The cold had rushed across the city with tearful teal wings. All of the trees had shed their vibrant hides, leaving thin bones and skeletal limbs reaching up like ill hands toward the saddened sky. Winter’s grasp had begun its creeping siege over the eastern lands, leaving nothing but melancholy and unsure hearts in its wake.

The office of Vroque Investigations, otherwise known as Vroque Company and Firm Iteration 7, was adrift in that same mesmerizing, sinking fugue. Though it was a time of joy and celebration for some, for others it was a season of painful memories, lovesick ruminations, and gifts ungiven. The time that had passed since the tragedy that befell the clockwork people of the ancient factory had helped to lessen the depression it garnered, but Tien wasn’t so sure.

Standing by the window, as he often did, the Writer looked out across the sullen avenues. “Nearing the end of the year already. How time flies.”

“Too quickly,” Ma’at replied from the couch, resting her eyes. “And we still haven’t gotten any contracts outside the city.”

The Writer chuckled lightly, turning from the glass window. “Yes, yes. In due time, dear Ma’at. Muster up some more patience, if you can. Even I thought we’d be travelling the world by now, but we still must prove ourselves first. Speaking of, there’s-”

Sato burst into the room, cutting off the Writer and sending the door that once was firmly shut swinging wayward and slamming loudly into the wall it was latched to. “Ma’at! Ma’at! Let’s play a game!”

The languid woman lazily raised her eyelids, unshaken by her colleague’s violent entrance. “Hm? A… game?”

“Mhm!” Her eyes gleamed with excitement. It was a wonder how the violet color that tinged them often shifted in luminosity depending on her mood. When she was half-buried in a mire of regret, the hue would lose its luster. When she was focused, they almost seemed like a window drenched in neon-colored rain. And now, when she was brought back to her childlike whimsy, they shone like two rays of light burning through a storm cloud. “A card game,” she continued, laying out an array of playing cards out from her coat pocket and onto the coffee table.

Fifty-some cards belonging to four suits; hearts, clubs, diamonds, and spades. They were made out of a scratchy cardstock material that glistened in the wintery afternoon gloam. Many of them were slightly torn, creased, and stained from years of use. Amid the rest, the deck also contained two joker cards. The images defining them featured a jovial Union entertainer sporting very old and outdated attire, at least compared to the standards in Reville.

“It’s a game called Malarri. Some kids from Halei taught me it when I saw them playing on the street corner the other day.”

Ma’at looked at Sato with a suspicious gleam in her eye. “Is this another gambling game?”

The Maiden of the Rain avoided her gaze. “No…”

Ma’at sighed deeply, falling deeper into the abyss that was the office couch. “Not again… Never again. You and Tien practically robbed me last time.”

“We don’t have to play with money!” she argued. “It’s just a fun game, I promise. Here, I’ll teach you.”

With a weary nod of agreement, Ma’at listened in as Sato taught her the fundamentals. It was a strange game in which players took turns putting cards into the center, while the other players bet on how many suits there were as well or how high the sum had gotten with all the number cards combined. The betting had to increase every turn. Eventually, on their turn, a player could call out ‘Malarri’ and challenge the bet of the player before them. If the previous player was wrong, the caller received money based on the bet. If they were wrong, the betting player before them got the money.

“Okay,” the dark-skinned woman said, hiding her cards resolutely. She placed one face down on the pile. “...Four hearts.”

“Malarri!” Sato cried, slamming down her hand of cards. She flipped the center pile over and spread them out by suit. “Let’s see… Two, three… four!?” The woman winced as if she had been stabbed by a knife. “Aw, man. I only played one. You had that many hearts…?”

“Yeah. Haah… of course I win when nothing’s at stake…”

Sato gasped. “Wanna put some money on it, then!?”

“No,” Ma’at replied in her standard, mature tone of voice. “The only way to win at gambling is to not play at all.”

“Hmph. Fine,” Sato said, sulking.

The freezing wind outside picked up speed. The building creaked, and the faint sound of newspapers and small bits of trash outside careening through the streets could be heard.

“Those illustrious wings, free and evergreen…”

Ma’at turned her head from the windswept cityscape and looked over at Sato shuffling the cards. Her dark hair was tied up as usual. A small smile was at the end of her mouth as she softly sang a song.

“Singeing the sky, pale and pristine…”

“What song is that?”

Sato turned to Ma’at briefly, then looked back down at the worn cards in her hands. “Something my mother used to sing to me on winter days like these. It’s called… The Wings of the Coming End.”

“It sounds… sad.”

“It is.” Her hands slowed as if she had begun to forget she was shuffling cards, that she was sitting in the room, that she was years and years away from whatever memories Ma’at’s question had drudged up. Shaking her head, she continued to shuffle while looking at Ma’at intermittently. “Don’t make that face. It’s like you’re looking at an injured puppy.”

“Well… I can’t help but think back to when we were resolving Rosaline’s breakdown. She said some horrible things, and it seemed like she got to you.”

“What’s this about, hm? It’s not every day that you’re so interested in someone else.” She looked at her Sirithisian friend with a half-sullen, half-joking smirk.

Ma’at turned away with crossed arms, studying the gray wall of the office adamantly. “Fine, then. Nevermind. It was a dumb thing to ask.”

“No, it’s okay. Rosaline was right, in a way. I was a sickly child. Mother spent much of her time keeping me from death’s door. Catering to my every need while she suffered in silence. While we were stuck in the cesspool of poverty. But, she never abandoned me. Never. Even when things looked grim. Even when I was being a selfish brat who didn’t know any better. She was the best mom I could have ever hoped for. She even begged-”

“Sorry to interrupt you two, but we have a pressing matter to attend to. I tried to tell you about it before… well, before Sato’s impeccable entrance!” The Writer raised one eyebrow as he spread an arm out in an act of showmanship. His hair was whitened and frayed by age. “A quick contract to take care of today. The barman of an establishment on Halei Street wants to talk to you. Apparently, it has to do with a shady gang hanging around the place. He wants you to investigate it.”

“The bar? Or the surroundings?” Ma’at asked.

“Either or. Preferably, you could try the bar first. He mentioned these shady characters are regulars, so there’s a good chance you’ll find them there.”

Ma’at and Sato turned to each other with unbothered looks, then got up from the card-covered table and began putting on their warmer clothes.

Pushing her hair out of her face and over her newly donned, puffy jacket, Ma’at asked, “So what’s the name of this place?”

“Inkwell,” the Writer replied.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

***

The creaking street lamps seemed as though they were about to give in to the fierce wind tearing through the dimly lit streets. Ma’at and Sato’s shoes clacked quietly as they walked. Looking up, there were faint stars twinkling in the cloudy night sky, but there were also lights that held still as brilliant statues. They were, of course, lights of the ever-distant yet ever-present airships floating high up above the sleeping city.

Just a couple minutes of solemn, quiet strides through Halei Street until they came upon the bar with the same name the Writer had relayed. ‘Inkwell’ was illuminated on a wooden sign out front. Bulbs with copper wire intestines were hammered into the sign, giving the pleasant, cursive letters a raven-black, almost violet glow against the polished wood they were written upon. When the wind picked up, the back of the sign would slam and bang against the establishment’s exterior. Without any idea of what to expect, the duo entered the bar with some caution.

Immediately, they felt the blazing warmth of candles. Candlelight was the main source of illumination in the bar. Many tables spread out across the room held in their center a lone column of wax stuck in a metal holder. Their wicks sizzled and burned down slowly like fuses on a bomb. Accompanying the tables, sat at them on the shabby oaken art pieces that barely resembled proper stools and chairs, were a wide variety of tough and scarred individuals. Some of them wore eyepatches. Others didn’t bother and showed off the hollow chasm where their visual organs used to be. Others had gruff beards that looked as though they’d been trimmed and shaven with shards of glass.

Upon entering, a good number of them peered up from their food, drinks, and games to look at Ma’at and Sato with devilish intrigue. After a while, they looked away and returned to what they were doing.

“Watch and learn, Sato. These are my kind of people. I’ll do the talking.” Ma’at exuded an overwhelming sense of confidence as she strode in toward the barman posted up against the far wall.

He was polishing a shot glass with a fine white piece of cloth. He was fairly large and stocky, and wore a rugged suit that featured three patches of varying colors. Seeing the women approach, he coughed up a monstrous chunk of phlegm from his throat and spat it into a shiny spatoon at his feet. “What can I get ya, lass? Some nice Azanite rum? Maybe somethin’ local like Tulo’s whiskey, eh?”

“Some rum, yeah. Here,” she replied, slapping a good amount of coins onto the bar separating them. It was definitely more than what two glasses of rum would cost her. A tip, perhaps, or a bribe. “Are you the client?” she asked next in a hushed voice.

“Erm, you’re those blackguards from Vroque, ain’tcha? Strange ones, you two. ‘Specially you in the raincoat. You’re a right baffling bird, I’ll tell ya that. Ain’t no shortage of loons in Reville, though. That’s for sure.” The shot glass squeaked as he polished it one last time before setting it down and training his eyes on them. “Well, yeah, I’m the client.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about this gang you’re worried about? And are they here now…?” She continued in her hushed whisper, though it was more of a light shout to hear herself over the whimsical music being played by a trio of musicians at the other side of the place.

The barman nodded, scratched his chin, then took the money she’d placed in front of him. He crouched, procured two gleaming glasses, then filled them using a sloshing jug of rum that was tied at both ends with tough rope. “Yes ma’am, there they are. In the far back close to those instrument-pluckin’ ninnies.”

Ma’at glanced back, then returned her gaze to the barman’s tired yet calming eyes. “The ones playing cards?”

“Mhm. That’s them. They call themselves the Dragon Hatcher Gang. Guess what they do.”

“Is that a joke…?”

He shook his head. A displeased look suddenly dawned on his gruff features. “No! It’s that simple, innit? They trade in dragon eggs, simple as. No kidding.”

“Dragon eggs!? Aren’t they incredibly rare, though?” Sato interjected with a torrent of unbridled curiosity.

“Yup. Insanely expensive, more like. Hard to find, though, sure. They started out as a whiny band of mercs, and eventually found themselves in the eggnappin’ business. Dangerous, terrible job, that is.”

“What’s the problem, then? What do you want us to do about it?” Ma’at asked. Sure, the gang members at the table looked like they could be violent, but the same could be said of everyone in the bar.

“Well, a few weeks ago they asked if they could set up shop in my cellar. I said no, so they smashed up my windows. I said no again, and they threatened to burn my bar to the ground! What kinda choice is that? No choice at all, I reckon. Now they do as they please, and the Union won’t do anything about it. Said they ‘don’t make enemies for no reason’. No reason, I said! My livelihood’s at stake! What better reason would there be than that!?” He shook his fist, then slammed it down on the wooden countertop. “Aw, shite. Promised I wouldn’t get riled up again over these wankers… sorry lass. Anyway, all I want is for you to ‘convince’ these sorry band of arse-lickers to set up shop somewhere else. The farther, the better!” His face almost went completely red with rage as he leered at the hooligans chatting and laughing over spilled drinks and betting games.

Ma’at, too, gazed intently at the source of his woes. It was a gathering of no more than a handful of strong-looking, capable mercenaries wearing loose, ripped clothing tied together by leather belts. Some of them had burn marks and scars that left deathly gray patches on their skin. One of them, larger than the rest and sitting beside a mighty axe, stood out to her as a possible leader among them. The weapon he carried was heavily modified and seemed to be made out of rare materials infused with Technicist technology. Quickly finding her resolve, she grabbed the glass of rum and threw it back down her throat with no issue. It burned and twisted her stomach, but she was well-used to the feeling. “Here, Sato.” She handed her the other glass, still full. “Take a swig.”

“Eh… I don’t really drink.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll help knock some sense into these obnoxious gangsters, promise. No harm in it.”

She pondered for a moment, lost in the swirling and sloshing amber-tinged alcohol, then finally made up her mind. “Hmm… alright. No harm done.” The Maiden of the Rain took up the glass and chugged the rum with reckless abandon… and immediately choked on it. “Ka! Kaka! Ugh… tastes terrible…” Her voice was hoarse from the dry liquid.

Ma’at cackled, patting her on her hunched back as she coughed. “You really aren’t a drinker, huh?”

Sato shook her head and wiped saliva from her mouth. “N-No… that was my first.”

“Your first? Wow… When I was twelve, we’d drink whole barrels of this stuff in a day.” She chuckled, memories she hadn’t thought of for years coming back to her in a steady, nostalgic stream. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into anything…”

“Twelve…? Pfff… that doesn’t sound healthy…” Sato eked out.

Ma’at answered her with silence at first, then glanced at the rambunctious crowd once more. “Alright, I’m going in. Join when the feeling passes.” She walked through the busy bar, her footsteps pushing the creaking boards beneath her.

One of the brawny man’s gang members tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the approaching woman.

The huge man, his hair carved and uneven, turned around halfway with one hand on the table to shift his body wayward. His arms were massive, cut into segmented rippling muscles that shifted below his skin. His deranged, angry eyes settled on Ma’at and suddenly went wide. “It can’t be… Ma’at? That you?”

Ma’at’s determination faded as the realization finally hit her. The man’s sculpted, statuesque face and thick neck was one in a hundred people she had met before. “Draig…?”

“Blimey! It’s been a while!” The monstrous gangster shot up from his shoddy chair and gave the mercenary woman a light hug, patting her on the back before releasing her. “How’ve you been, darling? Let’s see… last time I saw you…”

“Ironside,” Ma’at finished his thought.

“Right, right! Ironside it was!” He sighed, a half-smile tugging at his lips. A black beard was below them, and above them, he had a huge, deep, jagged scar that careened across his face and slashed just below his left eye. Fine wrinkles here and there conveyed his true age, though the sheer strength of the man could prove otherwise. He shook his head in dismay. “What a shithole that was. Have you been to Altruin since then?”

Ma’at shook her head instantly.

“Mrhm. I don’t blame ya.” Draig glanced behind him at his crew as if to introduce them, then decided against it. “You know I still get third-rate mercs trying to hunt me down?”

“Really?”

“All these years later. Scumbags. Can’t let an old man be. Guess once you’re a prisoner, you always are. Even after you’re out.” He winced at the thought, then scratched his face. “Well, what’re you doing here, then? Camelia with you?” He poked his head over Ma’at to look across the bar in search of someone who wasn’t there. When he gave up and turned to look at her face again, he instinctively knew he was wrong to ask such a thing.

“No. We… stopped talking. Went our separate ways.” She rested a hand on one of her blades. “But… I’m trying to find her now. Once we get to leave the city.”

“Once you get to leave?”

“I’m working for Vroque now.” A nearly suffocating guilt clogged her throat. “And you’re our target today, Draig.”

He scratched his chin, then knelt down and dragged his massive weapon off the floor and rested it on his shoulder. “That so…” He sniffled. “A contract office, eh? Odd jobs and that?”

“Yeah. But we don’t have to fight. The barman, he just wants your gang to leave him be. Go somewhere else.”

Draig went quiet in order to think. He tapped his free fingers on the table. He bit his tongue lightly with his teeth in contemplation. Anxious, he took up a pint and drank it all in three large gulps, wiped his mouth, and slammed it back down. “Hm. Come with me. Lemme show you our operation down here, just to give you a better picture of what we’re really working with.”

“Wait…! Ma’at, don’t leave me alone…” Sato stumbled lackadaisically, tripping over her own feet and catching herself on a barstool.

“Is she okay?” Draig asked.

Ma’at wiped the air with an open hand as a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, she’s fine. Just a little tipsy. Come on, Sato. I’ll help you down.”

Following her old friend, Ma’at led Sato down some nearby stairs. Into the Inkwell cellar. Draig’s powerful steps almost seemed to break the wooden planks descending down into the cozy basement. Soon, they’d see the Dragon Hatchers’ pride and joy. Their base of operations. The treasures they held. The tiny beating hearts and fetal dragons therein.