The chill of the Drowning Wards permeated Faro’s small room, but Nives was gone. A low, keening sound rose from the floorboards below. Zanni. Faro had anticipated this. He had anticipated her, too. The empty space beneath his cot, where the relic firearm usually rested, now gaped like a missing tooth. Zanni’s voice, raw with alarm, tore through the thin ceiling. “Faro! She’s… she’s not here! And the– the cursed iron serpent is gone!” His voice was rapidly ascending into a shriek, punctuated by the unmistakable clatter of his oversized, muddy boots on the stairs. Faro pushed himself upright from the worn mattress, the pretense of sleep sloughing off like damp rags. His gaze, usually soft and a touch bewildered, sharpened into a lethal edge, cold and deep as the abyssal waters themselves. Zanni burst through the door, his face a mottled canvas of terror, hair wild, fishing vest askew. He clutched a dead, desiccated gull in one trembling hand, its vacant eye staring. “She took it, Faro! The sidearm! The one from the old days! The one that brings the bad luck! She’s gone, and the boy, Enzo, he’s still with Teodoro! Oh, the ancestors are going to curse us into salt pillars!” Faro didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His eyes, fixed on nothing, seemed to look through the very walls. The air in the room grew heavy, suffocating. Zanni, for once, fell silent, sensing a shift. This wasn't the slow-witted fisherman he knew. This was something else, ancient and predatory. Faro reached under his pillow, not for a pipe or a piece of twine, but for a small, polished conch shell. He pressed it to his ear, not listening, but speaking into its hollow mouth in a low, guttural cadence Zanni had never heard. The language was not of the docks, but of the deep, a dialect of command and cold fury. “She moved east,” Faro stated, his voice devoid of all warmth, all pretense. “A lone sparrow in the hawk’s shadow. Teodoro’s shipping yards. Section Gamma-Seven. Secure the perimeter. No one in, no one out. Find the boy. Recover the relic. And bring her back. Unharmed. Teodoro Salvi is to be brought to me. Intact.” Zanni’s jaw dropped. The conch shell, then the words. The *orders*. This was no fishing buddy. This was the voice of the Tide-Lord himself. “But… Faro… the docks… the entire fleet is out! It’ll be a bloody war for a lone man!” Faro turned his gaze to Zanni. It was like looking into the eyes of a great white shark. “Then the docks will return. And the war will begin.” *** Nives moved through the labyrinthine alleys, the stolen iron a dead weight against her thigh. The salt-crusted air grew heavier here, laced with the metallic tang of diesel and the stale scent of brine. Teodoro’s main shipping depot loomed ahead, a colossal metal leviathan hunched by the water’s edge. Its corrugated steel walls, streaked with rust, rose three stories high, mocking the gothic spires of the city. No windows. Only a single, massive roll-door, sealed tight as a vault. Her heart, a frantic drum, beat a rhythm against her ribs. She was here. She was doing this. For Faro. To keep him from the bloodshed. The thought solidified her resolve, making her steps sure, silent. She found a loose panel on a maintenance hatch, a small gap left by a corroded bolt. With a grunt, she squeezed through, the steel groaning around her. The weapon snagged for a moment, then slid free. Inside, the air was cold, damp, smelling of old cargo and something sickly sweet, thick as damp sugar. The storage cavern stretched away into shadows. Stacks of crates, reaching to the ceiling, formed narrow canyons. The only light came from high, grime-coated skylights, casting weak, dusty shafts onto the concrete floor. Nives moved like a wraith, navigating the maze of goods. She could hear distant, muffled sounds – the groan of machinery, the shouts of men, but nothing close. No Enzo. No Teodoro. Then she saw it. Tucked away behind a stack of tarpaulin-shrouded crates, a section of the floor was subtly different. A faint, repetitive scraping sound. A low murmur. She crept closer, her hand instinctively finding the grip at her thigh. The air here was thicker, tinged with a faint, metallic odor, like stale blood. She peered around a towering stack of burlap sacks. A harsh knot seized her throat. Here, in the dim light, were cages. Not for animals. Not even for goods. They were constructed of heavy, wrought iron, each no larger than a coffin, stacked three high. And inside, small, huddled forms. Children. Their faces were pale, their stares fixed in terror, some weeping without a sound, others staring blankly at the metal bars. Cold disgust hollowed her gut. Enzo. He was in the middle cage of the bottom stack, his small, dirt-streaked face pressed against the cold bars. His eyes, vacant and hollow, seemed to pierce Nives even from the shadows. He was so small, so utterly vulnerable. Her protective rage, a familiar inferno, roared to life. This wasn’t just about Faro anymore. This was about *all* of them. The frame felt heavy, suddenly alive in her grip. She took a step, a snarl rising to her lips. A sharp click echoed from behind her. “Looking for something, Corvo?” Nives whirled, her weapon raised, but Teodoro Salvi stood there, a predatory smile twisting his lips. He held a small, silver derringer. Before she could react, his other hand moved with shocking speed, a blur of silk and steel. He slapped the pistol from her grasp with a vicious backhand, sending it skittering across the concrete floor, out of reach. “So predictable,” Teodoro sneered, the derringer now pressed firmly against her temple. Its cold metal dug into her skin. “Always rushing in, always the hero. Did you really think you could play this game?” He leaned in, his breath hot and putrid with stale liquor. “You just delivered yourself right to me, little street rat. And your husband? Well, he’ll be next.” Nives stared into his triumphant, cruel eyes, a defiant fire still burning within her. She would not beg. She would not break. Not for him. Not while Enzo watched, trapped in his iron cage. Then, a deafening roar tore through the building, shaking the very foundations. The massive steel roll-doors at the far end of the building, impenetrable moments before, detonated inwards, ripped violently from their hinges by an explosive charge, crumbling into twisted shards of metal and dust.

The Iron Cages