“Faster, you barnacle-brained imbeciles!” Zanni’s voice, usually a reedy whimper, was a frantic shriek echoing through the cavernous space. Dust motes, thick as a winter squall, rained from the ornate frescoed ceiling. Above them, the rhythmic *thud-swish* of a broom dragged across floorboards vibrated through the very stones of the Abyssal Hand’s central lair. Each *thud* was a hammer blow to Zanni’s fragile nerves. “She’s up there, I tell you! The boss’s new bride! Sweeping like a storm on the Vernal Straits!” He gestured wildly at the gaping maw of a hidden shaft, currently disgorging crates of black-iron carbines and slim, wickedly curved daggers. “She’ll find us! She’ll find the *arsenal*! The boss said ‘clean,’ not ‘build a mountain of death beneath her feet’!” Two hulking figures, their faces masked by the perpetual gloom, grunted, straining to hoist a long, canvas-wrapped package. The package was heavy, clearly metal, and its rough outline suggested a repeater rifle. They looked less than impressed by Zanni’s hysterics. “But… but if she *sees* it!” Zanni stammered, stumbling backward into a stack of tallow tubs. He scampered like a panicked crab, tripping over a coil of thick hemp rope, then scrambling up to shove a crate marked ‘Brimstone Charges’ under a velvet-draped table. The table, carved with predatory merfolk, was part of the lair’s *actual* decor, not its makeshift armory. “She’s got the rage of a sea witch, that one! I saw it in her eyes, just now, when the boss brought her down to ‘inspect the foundations’!” He shuddered, recalling Nives’s sharp, assessing gaze as she’d surveyed the subterranean vaults, completely oblivious to their true purpose. “She thought it was a cellar! A *cellar*! She said, ‘This will be perfect for dried fish, Faro!’ Dried fish! And it’s our tactical armory!” Another *thud-swish* from above. Zanni whimpered, ducking behind a stack of lacquered mahogany crates. “She’ll find us! I’m telling you, she’s going to find us! The boss’ll have my guts for garters if she sees so much as a loose bullet casing!” Upstairs, the Drowning Wards air, thick with the perpetual chill of the Illician fog, seeped through the cracks in the decrepit manor. Nives, a coil of her dark hair escaping her braid, braced a thick, splintered broom against the main hall’s grimy floorboards. The rhythm of her sweeping was a steady, resolute thrum, pushing years of dust and decay into a growing mound near the warped front door. “Almost there, Faro!” she called out, her voice bright despite the strain. She glanced over her shoulder. Faro, ever the diligent, if slightly clumsy, helper, was meticulously rubbing down a rusted brass doorknob with a scrap of cloth. He hummed a tuneless melody, his brow furrowed in concentration. He truly looked like a man utterly absorbed in the mundane task of making a home. Nives smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest that defied the city’s bleak atmosphere. He was so simple, so sweet. Her poor, gentle husband. He needed her protection, fiercely. Especially from the likes of Teodoro Salvi. *CRASH!* The sound ripped through the quiet. A jagged hole bloomed in the leaded-glass window, a spiderweb of cracks radiating from the impact point. A brick, still flecked with mortar, clattered onto the floor, sending up a puff of old plaster dust. Nives froze. Her smile vanished, replaced by a swift, cold fury. “Salvi,” she hissed, her fingers tightening around the broom handle until her knuckles whitened. “That pathetic coward.” Faro yelped, a small, theatrical sound of alarm, and stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet. He looked genuinely terrified, his mouth slack, his hand instinctively reaching for Nives. “N-Nives! What… what was that? Are we… are we safe?” His voice was a thin, trembling whisper. Nives spun, her protective rage flaring. “Safe? Of course, we’re safe, you dolt!” She pushed him gently behind her, a shield of righteous indignation. “They think a brick will scare us away? They don’t know Nives Corvo!” She took a deep breath, her gaze hardening on the jagged hole in the window. “Stay here, Faro. Don’t move. I’ll handle this.” Without another word, she charged. The broom, no longer a cleaning tool, became a weapon. She threw open the front door, the old wood groaning in protest, and plunged into the swirling, grey veil of the Illician fog. The mist swirled around her, muffling sounds, blurring shapes, turning the narrow street into a disorienting labyrinth. Faro, still clutching the oily rag, watched her go. He tracked her until the fog swallowed her entirely. Then, slowly, the fear drained from his face, replaced by an expression of cold, calculating menace. His posture straightened, a subtle shift that spoke of coiled strength. He stepped out onto the porch, his eyes scanning the impenetrable fog. He heard it then—a muffled scuffle, a grunt of effort from a voice Nives wouldn’t recognize as hers, quickly cut short. Faro moved. Not with the frantic panic Nives expected, but with the silent, predatory grace of a phantom. The fog was a gift. It ate sound, swallowed movement. He saw the faint, hulking shadow first, just beyond the ornate lamppost. One of Salvi’s brutes, a man with shoulders like cobblestones, was peering around the corner, a length of pipe clutched in his hand. The fool. He hadn’t expected the ‘cowering’ husband to follow. Faro was on him in an instant, a blur of motion. No sound. No warning. His hand, so recently rubbing down a doorknob, closed around the man’s kneecap. Not a grab, not a punch. A twist. A precise, brutal rotation that snapped bone, tore cartilage, and severed tendons with chilling efficiency. The thug’s pipe clattered to the ground as he crumpled without a sound, a silent scream caught in his throat. Faro released him, his hand already retreating, brushing against the rough fabric of his trousers as if wiping away dust. He melted back into the shadows just as Nives’s voice, sharp with indignation, echoed from further down the street. “Cowards! Come out, you sniveling rats! Is this all you’ve got? A brick?” Faro reappeared on the porch, his shoulders slumped, his face once again contorted in an expression of helpless anxiety. He wrung the greasy rag in his hands, his head darting nervously from side to side. “Nives! Be careful! Please! They’re probably hiding!” he whimpered, just as she emerged from the fog, broom still clutched like a spear. She looked flushed, frustrated, but unharmed. “Gone,” she spat, slamming the broom handle against the porch floor. “Ran like the dogs they are.” She glanced at Faro, her expression softening slightly. “See? Nothing to worry about. They won’t bother us again, not after a good scare.” Just then, a figure stumbled out of the fog, tripping over the broken step of a derelict canal bridge. It was Zanni, Faro’s so-called ‘fishing buddy,’ his cheap, oversized fishing coat flapping around his thin frame. His face was a mask of perpetual anxiety, made worse by the dark circles under his eyes. “Faro! My good man! My fishing lines, they’re all… all tangled, you see! A terrible omen! The sea hag cursed my nets, I tell you!” Zanni blustered, his voice a frantic chatter. He held up a grimy bait bucket, its plastic lid askew. “I just needed to borrow… borrow a bit of your… your lucky bait, you know? For the morning catch!” He stumbled again, his foot catching on the loose gravel near the front steps. The bait bucket flew from his grasp, tumbling end over end. It hit the ruined floorboards of the porch with a dull clatter, the lid flying completely open. A handful of what looked like oversized, gleaming gold coins scattered across the warped wood. One, in particular, was larger than the others, catching the dim, watery light of the fog. It wasn’t a coin at all. It was a small, solid gold ingot, glinting with an impossible, rich lustre as it rolled across the ruined floor. Nives, her back to Zanni, had been peering through the broken window, already planning how to patch the hole. Her frustration with Salvi still simmered, but the sight of the glittering gold out of the corner of her eye was a stark, jarring anomaly. She slowly turned around, staring intently at the glittering gold rolling across the ruined floor.

Gold in the Bait Bucket