The city never truly slept. Not even in Crow’s Foot, where silence was just a different kind of noise. Mist hissed through broken eaves, puddles reflected the gutter-lights like cracked glass, and the wind always carried whispers you couldn’t trust. Inside the house that shouldn’t be standing, Harlequina was already awake. She sat on a crate beside the basement stairs, one boot laced, the other forgotten, listening to the distant clink of metal from below. The smell of rubbing alcohol and burnt cloth filled the stairwell. She winced at a muffled curse—then another. The clatter of a tray. A low groan. Dr. Lazarus Finch was awake too. A weathered figure with bags beneath his eyes and skin like old parchment, Finch looked like a man stitched together from bad memories and good intentions. He’d taken up residence in the cellar’s far corner—a corner Jack had proudly designated the clinic. Harlequina wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

She wandered down the stairs, boots echoing on concrete, and found Finch hunched over a pallet that served as an operating table. A wiry man—Knifehand Jimmy, from the look of it—lay bleeding from a gash across his side. He groaned as Finch worked, pressing a steaming iron to cauterize the wound. “Good morning,” Finch muttered without looking up. “Try not to breathe too loudly. He might die if I flinch.”

“I’ll hold my applause,” Harlequina said, arms crossed. “Busy morning?”

“Two stab wounds, one overdose, one man who thinks he swallowed a spirit. Just another Tuesday.” He gave her a quick side glance. “Didn’t you say this house was supposed to be abandoned?” She exhaled slowly. “That’s what worries me.” The clinic idea had been Jack’s. “Free medicine for the desperate, cheap medicine for the shady,” he’d said. “We charge what they can pay. They pay what they can hide.” It made sense—Doskvol always needed doctors willing to look the other way. But lately, Harlequina had started noticing things: the loiterers, the rustle of voices in the alley, the odd silhouettes at the window just after dusk. Too many shadows. Too many people who knew where to look. “What happens when the neighbours notice?” she asked. “What happens when the Spirit Wardens notice?” Finch wiped his hands on a rag and met her gaze. “We keep the bodies buried and the mouths shut. That’s how it’s always been.” That didn’t make her feel better.

She started upstairs, footsteps heavy with thought. She was halfway through boiling tea when the front door burst open. Jack’s voice tore down the stairs like a thundercrack: “EVERYONE UP! I GOT SOMETHING!”

A groan came from the back room. Rabbit Foot, grumpy and shirtless, dragged himself out from under a mound of coats. “Too early, Jack,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. Harry Potter, in his oversized sweater and perpetually uneven scarf, poked his head out from the corner near the rod. “We’re under attack?” he asked, half-alarmed, half-hopeful. Jack stumbled down into the basement, cheeks flushed with the cold, a manic grin on his face. His coat was too light for the season, his boots were muddy, and his fingers tapped the wall like he was too excited to stand still. “I’ve got news,” he said breathlessly. “Good news. Great news. Job-of-a-lifetime kind of news.” Harlequina raised an eyebrow. “Is this the kind of job that ends with us dead or imprisoned?”

“No,” Jack said. “Better. This one ends with us famous.” Rabbit slumped into a chair and reached for the leftover coffee from last night. “You say that every time.”

“I mean it this time.” Jack pointed at Harry. “Put the kettle on. Everyone sit. I talked to Ezra.” That got their attention. Even Rabbit paused mid-sip.

“The Bartender Ezra?” Harlequina asked. Jack nodded. “He called us the new crew from Crow’s Foot. Said people are talking about us. That last job? Word’s getting around.” Harry beamed. “Does this mean we get to pick our name now?” Jack ignored him. “He gave me a tip. Two jobs. One of them’s... wild. There’s a rich gambling addict—like, stupid rich—who hosts an illegal balloon race every year. One rule: no guns. Everything else? Fair game. It’s dirty, it’s dangerous, and there’s coin to be made.” Rabbit blinked. “Did you say balloon race?” Jack grinned. “A sky race. Through Doskvol. With flying death machines, magical sabotage, and an audience of drunk nobles placing bets from their ivory towers.” Harry’s eyes widened. “That sounds... incredible.” Harlequina narrowed hers. “That sounds like a death wish.”

“Maybe,” Jack said, eyes gleaming. “But it’s the perfect storm. Ezra says the Ironborn kids are entering. I say we join them, boost our rep, maybe win big. But that’s not all.” He leaned in. The flickering lantern cast shadows over his face, making him look ten years older and far more dangerous. “There’s a second opportunity,” he said. “The Skoulanders are trying to stop the city from reopening the Old Port. If someone were to... say... make that port unusable, they’d owe a lot of favors. That someone could be us.”

Rabbit’s eyes sharpened. “Do both.”

“Exactly.” Jack looked at Harlequina. “We enter the race, help the Ironborn win, and make a deal with Elara Voss. We rig the balloon to blow after the finish line. One race, two wins.” Silence. Harlequina stared at him, tea forgotten in her hand. “You’re insane.”

“I’m ambitious,” Jack replied. Rabbit stood slowly, stretching his back. “We’ll need blueprints. Altitude checks. Escape plans. Some sort of cover for the explosion.” Harry nodded, suddenly full of ideas. “I can prep charms, maybe enchant the balloon for speed.” Harlequina looked around at the three of them—Jack grinning like a lunatic, Rabbit already strategizing, Harry scribbling notes in the margins of an old spellbook. She closed her eyes, just for a second, and let the chaos wash over her.

The fog was thick that night—heavier than usual, like a warning whispered into the bones of the city. Doskvol’s docks were always a place of shadows and motion, but tonight, it felt like the whole harbor was holding its breath. Steam hissed from rusted valves. Water slapped lazily against barnacled hulls. The sky was choked with low clouds, blotting out the moon, and the only real light came from the dull orange glow of sodium lanterns scattered across the wharf. In the distance, the outline of the ghostly Leviathan Hunter towers stood tall—silent sentinels over the water.

Four figures moved through the maze of crates and cranes, their boots echoing softly across weathered planks and oily stone. Jack walked in front, unusually quiet, his enthusiasm from earlier replaced with a more measured determination. This was not just a business meeting—it was a gamble, one of the biggest he had made yet. Behind him, Rabbit’s Foot walked with his usual languid grace, eyes darting through the shadows. Harlequina flanked the group’s rear, rifle slung but close at hand, her coat pulled tight against the chill. Harry kept close to the middle, shoulders hunched against the damp air, hand resting protectively on the satchel still carrying that strange, golden rod they’d retrieved—still wrapped in linen, still thrumming like a live wire.

They reached the dockside edge where the waters churned black and restless. There, half-hidden by mooring posts and collapsed scaffolding, was the vessel they were looking for: an old cargo ship, long decommissioned, left to rot in the harbor like so many others. But this one was different. This one was alive.

The ship had a name stenciled on its rusted hull in faded Skoulander script—The Refuge at Anchor—though most locals simply called it the Refuge. From the outside, it was a rusted skeleton, a derelict vessel too useless to reclaim and too stubborn to sink. Its hull was marred by dents, missing rivets, and flaking metal that peeled like sunburnt skin. Barnacles had claimed its lower flanks. A broken crane hung over the top deck like the outstretched arm of a drowned giant.

But as the crew drew near, signs of life stirred. A soft light leaked from beneath the cargo doors—warm and golden. A figure emerged from the shadows, rifle in hand, scarf pulled over the lower half of his face. Another stepped into view across the dock, flanking them. Neither spoke. Jack raised both hands slowly. “We’re here to see Elara Voss,” he said, voice steady. “She received our message. We were told to come tonight.” A long pause followed. The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sound of gulls and distant machinery. One of the sentries made a series of sharp knocks against the hull—coded, practiced. A moment later, a hidden hatch swung open near the ship’s belly, spilling light onto the dock. A different voice, feminine and clipped, called out from within.

“Bring them in. Eyes open.”

They were ushered through the hatch one by one. The moment they stepped inside, the illusion of ruin melted away. The interior of the ship was alive with motion, warmth, and structure—transformed into a makeshift fortress and sanctuary.

Wooden slats had been laid across rusting steel. Tarps and tapestries hung between exposed beams, turning empty spaces into communal rooms. The lower decks bustled with activity: children sleeping in bunkbeds made from cargo crates, old men playing dice near a potbelly stove, women grinding dried herbs in bowls made from salvaged rivets. A stew pot boiled somewhere down the corridor, thick with spice and fish oil. Lanterns swung from ropes overhead, some glass, some made from repurposed mining helmets. Even in the midst of squalor, there was a palpable sense of structure. Of hope.

Armed guards patrolled the walkways, many wearing patches or sashes in Skoulander red and silver. Some bore old military tattoos from the homeland—tattoos of waves, serpents, and shattered ships. Their weapons were makeshift but deadly: repurposed bayonets, modified pistols, and cruel-looking cudgels bound with wire. They watched Jack’s crew closely but said nothing as they passed. Eventually, they reached a reinforced steel door near the aft of the ship. Two women in armor made from salvaged dock plating flanked the entrance. One gave a short nod and opened the hatch. Inside was a converted officer’s lounge, now transformed into a war room. A map of Doskvol stretched across a wide wooden table, its surface carved with routes, notes, and markers. Diagrams of the Old Port, the trade lines, and rumored smuggling lanes covered one wall. On another, a Skoulander flag hung in silence—faded but defiant. The room smelled of wax, parchment, and salt.

And there she was. Elara Voss. She stood tall and still at the center of the room, like a carved statue that had decided to breathe. Her navy leather coat hung open just enough to show a high-collared tunic beneath, its buttons glinting in the lanternlight. Braided cords sat on her shoulders, red and silver—military colors from a country that no longer existed. Her steel-blue eyes met theirs as they entered, cool and commanding.

Jack gave a respectful nod. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

Elara didn’t return the gesture. “You’re the ones who sent word through the Black Market."

“We are,” Harlequina said, stepping forward.

“You came here asking for something. Let’s get to it.”

Jack took a breath. “We want to enter the balloon race.”

One of Elara’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’re a little late to register.”

“We’re not looking for a fresh start,” Jack said. “We’re looking to race under Ulf Ironborn’s banner. With your help.”

Now she blinked, just once. “You don’t know Ulf. And he doesn’t know you.”

“No,” Rabbit cut in, “but he will—if you vouch for us.”

Harlequina stepped beside him, voice calm but sharp. “We’re not just trying to win a race. We want to turn this into something bigger.”

Elara folded her arms. “Go on.”

So they did. Jack explained the setup. The rich patrons who sponsor the event. The lack of rules once you’re airborne. The potential for sabotage. The massive flow of money behind closed doors. Harlequina painted the larger picture—how the city council was moving to reopen the Old Port, and how such a move would devastate the Skoulanders’ control over illicit trade routes. Rabbit laid out the strategy: they’d race, fight dirty, and ensure Ironborn’s victory. Then, once they reached the finish line—coincidentally located near the newly restored port—they’d rig their balloon to explode, causing destruction, chaos, and enough political embarrassment to stall any government initiative for months. All Elara had to do was make a call. A word to Ulf Ironborn. A recommendation. And a bet.

Silence fell in the room as she processed. Her eyes wandered to the map, to the port, to the fragile web of alliances Doskvol barely held together. Then she turned back to them. “You know what you’re asking,” she said. “You want me to stake my name—my leverage—with Ulf. You want me to tell him that four strangers, fresh out of Crow’s Foot, are worth gambling on.”

“We’ll make it worth your while,” Jack said.

Elara’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “I don’t do this lightly.”

“Neither do we,” Harlequina said. “But if you back us, we’ll make sure Ironborn wins. And we’ll ensure the Old Port doesn’t.”

A long pause. Then Elara let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh. She walked to the far side of the room and opened a small iron chest. From within, she removed a single silver token—an old Skoulander betting coin, worth more than most smugglers made in a year. She placed it on the table and looked Jack squarely in the eye. “I’ll vouch for you,” she said. “I’ll send word to Ulf and tell him the new crew out of Crow’s Foot might be just the bastards he needs this year.”

Jack exhaled.

“But understand this,” she continued. “I’m placing a large wager on the Ironborn. A very large wager. Public, visible. If you lose—if you humiliate him and, by extension, me—then you’ll wish you’d crashed in the sea.” Her words were steel wrapped in silk. A warning and a promise.

Jack nodded. “We’ll win. You have our word.”

She leaned forward slightly, eyes hard as stone. “Then make sure you do.” They shook hands—Jack’s calloused fingers meeting hers, strong and weathered. The deal was made. As they turned to leave the Refuge and stepped once more into the cold Doskvol fog, the crew walked not just as hopefuls—but as chosen. A spark had been lit. The skies awaited.

The morning light crept across the jagged skyline of Doskvol like a thief, slowly peeling back the darkness and casting gold onto the broken bones of the Lost District. What once might have been a thriving recreational ground—now little more than cracked concrete and overgrown weeds—had been transformed into the staging site for one of the city’s most secretive and dangerous events: the annual illegal balloon race. The air was thick with steam, smoke, and the low hum of pressurized gas tanks. Everything reeked of engine oil, sweat, and fried nerves. Balloon fabric snapped in the breeze like sails at war. Gangs and rogue factions worked in hushed chaos, tending to ropes, tanks, and ignition systems, moving in choreographed frenzy without drawing attention. There were no grandstands, no applause, no roaring crowds with drinks in hand. This was not a spectacle for the public. This was business for the underworld. As Jack, Harlequina, Rabbits Foot, and Harry approached the clearing at the far end of the overgrown field, Harry stopped in his tracks and blinked. “Wait… where is everyone?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… where are the people?” Harry gestured to the expanse around them, where only a few scattered figures loitered on the edges—men in long coats, women with note tablets, grim-faced runners with satchels and ledgers. “This is a damn sky race, right? Where’s the crowd? Where’s the betting tent? The sausage cart? The drunks shouting names and getting into fistfights?” Rabbit snorted. “This isn’t a street parade, Harry. These people don’t want witnesses.” Harlequina’s eyes were already scanning the perimeter, noting lookout points, the carefully camouflaged snipers on rooftops, the flickers of lenses tracking movement from the abandoned towers flanking the field. “Every bet’s made through black market brokers,” she said. “Payouts too. All off-book. All underground. The only people here are the ones who are racing, fixing, or financing.” Harry let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I swear, sometimes Doskvol just doesn’t know how to throw a party.”

The balloon yard sprawled before them like a low-tech battlefield. Each vessel was massive in its own right, moored by thick cables and crewed by their own small entourages. Yet despite their similarities in form, each balloon reflected the philosophy and temperament of its creators. Closest to them was the Cyphers’ balloon—its golden metallic shell gleamed with an almost unnatural polish. Twin exhaust pipes jutted from its base, chuffing smoke in rhythmic pulses. The engineering was brutal and refined in equal measure, clearly hiding mechanisms that weren’t meant to be pretty, just deadly. A few spaces down floated the Dimmer Sisters’ entry—jet black, smooth as ink, with a shifting, oily shimmer that made it difficult to stare at for long. Its mooring cables appeared thinner than the others, yet seemed to hum with faint static energy. No one stood near it. No one needed to. The air around it warned intruders away like a dog baring invisible teeth. Then came the bold crimson and copper-colored balloon of the Circle of Flame. Intricate pipework wrapped around its envelope like veins, and their flaming eye emblem—emblazoned across its center—glared down with theatrical menace. They made no attempt to hide their identity. They wanted to be known, feared, admired. Lord Scurlock’s balloon was nothing short of immaculate. Sleek and silver-gray, built like a noble’s hunting yacht. Elegant lines. Reinforced steel basket. Private guards stood at attention, dressed in long coats and polished boots. The vessel floated as if it had already won. Two unmarked balloons hovered farther off—one dull gray, the other a dark, scuffed bronze. These belonged to Bazso Baz and the Cobblepots. Devoid of flair. Functional. Dangerous. Their purpose was not to win with style, but to win at all costs. Their presence felt like the quiet before an ambush.

And finally—off to one side, half-limp from an uneven mooring job—was the Ironborn balloon.

It looked like a junkyard had exploded and reassembled itself out of sheer spite. Scrap metal riveted into irregular plates. Patches stitched over gaping holes in the fabric. Steam valves that hissed at unpredictable intervals. A chalk-drawn logo read “Victory is Violence” above a crude sketch of a spiked bat. It was impossible to tell if it was flying through engineering or pure rage.

Jack squinted. “That’s the one?”

“Yup,” Rabbit muttered. “Ironborn pride.”

From behind the balloon came a clatter and the unmistakable sound of two children shouting over each other.

“You lit it wrong again, Cuzão! That’s why the pressure’s off!”

“You said clockwise! I did clockwise! Your dumb face is the problem!”

Two boys emerged from behind a smoking pipe system, tangled in wires and curses. One was short, jittery, wearing a cap so low over his face he could’ve passed for a shadow. The other strode like he owned the world, his tattered yellow football jersey hanging off his frame as he gestured wildly at a sparking connector.

“Get your fingers off my ignition box, Cuzão! Griselda’s sensitive!”

Harlequina tilted her head. “Griselda?”

“My revolver,” Dadinho announced proudly, not missing a beat. “She’s temperamental, but she’s loyal.”

“Gods help us,” Rabbit whispered under his breath.

Cuzão—twitchy and nervous—ducked behind a gas tank, glancing up only long enough to assess the newcomers before scribbling something in a worn notebook. His fingers fidgeted constantly, one hand tucked near the slingshot at his waist. “Who are they?” he asked without looking at anyone.

Dadinho narrowed his eyes and cracked a smirk. “The new guys from Crow’s Foot,” he said with a voice soaked in sarcasm and curiosity. “Come to join the big leagues, eh?”

Harlequina stepped forward, her rifle slung behind her and eyes sharp. “We’re here to win. Preferably without catching fire.”

“Good luck with that,” Dadinho said, motioning to the Ironborn balloon. “This thing hasn’t caught fire in a week. A new record.”

Despite the banter, Harlequina couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth crawl up her spine. They were just kids—scarred and loud and half-feral—but they reminded her of people she’d once known. People who had nothing, and made weapons out of scraps.

Dadinho, still fascinated, leaned closer to her. “That rifle... that the one with the triple-chamber stabilizer? The one I heard took out three Bluecoats with one burst last winter?”

“Possibly,” Harlequina said. “You hear a lot of stories?”

“I collect them like ammo,” he said, eyes bright. “One day I’ll make a book.”

Cuzão snuck behind him and whispered, “You can’t write.”

“I’ll make Harry ghostwrite it,” Dadinho shot back.

Harry, who had been sulking about the lack of cheering fans, perked up. “Wait, I’m what now?”

Jack clapped his hands. “Alright. Enough flirting. We’ve got a balloon to patch and a race to rig.”

Harlequina watched as Dadinho eagerly tossed aside a misaligned valve and began explaining his plan for upgrading the flame regulator—using parts from an old stove and a busted wristwatch. Cuzão, meanwhile, handed Rabbit a scrawled map of the race’s aerial path—entirely hand-drawn, likely stolen or remembered from some overheard briefing. Despite the rust, the arguing, and the odds, something about this ragtag team felt... right. They weren’t flying the prettiest balloon. But they just might be the most dangerous crew in the sky.

Harlequina adjusted the strap of her rifle again as Jack started barking orders and Rabbit dove into technical talk with the boys. She took a few steps back from the growing chaos and let her eyes drift once more across the clearing. The sight of so many airships—balloons, if one wanted to call them that—waiting like caged beasts, each one heavy with secrets, metal, ambition, and spite... it stirred something inside her chest. Not excitement, not quite. Something colder. Sharper. A slow coiling awareness that whatever happened next, it would not be clean. This wasn’t a job. This was war in slow motion, dressed up in heat and air.

And yet—for all the madness of it—there was a rhythm to the moment. The way the wind tugged at the balloon fabric like impatient fingers. The glint of early sunlight on steel. The clipped tones of competing crews, murmured strategies floating through the air like smoke. Each crew moved with intention, with pressure. Every one of them had something to prove, something to lose.

Harlequina’s gaze flicked back to the Ironborn balloon. She still couldn’t decide if it was charming or suicidal. The thing looked like it had been salvaged from five different scrapyards and sewn together during a riot. The hull was scorched in places. The ropes mismatched. Some of the piping looked... decorative? Improvised? It was hard to tell. It reeked of desperation. But that, in Doskvol, wasn’t always a weakness. Desperation meant you fought harder. The kids were still arguing—of course they were. Dadinho had climbed halfway up the fuel system, a wrench in his teeth and a coil of tubing draped around his neck like a scarf. He looked like a goblin gearing up for trench warfare.

“You have to press the valve twice before lighting it,” he was explaining, with the kind of authority that came only from blowing something up once and surviving. “Otherwise you get the fizz but no flame. Like your farting attempts at fire last week.” Cuzão, crouched under the basket and fiddling with a loose panel, didn’t even look up. “That was one time. And it was raining. And I had a head cold. You promised not to bring it up again.”

“I lie a lot,” Dadinho replied, tightening something with a snap. “You know that.” Harlequina folded her arms, suppressing a grin. She wasn’t exactly sure when it had happened—but somewhere between the sarcasm, the half-rusted balloon parts, and the fearless lunacy of these kids, she had started to care. There was something deeply wrong about children being this comfortable around danger... but she also knew what it meant. These boys weren’t soft. They weren’t sheltered. They didn’t ask for the world to be fair, only for it to keep spinning long enough for them to steal another day. And that made them part of the crew. She knelt beside Cuzão as he hammered something back into place. He flinched slightly at her proximity, like a stray dog expecting a kick. “You’ve been doing this long?” she asked softly.

He gave a hesitant nod. “Since Ulf came around. They didn’t have many hands. I’m small. I listen well.”

“You spy for him?” she asked, more curious than accusing. He looked her in the eye for the briefest second, then nodded again. “I know where people go. What they hide. I don’t tell unless it matters.” Harlequina liked that. She respected quiet intelligence more than loud bravado. It was always the quiet ones who saw everything. “What about him?” she tilted her head toward Dadinho, who had now pulled a small pistol from his belt and was pretending to polish it with an oil rag. The thing looked like it had been crafted out of old kitchen parts and violence. “He talks too much,” Cuzão muttered.

“You trust him?” A pause. Then, quietly, “He’d take a bullet for me.” Harlequina nodded. That was all she needed to hear. By now, Harry was double-checking the burner’s ignition coil, muttering to himself about reverse enchantments and thermal flow. Rabbit stood with the map in hand, studying it like a tactician at war, one finger tracing flight paths and identifying possible ambushes. Jack, of course, was making a speech.

“You lot,” he said, gesturing at everyone in a wide circle — ”Us adults,You kids. I know we’re the underdogs. I know we’re flying a bucket of bolts strapped to a steam kettle. But I’ll tell you something—nobody here expects us to win. That’s our edge. Nobody watches the ghost in the crowd.” Harlequina rolled her eyes. “Just don’t crash us into a church bell and I’ll call it a success.”

“Noted!” Jack grinned. “No church bells.” The hum of voices quieted as a sharp whistle pierced the air. The race organizer, now standing atop a tall crate in the center of the yard, raised a megaphone with one hand and a stopwatch with the other. “Racers!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the haze like a gunshot. “Listen up!” Every crew snapped to attention. Harlequina stood straighter, feeling the energy shift. This was it. No more repairs. No more jokes. Just sky, flame, and survival. The man continued. “You all know the rules. No firing weapons. No killing. This is a race, not a war zone.” Harlequina caught the subtle reactions—smirks, shrugs, expressions of disbelief. They all knew it was a lie. Once in the air, anything went.

“There are five checkpoints across the city,” the organizer went on, tapping a chalkboard map beside him. “You must collect a flag bearing your crew’s emblem at each one. No flag, no win. First balloon to land at the Old Port with all five flags is the champion.”

“Gadgets?” someone from the Cyphers called out.

The organizer rolled his eyes. “Fine. Use what you want. Just don’t kill anyone. And if your contraption explodes and takes someone else down, I’ll make sure you don’t race next year. Hell, you won’t walk next year.” There were nods. Shrugs. Harlequina kept her face unreadable, but her hand rested on the strap of her rifle, thumb brushing the safety. Just in case. She studied the other teams again. The Dimmer Sisters stood in silence, their crew pale and blank-eyed, like they were already halfway to the spirit world. The Circle of Flame exchanged confident glances, their leader tossing an apple into the air and catching it with a smirk. Lord Scurlock’s people didn’t move at all—posture perfect, coats spotless. It was like they were waiting for a coronation, not a race.

And her crew? Patchwork clothes. Greasy fingers. Burned fabric. Makeshift maps. But they had grit. They had fire. And Harlequina would bet on fire any day. The organizer raised his hand. “Get to your balloons. Take your positions.” The field erupted into motion. Harlequina exhaled slowly. This was it. No turning back now. Whatever lay ahead—sabotage, betrayal, freak weather, magical interference—they’d face it together. She climbed into the Ironborn’s balloon, felt the floor creak beneath her boots, and smiled grimly. It was time to fly.

“Ready?” the organiser’s voice cut like a blade through the rising din of pressure valves and barking commands. Every crew froze for just a breath, hands on cables, eyes on sky.

“On my mark...”

Harlequina tightened her grip on the side rail of the Ironborn’s basket, fingers slick with anticipation and sweat. Her heart pounded behind her ribs like it was trying to fly on its own.

“Get set...”

She sucked in a breath, long and slow, eyes flicking toward the sky, then across the field to the other balloons. Predators, every last one of them. Painted teeth. Metal claws. And they were about to rise.

“Go!”

The balloons lurched skyward like beasts breaking their chains. Scurlock’s sleek silver craft surged into the air like it had been summoned by the wind itself. The thing didn’t so much fly as glide—smooth, measured, precise. It caught the first warm updraft like it was dancing with the morning light, its massive reinforced hull rising in quiet elegance. Harlequina could practically smell the smugness from here. Just behind them, the Cyphers’ golden balloon burst up with a mechanical roar. Steam hissed from its twin exhausts like a charging bull. The balloon didn’t just rise—it launched. Its climb was vertical, violent, and fast, leaving a trail of gas discharge and awe-struck silence behind it. She watched as the Cyphers’ engineer leaned over the railing and flipped a lever that caused panels to shift and click like clockwork armor.

“Not bad,” Harlequina muttered. “But let’s see if they can keep that speed in the bends.”

The Circle of Flame, in their bold crimson monstrosity, came next. A fiery column of alchemical propulsion burst from the base of their basket, briefly casting orange light across the entire yard. Their balloon surged upward like a phoenix, engines roaring with theatrical flair. The eye emblazoned on their envelope seemed to blink as the balloon tilted forward aggressively. The crew onboard howled and raised fists like gladiators entering an arena. “Show-offs,” she spat. But now—now it was their turn. Jack shouted something to the kids, and before Harlequina could process it, the patched-together Ironborn balloon jolted as the burners roared to life. Steam hissed from at least three unintended places, and the floor beneath her boots shuddered as the balloon strained against its rusted moorings. “Here we go!” Rabbit yelled.

The cables snapped loose with a whipcrack, and the balloon leapt into the sky—lurching and swinging like a drunk sailor. Harlequina gritted her teeth and held tight as the hull groaned beneath them, rising in jagged starts and uneven thrusts. The patched canvas overhead billowed against the wind, flapping and snapping like an argument with the sky.

“Jack, altitude is unstable!” Harry called out, one hand on the flame regulator, the other already glowing with summoned fire. Jack didn’t respond—his eyes were fixed on the Circle of Flame’s balloon just above them. The fiery ship roared through the air with brutal confidence. He narrowed his eyes. And then, without warning, Jack grabbed a tether rope from the side of the basket, tied it around the anchor hook, and hurled it upward with a grunt of effort—straight toward the Circle of Flame’s basket. “What are you—” Harlequina started, but the rope snagged. For a moment, impossibly, the Ironborn balloon latched onto the Circle’s momentum. The strain of the tether pulled them forward, yanking their balloon into a sharper ascent. The entire basket groaned and tilted dangerously, but the effect was immediate—they began to surge ahead, climbing and slicing upward in their wake.

Dadinho screamed with joy. “We’re hitchhiking firepower, baby!” Cuzão clung to the rail, eyes wide with panic. “We’re gonna die we’re gonna die we’re gonna die—!” Then came the snap. With a hiss and a puff of smoke, one of the Circle crew leaned over, tossed a small firebomb onto the tether, and incinerated it in an instant. The burned rope fell away like a dead vine, and they dropped slightly. “Nice try, Jack!” came a laughing voice from above, tinged with cruelty. Harlequina saw a grinning figure saluting mockingly before vanishing behind the crest of their rising balloon. Jack yanked back the scorched remains of the tether, muttering curses. “We’ll get them next time.”

“Not if I get them first,” Harlequina growled. Just then, the balloon rocked again—this time upward. Harry stood at the regulator, glowing with barely-contained energy. His hands pulsed with flame, channeling magical thrust into the burner. The effect was instantaneous—a fiery jet exploded beneath the balloon, sending them forward like a bullet from a rusted gun. The wind tore past them. The balloon groaned but held. Harlequina felt the basket tilt, felt the pressure in her ears shift. They were gaining. “That’s it, Harry!” she yelled, eyes locked on the burning red balloon ahead. “Hold it!” Harry’s jaw was clenched, beads of sweat already running down his temples. “I can only do this so long! Burn rate’s insane!”

“You don’t have to,” she said, reaching into her pack and pulling out something small, spherical, and deadly. A grenade. It wasn’t exactly regulation. Not that anything about this race was. She stepped toward the edge of the basket, calculated the trajectory in her head, and watched the wind curl around the balloon’s arc. “Rabbit, stabilize the tilt!”

“On it!” He adjusted the ballast ropes. The deck stilled just enough. Harlequina took a breath, waited for the right moment, and threw. The arc was clean. Perfect. The grenade soared through the air like a comet—right into the lip of the Circle of Flame’s basket. The explosion was massive. A deafening boom echoed across the skies, followed by a burst of fire that spiraled into a fiery ring. One of the Circle crew screamed as they were flung from the basket, tumbling through the air before vanishing below the clouds—caught, hopefully, by a backup parachute, but it was impossible to see. The Circle’s balloon wobbled, lost speed, and dropped altitude in a chaotic lurch. “That’ll teach them!” Harlequina shouted, adrenaline roaring in her blood. Her heart thumped in her ears like a war drum. Behind her, Harry flinched. “I hope they’re okay…”

“They’ll be fine,” Jack replied coldly, already steering them forward. “Or they won’t. Either way, they’re not in our way anymore.” Harlequina didn’t answer. She just gripped the rail tighter, eyes narrowing as their balloon pushed forward, finally gaining open sky. The city sprawled out beneath them now, roofs and smoke stacks blurring into a grey, living sea. She could feel it now. The rush. The danger. The quiet thrill of being a predator above a city full of prey. This wasn’t about a race anymore. It was survival. Reputation. Power. And the sky had just become the most dangerous street in Doskvol.

The world turned upside down in less than a heartbeat as the Ironborn balloon lurched forward, carrying Jack, Rabbit, Harry, Dadinho, Cuzão—and Harlequina—with it. The roar of engines, the hiss of gas, and the distant howls from other crafts blurred into one single roaring pulse in her ears. The first checkpoint flag snapped into view like a blood-red beacon at the edge of the city. Scurlock’s balloon glided there first. Harlequina watched in cold admiration as their pristine craft lowered a small clawed hook and plucked the duplicate flag with savage grace. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just smooth, calculated motion. The enormous silver envelope tilted, signifying success before straightening again, power unreadable in every perfectly timed wrinkle of the fabric. Not far behind, the Cyphers swooped in—loose panels clicking like gears in formation as their technologists snapped the flag with mechanical precision. Their balloon didn’t soar; it slid across the sky with uncanny efficiency, and Harlequina could almost hear the math models humming under their hull.

But then she saw movement at the Ironborn side of the field—Dadinho and Cuzão, balancing on the exterior rigging of their patched balloon like wild daredevils. She inhaled sharply as they twisted and shifted, each motion a gamble over the yawning drop below. Cuzão reached out, nerves nearly cracking his voice, and grabbed the checkpoint flag. Dadinho helped steady him with one boot braced against the balloon’s flange. When the metal clasp finally clicked into place, both boys grinned as wide as full-faced knives.

“We did it!” Cuzão screamed, gripping the flag like a trophy. The sound ricocheted from the basket above. Harlequina couldn’t help but let a small smile curve across her lips. “Good job, kid!” Jack yelled, voice ringing like a rallying horn. “Now get your ass back inside before you blow us all sky-high!” The boys scrambled back in, tumbling into the basket with wild relief—giddy, proud, and endangering everything in the name of victory. Harlequina’s heart clenched with something like pride, something warmer than fear but sharper than sentiment. She glanced upward at the flag snapping taut from the rigging. Checkpoint one: confirmed.

Then—Jack seized something like opportunity. He twisted his body, unsheathed a knife with neural quickness, and launched it into the air toward a nearby balloon’s flag clasp. Harlequina’s breath froze. The projectile arced, spun—then missed cleanly, clattering harmlessly against the rebar. The flag remained where it was, undefeated. “Damn it!” Jack muttered. Near him, Rabbit’s hand landed gently on Jack’s shoulder. “We’ll get another chance,” he said quietly, knowing that opportunities steadied by nerves seldom repeated. Harlequina didn’t speak. She just watched the sky. Behind them, she glimpsed the Dimmer Sisters maneuver—black curtains billowing overhead, unnatural static dancing across their envelope. With graceful intent, they fired off a tendriled blast of spirit magic like spectral tendrils shaped into force. The Circle of Flame retaliated instantly—slick flicks of flame sprouted beneath their rigging, igniting thrust boosters designed for aggression, not elegance. An exchange of fire and dark energy pulsed between them midair. One of the Dimmer Sisters hissed through tightening cords: “We’ll get you next time!”

“Not if we burn you first!” the fiery-haired Circle leader snapped, sending another scrap of flame and heat cascading upward. Harlequina felt her knuckles whiten around the rail. The sky was no longer a race. It was a battlefield. Then something else happened—a flick beyond her peripheral. The Cobblepots, recognizing Bazso Baz’s balloon drifting near them, executed a surgical strike. A rope snaked out, they slipped into range, and the flag was gone in a second. They sailed forward triumphantly, laughter trailing like smoke. A harsh curse drifted up from Bazso’s direction: “You thieves! We’ll get it back!” The Cobblepots’ reply was a knowing, satisfied chuckle that echoed even into the thinning atmosphere above the field. Harlequina watched the horizon, mind racing. Each balloon ahead carried incentive, strategy, danger. Scurlock’s had momentum. Cyphers had efficiency. Flame had aggression. Bazso had malice. And behind them all, the Dimmer Sisters pulsed with arcane unpredictability. Suddenly—Harry spoke. Quiet, focused. He grabbed a knife from the pack and hurled it toward the Cyphers’ balloon with a flick of his wrist and a charge of magical energy. The tip hissed through the air, and Harlequina watched it strike a pressure valve squarely. Instantly—a venting hiss and a dribble of gas—and then catastrophe. The Cyphers’ balloon buckled, cannisters venting rapidly. Altitude dropped. Their envelope began to sag. Crew scrambled. Panic flickered in robotic eyes. The craft shuddered like a wounded beast, then slowed—no more sleek glide. They plummeted, only to recover horribly, staggered and unbalanced.

“Nice shot, Harry!” Jack yelled, almost thunderous. Harry nodded, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “Just doing my part.” Harlequina saw the Cyphers falter. She saw the others banking away to avoid collision. She felt the moment pulse beneath her feet. Jack and Rabbit didn’t hesitate. Jack leaned low over the rail and muttered something to Rabbit. Within seconds, they were gliding close to the damaged craft. Rabbit darted along the side of the Cyphers’ basket, meanings hidden behind his calm gaze. Harlequina knew Rabbit was working the ritual—something blood‑touched, arcane enough to spook even the most disciplined engineer. Jack took one slow breath and locked eyes with a hapless Cypher as the wind shook loose gadgets and wiring. He said one word—silent, deliberate—and the Cypher’s eyes twitched, glaze darkening them. With the same numb precision, the man pressed a lever, disengaging vital control systems. The Cyphers’ balloon began to tip. “Sorry, mate,” Jack said quietly, voice flat. Then he pulled back the edge of his coat, throat crisply upright, posture calm. Rabbit gave him a nod so slight it might’ve gone unnoticed.

The Cyphers’ balloon listed, then began to drop—not plummet—but with an unacceptable slowness. Their edge was gone. They wobbled, powerless. Harlequina felt triumphant warmth—but not relief. She knew that what they’d done was clever and brutal and dangerously visible. We’re pushing every limit, her chest warned. Keep sharper. Above them, the Circle of Flame surged forward—seizing the gap left by the Cyphers’ crash. Their crimson envelope heeled forward, picking speed like flame feeding on wind. Their leader’s voice drifted upward: “Time to show them who’s boss!” Harlequina watched the two balloons converge: the Ironborn/Crows patchwork rocket and the Circle’s scorched red beast. They hovered neck and neck, flags snapping in the empty breeze, streams of gas and magic crackling between them. Dadinho leaned out again—greedy for another flag—while Cuzão scribbled notes in his book, scribbling diagrams in panic and admiration. Their eyes were alight. And then—*

A flaming bottle arced out. Harlequina’s heart nearly stopped. It landed with a puff of flame against their balloon’s patched hull, burning through seams and spraying sparks. “Fire! Fire!” Harlequina screamed. She snapped into action—rag under arm, water flask in hand, adrenaline roaring—but the heat burned upward fast. Flame clawed through rope and canvas. Jack barked, voice tight and clear: “Keep it together! We can’t let them overtake us!” The sky blurred. The ropes hissed. Dadinho and Cuzão scrambled behind crates in the basket. Harry looked terrified—magic trembling around his hands.— Scurlock’s balloon shone far ahead, silent and swift. The lead balloonist’s voice crackled over a comms link: “Steady, everyone. We’re almost there.” Harlequina spat a curse at the Circle’s direction. The flame flared badly. She flung water and smothered embers. Every second counted. Every breath burned until— Grim glare across the sky. She locked her gaze on the City’s silhouette: the Old Port, the finish line. And she realized—it was not yet over.

Harlequina hovered on the edge of the Ironborn basket, watching ribbons of flame and steel-red flags dissolve behind them as the second checkpoint vanished into the pastel haze beneath them. The first checkpoint had been a trial—this one was an inferno. From her vantage, Scurlock’s balloon streaked past, flag clipped in place with deadly efficiency. A tapestry of silver sails and manners marched through the sky as Harlequina recalibrated her tension: they were behind, but not defeated. Just as she exhaled, the Circle of Flame passed close enough to feel the heat off their boosters as they claimed their second flag in a blaze of flamboyant defiance. Then, like a silent wave, Ironborn struck. Harry’s voice—filled with triumph—shattered the sky:

“We got it!”

Harlequina turned to see him. The flag snapped taut from their rigging; brass caught the dawn. Jack’s rare grin split his face. For a second, no heat, no wind—just the hum of possibility. The third checkpoint loomed ahead: a sliver of coral breeze and false calm. She braced, tracking Scurlock’s ship again. Realizing her bottom lip trembled slightly, she bit it into place, refusing to flinch at the sky anymore. Harry stepped toward the edge, tether rope unraveled like sibilant silk. Harlequina’s breath caught as he tossed it upward with precision at the unsuspecting Scurlock envelope. When it snagged, the entire field erupted in raw disbelief. Jack leaped. Rabbit mirrored him with calm terror. They crouched low, balancing weight, carving across the strain. Harlequina leaned forward, watching their ankles grip cables like knife-thin vines. “Be careful!” she cried, but they were already gone—sliding toward enemy lines, hearts lit with madness. Scurlock’s crew gasped. One of them lurched forward, fist clenched. The wind picked up as they tangled midair, Ironborn and Scurlock locked in violent ballet with no ground beneath them. Harlequina’s world tattered. The sacred sky became a war zone.

Below, on a shifting balcony, a chestnut vendor stepped back out of the shade, mouth half-open. “What’s happening up there?” The boy near him didn’t answer. They both just watched. Harlequina’s mind thundered. She cursed herself for a moment’s hesitation that let them near—but then, Jack’s voice cut through the confusion: “I’m not going anywhere!”

Each syllable clipped cold. The rope strained. She saw a swing come for him—hard and precise—but he ducked, a flash of grey jacket, then seized control of the tether. One hand anchored him; the other pushed Rabbit back past the graded basket lip. Below, the crowd gasped. She gripped the basket rail, breath shaking, but her pulse steadied. It was insane—self-destructive—but every faction had already opted for death in the sky. What was one more recklessness if it claimed glory? Jack’s poker-face cracked into a grin. She let herself believe, just for a half breathe, that they could win. A sudden blur: Rabbit and Jack pivoting back toward their ship like predators launching a strike. And just then, Jack’s quiet incantation reached them: Five minds bled their memories into the sky, leaving confusion where coordination once lived. She saw vacant eyes blink around them before sagging into panic. Loosened levers misaligned. Crew staggered as if gravity had regained purchase. No order remained.

Scurlock’s ship tilted, moments from stall. Harlequina’s heart pounded lightning. She saw Jack’s face again: icy calm, predator’s precision. Rabbit’s fingers danced across the engine panels, pulling wires, disarming vanes. Metal hissed. Valves clicked. She watched the descent begin. She hadn’t helped. But she’d backed him. Scurlock’s envelope began to falter—heavier on one side, edges limping in their ascent. Ironborn confidence flooded their basket and supported their own climb forward. From the corner of her eye, she saw Circle of Flame speeding—snatching flags, vaulting ahead. Dadinho hurled a grappling hook at Circle’s blazing hull. The winch caught solid—boom. Cuzão swung out next, rope whined as it attached to Scurlock’s failing envelope. Both balloons collided, dance of steel. The extra burden pitched them sideways. Harlequina didn’t hesitate. She shoved forward, directing Harry to recalibrate burners, explain measurements of altitude buffers to Dadinho. Every breath cut thin.

Then Cuzão slipped. Gravity took him. For a heartbeat, Harlequina thought her heart stopped. Rope burned in her fingers. Dadinho lunged, harpoon still grasped. “No,” Rabbit gasped. No. Not again. But Cuzão vanished downward through the mist. She didn’t look away. The sky swallowed him. Jack’s hand closed over her elbow, white-knuckled: “This path...it’s ours,” he said. “We keep going.” She exhaled slow. “Then let’s finish this.”

The wind shrieked past Harlequina’s ears as she clung to the edge of the Ironborn’s battered balloon basket, her knuckles bloodless against the rust-caked railing. Her eyes were fixed on the plume of smoke spiraling beneath them, the mist parting just long enough to reveal a small figure sprawled across a fractured roof tile. Cuzão. He had fallen. She didn’t breathe. She couldn’t. But—miraculously—he moved. The drop hadn’t been far. Maybe three stories. Maybe four. His leg bent at an angle that made her stomach twist, but he raised a hand in defiance. Alive. Injured, but alive. She exhaled, then immediately shouted over the wind: “He’s down! He’s alive!” As if summoned by her voice, a small, swift team emerged from the shrouded alleyways below. Skoulander refugees in worn jackets and mismatched boots—ragged, quiet, efficient. Jack’s contingency plan. He always had one. Harlequina had doubted him once for it. Never again.

She watched as they moved like shadows, scooping up the boy with gentleness at odds with their scarred hands and hard eyes. A stretcher appeared from nowhere. One of the women pressed a glowing charm to Cuzão’s chest—he stopped moaning. His breathing slowed. Stabilized. Jack leaned over the basket beside her, eyes locked on the retreating rescue party as they vanished into the ruins. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, half to himself, half to the boy too far away to hear. Harlequina glanced sideways at him, the line of his jaw tight, blood still spattered lightly across one cheek. His eyes were endless and empty. She knew that look. That was guilt. That was control just barely holding back collapse. “Don’t fall apart now,” she muttered under her breath, not at Jack, but to herself. “There’s still a race.” And they were still in it. The Ironborn balloon surged forward, steam wheezing from the patched side-valves as Rabbit rerouted pressure through the auxiliary burner ring. Dadinho was still clinging to the rear anchor, one leg hooked in the twisted netting, shouting back telemetry data like a half-mad hawk. His eyes burned. His hands bled. But he grinned like a devil. Harlequina grabbed the edge of the balloon’s rotating mount and steadied herself, squinting past smoke and windburn. Behind them, the Dimmer Sisters were creeping forward again—silent, ominous, their balloon drawn by tethers of spectral wind and dead things with too many eyes. Ahead, the Cyphers were climbing altitude rapidly, their engine-core glowing orange like an awakening leviathan. She could feel the pressure wave of their advance—tech, magic, madness—whatever it was, it was coming for them.

But the Crows and the Ironborn had a secret weapon of their own. Harry Potter stood in the middle of the basket, arms spread wide, mouth moving in quiet cadence. His eyes glowed faintly. A faint shimmer crackled above them, and one of the charmed flying monkeys—still loyal, still under his control—darted forward like a streak of smoke and shadow. It twisted midair, claws slicing through wind, and plucked the final flag from its rig. Harlequina watched it loop once, twice, and dive back to them with the prize in hand. She grinned, teeth sharp against the cold. “All four,” Harry announced as the monkey dropped the flag into his waiting hand. “We’ve got them all.” The basket erupted in cheers. Dadinho howled. Rabbit whooped. Even Jack let out a rare, strained laugh. “We’ve got this,” Harry added, the flag clutched to his chest like a sacred relic. Harlequina’s heart pounded. Victory was no longer a dream—it was tangible, breathing, singing in her chest like a bird begging to escape. “Burn altitude!” she barked. “Bring her down to the port! Full speed!” Rabbit twisted knobs. The balloon groaned. Below them, the charred remains of the Old Port spread out like a cratered battlefield. Crumbling docks. Empty warehouses. Fog curling around dead cranes and rusted rail lines. The finish line.

They dove. But too fast. Harlequina’s stomach shot into her throat as the balloon began to descend at a dangerous angle, the patchwork engine shrieking in protest. “Too fast!” Harry yelled. “Flame stabilizers failing!” Rabbit confirmed. Jack looked ahead. “Don’t stop. We’re going through.” Then, just as the balloon cleared the final row of buildings— Impact. The basket slammed into a stone platform, skidded, bounced, and struck a wall with a crunch that ripped the front railing off entirely. Fire erupted from beneath the primary burner. Then a second explosion—smaller, sharper—ignited a chain reaction along the base of the envelope. Flames licked skyward. Harlequina was already moving. “Out! Out! Now!” Sparks rained down as Rabbit helped Dadinho off the rig. Jack staggered into Harry, both of them coughing. Harlequina turned once—just once—to see the balloon go up in a roar of fire. The sky turned red. And in that moment, Rabbit smiled. “Actually,” he said, voice casual despite the chaos, “it was my plan. I sabotaged our own balloon to explode right now.” Harlequina froze mid-step. “You what?”

“Insurance,” Rabbit said, already pulling her forward. “The port’s useless now. The whole deal’s done. Elara will be happy.”

“You blew up our balloon,” she said, half in awe, half in horror.

“And won the race,” he added. She didn’t respond. There wasn’t time. Smoke towered. Sirens wailed in the far distance. Then— A scream. Not of pain, but of betrayal. Harlequina spun around. Dadinho stood frozen, one hand extended, eyes wide. Jack’s hand was outstretched toward him—magic crackling faintly at his fingertips. “I’m sorry,” Jack said, voice taut. “I can’t let you remember this.” A faint glow flared on Dadinho’s hand. A symbol—wrought in careful ink and magic—shone beneath his skin like a ward come to life. His entire body tensed. “You’re trying to erase me,” Dadinho whispered. “No,” Jack said. “Not you. Just today.” But it was too late. The fear snapped something inside the boy. With a cry, Dadinho lunged forward and drove a knife into Jack’s side. The sound was sickening. A wet, crunching tear. Harlequina’s lungs collapsed. She saw Jack’s eyes widen, his breath catch, and blood bloom across his ribs. “Jack!” she screamed. Jack staggered, falling against a collapsed beam. “Wait—wait, Dadinho, I wasn’t—!” But the boy was already running. Rabbit gave chase immediately, boots skidding across ash-covered planks. “Dadinho! Stop! He didn’t mean to—!” Harlequina moved to follow, but Jack’s hand caught her wrist. “Let him go,” he whispered, pain warping his voice. “He needs space. That’s on me.” Harlequina looked down at him, teeth clenched. The firelight made him look older. More tired. Human.

“You idiot,” she said. “You brilliant, reckless idiot.” Despite everything—despite the bleeding, the betrayal, the smoke and ruin—Jack smiled. The sirens grew louder. Distant shouts echoed across the port. The Ironborn had won. But their alliance with the Crows was already splintering—held together by ash and silence. Harlequina sat beside Jack as Rabbit returned, alone, empty-handed. No one spoke.

The race was over.

Ulf Ironborn sat on the edge of a broken shipping crate, the scent of salt, scorched wood, and wet rust curling around him like a chain. The port was still smoldering. Somewhere in the cracked distance, a half-melted crane groaned in the sea wind like a dying animal. The once-silent ruins of the Old Port—long left to rot by the city’s bureaucracy—now smoldered with fresh wounds. Wounds the Crows had made. He watched embers float in the dusk air, drifting like fireflies, and chewed the inside of his cheek. A cold weight settled in his gut—not regret, not quite—but the undeniable pressure of something big beginning. He pulled his jacket tighter against the wind, scanning the wreckage of Doskvol’s past. “They really did it,” he muttered.

Dadinho stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the Skoulander rescue crews carry away medical crates and debris. Cuzao was resting nearby on a pile of salvaged canvas, his arm in a sling, face pale but still smirking like he’d just cheated death—which he had. “The Crows,” Dadinho said flatly. “They didn’t just help us win. They made sure nobody else could even show up to the party.” Ulf didn’t answer right away. His storm-blue eyes tracked the burned-out remains of a barge that had collapsed into the bay, taking three docks with it. The government had been trying to get this place back in working order for months—maybe years. There were talks about new trade routes, Blackcloaks patrolling again, a ribbon-cutting ceremony with officials and Espiritas delegates. But the Crows? They’d lit a match and turned all of that into ash. Not for glory. Not even for coin. But because Elara Voss had asked them to. Because some movements are quieter than war and louder than any declaration.

“Those bastards pulled off a miracle,” Cuzao said, voice hoarse, but laced with wonder. “I mean, they actually burned it down without anyone knowing it was them.”

“Yeah,” Ulf muttered. “That’s what scares me.”

He stood slowly, every bone aching from the race, but his mind still sharp. His coat whipped in the wind as he stepped toward the edge of the pier, staring out across the black water where the burned iron frames of the old shipping scaffolds jutted like broken teeth. “The Old Port wasn’t the heart of the city,” Ulf began, thinking aloud. “It was dead. Forgotten. A half-rotted lung they were trying to bring back with wires and pipe dreams.” Dadinho nodded, understanding. “But if they’d pulled it off, they’d own a direct line to the docks. Clean trade. Dirty trade. The whole flow of goods.”

“Exactly,” Ulf said. “Elara knew that. So did the Crows. They weren’t just helping us win the race—they were reshaping the map.” And they had done it without raising suspicion. No one was coming for the Crows. No Imperial reports pointed their way. No rival factions were blaming them for the fire. To the city, it looked like a tragic, if explosive, accident during the race. The chaos of floating bombs, shattered gas lines, and sabotage all perfectly disguised as part of the mayhem.

But Ulf knew better. He’d heard about the way Jack looked at Dadinho before the memory trick. The way Harlequina’s voice cracked when she ordered the team to hold position while the port exploded beneath them. “They were never playing for a trophy,” he said under his breath. “They were playing for control.” Dadinho glanced at him, uneasy. “You think they’ll turn on us next?”

“No,” Ulf said slowly. “But I don’t think they’ll bleed for us again either. They’re not allies. Not enemies. Something else.”

“Wild cards,” Cuzao offered.

“Exactly,” Ulf said.

A silence settled over the three of them, filled only by the distant creak of boats and the hiss of extinguishing flames. Behind them, Skoulander workers were already sealing off the rubble with tarpaulins and setting up sentry posts. This port would stay dead. And in its place, the Skoulanders would rise—smuggling, trading, and rerouting the city’s pulse through backdoor channels and makeshift harbors they now controlled. And the Ironborn? They had won the race, but not alone. Their future victories would depend on whether they could match the vision—and the ruthlessness—of the Crows.

“Ulf,” Dadinho asked suddenly. “If they asked us to back them up again… would you?” Ulf didn’t answer right away. He let the question hang, rolling it around in his skull like a marble in a jar. “I’d fight beside them,” he said finally. “But I wouldn’t ever turn my back on them.” Dadinho swallowed hard. Cuzao nodded with grim respect. “We keep our eyes open,” Ulf added, pulling the Ironborn Blade from its sheath and inspecting the edge. “We watch the tides. Doskvol’s changing. And anyone not changing with it…” He let the sentence die in the smoke.

Because they all knew how it ended.