We don’t steal from the river.

  The banks are hushed in their hour of reverence. Heavy clouds roll in, their underbellies bruised with coming rain. No wind stirs the mist resting above the water.

  From the old bridge, I flick a faded silver coin over the half-wall. The faint glow of the hungry depths swallows it. I watch as it joins thousands of others at its bottom, all shimmering in the fading dawn. A pleased chill winds along the river’s surface. It threads through my hair, black as the river is deep, before dissolving. The scent of the Great Rains clings to the air. I breathe it in, smiling.

  A group of children play by the water’s edge. The soot-covered matron keeps watch, hunched near her coals, brow creased, hands never still. She slaps dough onto smoldering embers, flipping the half-cooked rounds with deft, time-worn hands. Flame licks up at her apron and she swings it away, unbothered by its flirtation.

  The children shriek and chase and laugh, as they always have, building entire kingdoms from nothing. One boy who knows better, bound in threadbare rags, drifts toward the edge. He kneels where the river laps at his toes, drawn less to sticks and shouts than to the glittering depths. I stiffen, and the matron restrains a jolt. We both watch him.

  He dips his arm into the shallows. I stifle a shout as the matron is already moving toward him, calling his name stern and low. I lift my eyes to the clouds, and she does the same. The boy ignores the matron’s scolding and reaches for a handful of coppers. They slip through his fingers. He tries again. And again. Finally, with a huff, he drops into the rocks, pulling his arm out empty-handed. The river keeps what is owed.

  The water stills. The other children’s laughter thins, replaced by the soft murmur of the breeze.

  Good boy, leave it be.

  Then, a ripple. A single copper rises to the surface. My heart drops and the matron freezes, eyes fixed on the boy.

  He takes it happily. A satisfied smile spreads across his face. The matron and I both let out shaky sighs and she storms toward him, skirt billowing. She bows her head to the water, pressing a kiss to her fist. With a sharp tug, she hauls him up by the ear, chastising him all the while. The other children are called home, giggling at the thought of the boy’s punishment.

  A swollen cloud smothers the sun and the matron hurries the children inside a leaning cottage. Its door slams shut behind them. As the light withers, the glitter vanishes, devoured by the blackness. In its place, hundreds of white, bloated husks rise, lurking under the glassy divide. The living above, the dead below. One grins, lips peeling back over rotting teeth, my coin pinched tight in its fingertips. I see myself in its eyes.

  We don’t steal from the river. And the river leaves us be.

  I turn my back to the rotting things and rest my elbows on the old bridge’s spine. I don’t know when they became we, only that I have slept in Fornthveit for two whole winters now, and I suppose I owe the river for its hospitality. Traders and peddlers from out of town say it’s evil, that it has us all under some spell, but they keep coming back for our coin.

  Except the ones that try to take from the bottom.

  Every so often one of those faces I’ve seen before, a time or two, unmoors itself from somewhere deeper than I can see. Pity is not for them. They were warned, as every child born into this village is warned. The river is a hoarder, not a lender. That goes for coins. And breath.

  A rhythmic pulsing in my head thumps me out of my sermon. Gods, it has been with me so long now that I might miss it if it left—the never-ending drumming. It is a feeling I have learned to describe with precision over the years. Physikers, priests of countless faiths, healers, and shaman of the southern tribes, I have seen them all. And when something is particularly afoul inside a person, it helps to know how to speak of it. If only for the enrichment of others.

  It is the first impassioned strike of chisel to marble. The fervent nailing of a zealous decree to a temple door. The smith’s final hammer-fall before the masterwork blade is cooled in ash.

  It is agony. And persistent agonies deserve exactness.

  I close my eyes, feeling each thrum reverberate through my skull. Those who live with affliction measure their days in good and bad, but so do the healthy, if they can be honest. I have taken to other descriptions of wellness, to better suit my own ills. Most days are tribulations I can barely endure, but the lesser few, like today, are bearable. And that is good, because an old friend has asked me to meet with her.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Catherine, darling?” The familiar voice sits like a stone in my gut, pulling me out of my torture chamber. “Two days I’ve been wading through mud. Were you hiding from me?”

  I turn my head. Izzy crosses the bridge halfway to greet me and I give her a tired smile. “Not well enough, it seems.”

  Copper-dark hair spills over my face as she draws me into her arms, steeped in sage oil and lemongrass. Part of me wants to bury my face in it, but I pull away from her.

  Izzy doesn’t blink. “Place is a shit-hole, Cat.” A local glares as he passes us. “Oh, do stop pouting. As far as ranking shit-holes go, could be worse.”

  “What did you want, Izzy? Must be important if you couldn’t put it in your letters.”

  Izzy leans over the parapet, then recoils. “Well, that’s fucking unsettling. Does it always…do that?”

  “Izzy…”

  “I suppose the ranking has changed.” She raises her voice for the man, eyes stuck to the water.

  I stare at her flatly, waiting for her games to end. The grey-green moss of her eyes cools, all trace of her normal warmth ebbs. I’ve seen this look before, and I assume I will suffer it until my dying days.

  “Fine. We should find somewhere private. Away from the…” She gestures at the river.

  I nod toward the other side of the bridge. “This way.”

  The pulsing grows heavier as we walk. I tighten my shawl, bones pressing against cloth, but the chill finds me anyway. Izzy steps in close to my side, her shoulder brushing against mine.

  “You don’t have to stand so close. I am in control now.”

  She raises an eyebrow and grins. “Sure. Been nearly two years now? Maybe I’m feeling sentimental.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  Izzy sniffs the air. “Fish and shit. What a lovely welcome.”

  The fog parts for us as we enter the city proper. Ramshackle storefronts and sagging cottages jut from the earth like splintered ribs, holding the market together. Vendors and stalls sprawl out into a bazaar. Haggling, hawking, laughing, shouting, it is Fornthveit’s lifeblood at this hour. And no place for someone like me.

  A throb builds behind my temples as a wall of flesh closes in. I clench the pendant around my neck tight enough that my knuckles burn. It is a simple thing, a twisted metal knot—a gift no one would want. A small act to calm my nerves. I weave in between fishmongers and crafters, focusing on my breath.

  A broad shoulder slams into me, driving me into a stall. I catch the stall’s edge, drawing a groan from the driftwood. Briny slivers dig into my nails. The brute mutters something—but the words are lost.

  The throbbing is a war drum now, pounding the inside of my skull. She is beneath it, waiting.

  “Swine!” Izzy snarls, steadying me.

  I suck in air and my vision strains. “I’m alright.” The words grind out of me. “Was my fault.”

  Izzy takes my hand, giving me a reassuring wink. Always that ridiculous wink. She pulls me through the tangle. “Breathe,” she mouths. And I do, the long, uneven scar at the base of her neck glaring back at me. Another unwanted gift. The crowd presses in and my muscles lock, pushing back against the chaos. I grit my teeth and force through until we emerge on the other side of it.

  I swallow hard against the pounding in my skull and tear my hand free. “It’s not far. The tree line, just past it.”

  We leave the city behind, our boots sinking into the waterlogged field. Lightning calls, thunder answers, and the rain follows. We hurry into the trees to my little shack, my solace. It is a few nails and a strong gust from squalor, but it is home. Tattered old fox furs line the cracks, trapping their musty aroma inside.

  Dust cloaks every surface. I can’t keep it out, and I’ve stopped trying. The oven squats low in the corner, arch warped from its shameful construction. Overhead, ropes strain beyond their calling, not meant to hold a home together. But they do, just as well as a handful of rotted boards make a home. Herbs long bled of color and moisture, dry in racks along the wall. Sometimes I listen and the tick of wood expanding taps in my ears like a rusted clock.

  With trembling hands, I feed the last hot ashes some kindling, a dull clack echoes in the small space as I pile more wood. The flame exhales and rises back to life, warming our bones. I light a few candles. Their glow flickers over Izzy’s freckles, the fire snapping between us.

  “You live in this?”

  “It suits me.”

  “Why here? Why Fornthveit?”

  “Because nowhere else would have me.”

  The throbbing in my head wanes and I settle into an aged chair, its frame muttering into the floorboards. Izzy rolls her pack off her shoulder. A thud. Then the shuffling of glass, parchment, and other necessities.

  “That river certainly isn’t natural.” She digs through her pack, shoving aside vials and rations with a grunt.

  “Neither am I.”

  “Spare me your brooding, Cat. I haven’t the stomach for it.” Izzy snaps, looking up through her lashes. She sits upright and sighs, eyes lingering on the deep grooves cut into the table, the broken furniture, the holes in the walls. “This is your control, then?”

  “Yes, Izzy.” My throat tenses, heat spreading into my ears. “How’s the hand?”

  She tucks her left behind her, but I recall the moment her bones snapped in my grip.

  I continue. “That was my control, too.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Catherine. I get it.”

  “Do you?” I raise my voice, standing now. “If you really did get it you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Done with your little tantrum yet?” Her body is rigid, unflinching.

  The drumming kicks behind my teeth, rage dulling it just enough to ignore. My nails pierce into my palms.

  “Tantrum?” I step closer, voice low. “You’ve seen my tantrums, Izzy.” I tap my neck in the location of her scar.

  “If you’re looking for fear, love, you won’t find any.” Izzy pulls out a great leather-bound stack of papers and shoves them into my chest, hard. “I have seen your tantrums. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What’s this?” I thumb through it, eyes glazing over.

  “Maybe nothing. Come to the Silver Scale tomorrow. We’ve got a client to meet.”

  “The Silver Scale? Izzy, I don’t—

  “Just speak with them.” She taps her scar—our scar. “You owe me.”

  The documents hit the floor with a dull thunk. I flick my gaze between them and her.

  I do.