Noxport, city of shadows, where the salt-stained air whispered of trade and treachery. Ships docked at the ancient piers, sails heavy with the weight of fortune. The city itself bent beneath the sway of those who lived by the murky currents of the port. It was a place where secrets hid in the folds of every alley, where backroom deals and unspeakable bargains were the currency of survival.

Arvey, known among the underbelly of the city as a shadow in her own right, moved with purpose through the twisting streets. The damp sea air had her short black curls clinging to her nape, boots making little noise as she twisted her way through the labyrinthine passages. A long, tattered cloak swept around her legs, obscuring her figure from the occasional watchman or drunken sailor stumbling in the night.

She was a Blackbird, known to be thorns in the side of the Nightwolves—the ruthless slaver’s guild, ruling the port with an iron fist. The Wolves’ influence was everywhere, from the gilded wharves where the elite did business, to the shadowed depths of the city’s slums. But Arvey was part of the resistance, a small band of insurgents who’d long plotted to bring down the Nightwolves. The challenge was not just the guild’s wealth or manpower, but the silence that protected them. They ruled not only through force, but through fear and manipulation.

She had less than a hand to reach the rendezvous.

She cursed softly to herself. Time slipped away faster than expected as she made her way to the old docks, her destination now at the edge of the city’s sprawling heart. Arvey had been on a desperate search for a particular piece of information, a scroll hidden in one of the Wolves’ many safe-houses. This parchment contained something critical—a list of names, places, and dates that would expose the full extent of the slavers’ atrocities. It held evidence of their participation in a black market ring that dealt in lives, not goods, a damning truth that could stir the city into revolt.

But Arvey wasn’t on her way to steal evidence. She came to warn her comrades. They’d chosen a tavern deep in the Fisherman’s Quarter for the midnight rendezvous because it was far from the Nightwolves’ usual patrols. If she didn’t make it there soon, they’d have no one to lead them through the next phase of their plan.

Yet, despite the urgency of her mission, Arvey felt the pull of the dark, cold stone beneath her feet, the ache of this city she both despised and depended upon. She’d worked in Noxport long enough to know that opportunities didn’t knock—they appeared, unexpected and dangerous. It was up to those who dared to seize them.

Rounding a corner, she saw the slaver’s safe-house—a crumbling, gray stone building no different from the rest of the decaying edifices in the district. This home, however, had a pair of Nightwolf mercenaries standing at the entrance, facing the street, arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd. Their heavy leather armor creaked with each shift of weight, eyes twitching for any sign of rebellion.

Arvey knew better than to engage them directly. She’d never been much of a fighter, and a head-on confrontation with the Wolves would only end in bloodshed—hers, most likely. Instead, she had to find another way in.

Pulling her cloak tighter, she melted into the shadows, waiting for an opening. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the tension in the air thick as the scent of the Southern Sea. Finally, a shift in the mercenaries’ stance told her something had them distracted—a merchant unloading crates of spices, perhaps, or a passerby too drunk to care. She seized her opportunity.

With a deftness born from years of skirting the edges of the law, Arvey darted for the door, slipping inside before anyone noticed her. The cool darkness of the safe-house enveloped her as she stepped into the narrow hallway. She moved silently, fingers brushing the walls to guide her as she crept toward the back office, where she would likely find the hidden evidence. Heartbeat thundering in her ears, she tried to push aside the nagging sense of danger creeping up her spine.

Every creak of the floorboards felt amplified in the silence.

Reaching the office door, her hand hovered above the rusted handle. Her sources said she’d find the scroll locked in a cabinet, under other seemingly meaningless documents. It wasn’t a simple matter of walking in and taking it—it would require finesse, patience, and a healthy amount of luck.

Arvey steadied her breathing and slipped inside. The room was small and cluttered, with papers strewn about the desk, and the faint smell of ink and wood. She heard the faint murmur of voices outside, no doubt guards talking shop or mercenaries swapping stories. Her fingers brushed over the lock of the cabinet. It was old, weathered, sturdy, and thankfully not magical.

She felt the pull of the meeting she couldn’t afford to miss. Yet, a voice inside urged her to stay. The information could change everything. The scroll could be the turning point in their war against the ‘Wolves. It might be the last chance to strike before they disappeared again into the city’s underbelly, their power further cemented.

She worked quickly, the picks in her hand moving with almost unconscious precision. The lock clicked open, and Arvey exhaled a quiet breath of relief. Inside, a single parchment scroll, bearing the governor’s seal, sat waiting, its presence both a beacon and a warning. Her sense of danger heightened.

She grabbed it and shoved it into her pack. But as she moved to leave, she froze.

Footsteps. Close. Too close.

Arvey turned her head toward the open window at the end of the room. The guards were coming. Her heart raced, and she weighed her options. She had no time to head back out the way she’d come. She couldn’t risk being caught with the scroll—too many lives were at stake.

In a moment of desperation, Arvey climbed out the window, pressing herself against the side of the building to avoid being seen. The street below was dimly lit, a mess of broken carts and discarded crates. She dropped to the ground with a soft thud, tightened her pack straps, and darted down the alley.

She ran through the back streets, breath ragged. She had to get to the rendezvous.

But as she ran, a sudden realization struck her with a force that almost stopped her in her tracks.

The Nightwolves could already realize the scroll was gone. They would send their sniffer rats after her, and they wouldn’t stop til they found her.

The meeting—she was late.

Arvey swore under her breath as she cut through the dark alleyways, legs aching from the long sprint. She’d promised her comrades she’d bring back the evidence, but she’d also promised them she’d be there on time. If she didn’t show, they might think something’d gone wrong. They might even leave, thinking the ‘Wolves caught her.

The streets became more crowded as she neared the Fisherman’s Quarter. Sailors and merchants milled about, faces obscured by the haze of lantern light. She was almost there—she saw the crooked tavern sign swinging in the breeze, the faint flicker of light spilling from the windows.

As she approached, she heard voices. Male, gruff, unmistakable. The Nightwolves. How had they known the Blackbirds planned to meet in the Fisherman’s Quarter?

She froze in place, heart hammering. She spied three of them blocking the street ahead.

Arvey glanced around, searching for an escape route, but the alley was narrow, and the rooftops too high to reach. She had no way of getting past them without being seen. Her eyes flicked back to the tavern. The meeting—her comrades—was just on the far side of the street. But the Nightwolves stood in her path, the weight of her choices settling over her like a cold fog.

She could attempt to fight them, but she knew better. It would end in blood, and the evidence reclaimed by the ‘Wolves.

Arvey took a deep breath, feeling the cool wind on her face. The scroll in her bag was more important than her presence at the meeting. If she could get it to the resistance, they could act on it. If not… they’d continue to be just another voice lost to the Nightwolves.

But in that moment, the faces of her comrades rose in her mind. Would they understand? Would they forgive her if she didn’t show up?

The weight of the decision hung heavy on her chest as the distant sound of footsteps grew nearer.

She had to choose.

The Nightwolves were getting closer. Arvey heard their boots scraping against the cobblestones, their murmurs carrying on the evening breeze. Pressing herself against the wall, she held her breath as if to will herself invisible. She knew the moment they saw her, the game would be up. The slavers were efficient. They had a way of closing in on their prey with deadly persistence. She imagined their gloved hands gripping the hilts of their blades, faces twisting into grins of sadistic satisfaction as they caught her.

Her fingers tightened around her dagger.

What would they do if they got it?

Arvey’s mind flashed to the horrifying images of the slavers’ market—children too young to fight, men and women broken by the weight of chains, all bought and sold like mere goods. And the Nightwolves—their faces cold and calculating, hands stained with so many lives.

No.

She couldn’t let them win. Not now. Not when the evidence was so close to being in the hands of those who could use it to destroy them.

The footsteps stopped.

Damn it, she thought. She couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to move. But moving meant drawing attention to herself. And once they saw her, there’d be no turning back.

Arvey glanced up at the darkened alley to her left. It wasn’t much of an escape route, but it was the only option. The alley led to a warren of old warehouses and abandoned carts, a place few people ever ventured unless they had a good reason to. She only hoped to reach the shadows, stay out of sight, and pray the Nightwolves didn’t have an eye for detail.

She decided in that instant.

With a quick motion, she darted into the alley, cloak swirling behind her like a shadow. Heart pounding in her chest as she ran, she prayed the slavers hadn’t caught her movement. Every step felt like a drumbeat, each one bringing her closer to the only escape she had. But as she ran, she heard the voices again—louder this time, just behind her.

They’d seen her.

Arvey didn’t look back. She couldn’t. The fear of being caught overwhelmed her, but the mission that drove her forward. The evidence—everything she’d risked—was still in her possession. She couldn’t afford to lose it. Not now.

She rounded a corner and sprinted down another dark passage, hoping to lose the Nightwolves in the maze of alleys that crisscrossed the Fisherman’s Quarter. But just as she turned another corner, a figure appeared in front of her.

Arvey stumbled, her eyes locking with a face she hadn’t expected to see.

“Going somewhere, Arvey?”

The voice was smooth, cold as ice, and filled with an edge of malice. It came from the tall figure looming before her, blocking her path. His dark cloak billowed around him, and his eyes glinted in the faint light as he looked down at her with a predatory grin.

Fenderak.

Arvey’s breath caught in her throat. Fenderak was a Nightwolves’ enforcer—ruthless, cunning, and far too familiar with the underworld of Noxport. He had crossed paths with her more than once during her earlier missions for the Blackbirds, but she had always escaped his clutches. Now, it seemed, her luck had run out.

“You look a little lost,” Fenderak continued, his voice a mocking whisper in the stillness. “You shouldn’t have come here. Not with that.”

Arvey’s hand touched her pouch. Fenderak’s eyes followed the movement, his smirk growing wider.
“You know what happens when you steal from the Nightwolves, don’t you?” he said, stepping forward slowly. “We don’t take kindly to thieves.”

Arvey’s pulse quickened. She needed a way out, but Fenderak blocked her escape. She felt the weight of the scroll in her pack, the one thing that could bring the Nightwolves to their knees. Her fingers twitched toward the hilt of the knife at her waist, but she quickly discarded the idea. If she fought him now, she couldn’t win—not without getting herself caught. No, she had another plan.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice low but steady. “You don’t have to be part of this anymore, Fenderak.”

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing.

“And why would I listen to you, little rebel?” His tone was biting, dismissive. “You think because you steal a piece of paper, you can change the world? You think anyone will care about your revolt?”

Arvey’s hand clenched into a fist.

“You’re wrong” she said, her voice hardening. “This is bigger than any of us. This is about saving the people who suffered under your guild’s thumb for years.”

Fenderak stepped closer, lips curling into a sneer.

“The people? They’ll never care. Not as long as their pockets stay full and the ships keep coming in. And you?” He leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. “You’re just another fool in a long line of fools. Do you really think you can defeat the Nightwolves, Arvey? You’re just one person.”

Her heart hammered in her chest as she took a step back, but Fenderak stopped her. He raised a gloved hand, reaching toward her with the menace of a predator about to strike. “You’ll be dead before that scroll leaves your hands.”

No, Arvey thought. I won’t let it end here.

She refused to let her comrades go on without the evidence they needed. The people would rise. The city would burn—but only if she could make it past Fenderak.

In a burst of movement, Arvey threw her pouch forward, tossing it just past Fenderak’s feet. It landed with a soft thud in the dirt.

Fenderak’s eyes flicked to it for a moment, confusion passing over his face. She had her diversion. Arvey moved the instant he looked away.

She darted to the side, body twisting as she shot past him, barely avoiding his outstretched hand. He shouted in surprise, curses echoing down the alley, but Arvey was already gone. Her boots hit the cobblestones as she sprinted down the narrow passage, twisting through the warren, her breath ragged.

The tavern, she thought desperately. I can still make it.

But even as she raced toward the tavern’s back door, she had no guarantee of success. The Nightwolves would send more men, perhaps even the entire guild, after her now.

Fenderak wouldn’t stop until he had her, and worse, he wouldn’t stop until he had the scroll back.

Arvey’s mind raced, calculating her next steps, but she had no time. Now, she needed to reach the tavern and find her comrades, the Blackbirds, who had counted on her. She couldn’t fail them—not after everything they’d sacrificed.

She turned the corner in the alley and saw the dim outline of the tavern, a midden wagon outside the door. A surge of hope filled her chest. She was close.

As her foot hit the threshold, the back door flew open, and the faces of her comrades stared back at her with a mixture of concern and impatience. But it was the person at the front of the group that made her stomach twist with dread.

Bix, the shape-shifting leader of the resistance—and the one person who’d trusted her with the mission. His eyes scanned her face, lips pressed in a thin line.

“You’re late,” he hissed.

Arvey stepped forward, chest tight with guilt, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out the scroll.

“We have it,” she said, breathless. “The Nightwolves are going down.”

Bix’s gaze softened as he looked at the file in her hand, but they had no time to relax. Not yet.

“Good,” he said. “But we’re not out of the woods yet. Let’s get to the tunnel.”

As the door creaked shut behind them, Arvey knew this battle wasn’t over. The Nightwolves would come for them all; they were too close as it was. But now, the Blackbirds had something that could make the difference. And that, she realized, was all that mattered.