands.

The world was a mess of shapes and sounds. He didn't hear Evert speak, he didn't hear the man disappear down the hall.

Thus entered the days in which all he heard was Jordie's voice. He had forgotten her face, her twinkling laugh that he would die to hear, her voice, or the memories of better times with better company, in the rush of water. There was only hiding in alleys, the fever of the plague, the heat of the barge. The wheat field.

Jordie's dead eyes were all he could meet, the reminder of his greatest failure. He heard Pekka's voice, that stupid Kaelish lilt. He thought he heard a child crying, and all he could think of was the story he'd spun of burying one beneath the well toiled earth much like the one he had spent his younger years running over.

He had been cooking up plans to escape this place since the moment he stepped into it, but he never once left this room. He'd been unconscious when they brought him. There were no windows to his cell. He'd been here so long, the facial hair he's never let grow was a shadow on his face.

He probably could have managed it at some point, but now, with his mind away and in its own special hell, he knew that he had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run, when his head was playing the same old tragedy on repeat, a cruel company of performers acting out the tragedy that is life to the one who knows it best, as time ran out, and the clock slowly sped towards midnight.

He was alone with no company but the memories in his head and the men of the Stadwatch who wanted him dead or broken. Maybe it was the karma he always liked to judge strangers for coming to bite him in the ass that had left him this way, but he didn't care enough to think it through.

All he could think about is how much he wanted to hold her, press kisses on her face and belly, hold her hand, and laugh in the light of an oil lamp with her against the night hanging beyond his door. He wanted to steal her away, to that field of gold.

He wanted to die in her steady and strong arms.

---

When he feels the touch, featherlight against his collarbone and face, the release of the chains on his chains, he brushes it off as a fever-induced dream.

It's all a dream.

The hands under his arms, helping him up. The kiss on his lips, the smell of oil and spices he knows he knows from somewhere. The cutting and healing voice that he remembers breaking the clouds of his dreams is not real. He. Is. Alone.

This is not real, he thinks when he feels his ribs mend when the pain in his head lessens. This is not real, he repeats as he feels leather slide over his hands, as he feels the movement of a carriage under him. They are too late, he is dreaming, he must have finally died. He is in the field.

He hears the sound he makes, his head lulling to the side. He feels the touch again, feather-light against his feverish and sweaty skin, the whisper of words before he is falling away into the vast darkness that is unconsciousness, as a blanket is thrown over him.

---

Evert stared at the empty cell in horror.

Kaz Brekker, Kaz Rietveld, Kaz Whatever , was gone. The chains were broken open, Fabrikator work, in a heap on the floor. There were men in the hallway, he knew, whose throats were red from the deep cut that had killed them, silent and precise.

Evert had survived and would be the only one who could give an eyewitness account. Everyone else had died while he slept, the most valuable prisoner in the world and all of his belongings were gone. Even the watch he'd kept on him had been lifted. And he knew exactly who had done it.

On the wall, in black paint, a crow with red eyes had been painted. Over it, there were six simple words, one simple warning.

THE

WRAITH

HAS

COME

FEAR

HER

---

---

Ahhhh there's so much I want to say!!! This fic, first of all, is edited to the best of my abilities. Don't know if you noticed but it really effing long, and jesus christ formatting this takes forever.

This fic was initially going to be posted in one chapter but while it works best that way, it's too long for me to reasonably do that. There will be 1 more chapter (and maybe one after that for some memes i made because yes I did that and some other notes), that should come out soon enough. I'm trying to pace myself, formatting can be hella annoying. 

The one thing I do really want to mention is the smoking portion of this fic: I am in no way trying to endorse smoking, it's very very fucking bad for you. I just have the personal headcanon that Kaz is the type of person to not really care about the effects of smoking, because "My lungs are already fucked up." In case you couldn't tell, Inej isn't a huge fan, and because it's unclear until the next part, *barely* tolerates cigars. Yeah just had to say that. Fits the mob boss vibe he has too anyways.