Tonight I finally learned why Greyharbor smells the way it does.
I wish I had not.
The rain returned shortly after sunset.
Not heavy.
Just enough to turn the harbor roads dark and reflective beneath lanternlight.
Ryn and I were sitting near the lower dining hall while she continued tormenting herself voluntarily with trade ledgers.
I was eating potatoes.
Naturally.
Then we heard screaming.
A little girl.
Outside.
Not the kind of scream caused by surprise.
The kind that tears itself apart while begging.
Ryn stood immediately.
So did I.
By the time we reached the harbor road, several workers from the inn had already stepped outside as well.
Nobody looked shocked.
That frightened me immediately.
A covered wagon stood near the lower dock.
Three large men beside it.
One little girl clinging desperately to the side while crying hard enough that she could barely breathe.
“Please,” she kept saying.
“Please don’t take grandma away.”
One of the men shoved her backward hard enough that she fell against the wet stone.
I think I moved before fully thinking.
Actually no.
I definitely moved before thinking.
Ryn caught my wrist immediately.
Hard.
“Miss DeLuna,” she said sharply.
That was enough to stop me.
Barely.
The man looked briefly annoyed before tossing a folded paper toward the ground beside us.
“We’re taking what belongs to us,” he said.
“Contract’s already signed.”
Then the wagon shifted slightly while turning.
The cloth covering part of the cargo slipped for only a moment.
Just enough for me to see a pale hand beneath it.
Covered almost entirely in dark markings.
And suddenly—
the smell made sense.
The stories Joan told me.
The innkeeper’s smile.
Skin products.
The empty harbor.
The way passengers avoided looking too carefully at anyone here.
All of it connected at once so violently that I genuinely felt sick.
The girl started screaming again when the wagon began moving.
This time the markings across her shoulder visibly spread while she cried.
Not slowly.
Not subtly.
I watched dark lines push themselves across her skin like ink dropped into water.
I know what I saw.
Ryn saw it too.
Her expression changed immediately afterward.
Not surprise.
Something worse.
Recognition.
We brought the girl back inside the inn eventually.
Joan wrapped blankets around her while trying unsuccessfully to calm her breathing.
The poor child could barely speak properly between sobbing.
Apparently her grandmother raised three children alone after their parents died during flooding seasons near the southern coast.
I asked where they were taking the body.
Nobody answered immediately.
Finally Ryn placed the folded paper onto the table.
Contract documentation.
Payment agreements.
Collection authorization.
Advance purchase confirmation.
The handwriting looked horrifyingly official.
The innkeeper eventually sat down across from us with a tired expression I had not seen before tonight.
Then quietly explained everything.
Some families in Greyharbor sell rights to their skin before death.
Money paid in advance.
Enough to survive difficult seasons.
Enough to feed children.
Enough to continue living.
When the contracted person eventually dies—
old age.
Illness.
Accident.
—the body is collected afterward.
Harvested.
“Red Hunters,” the innkeeper said quietly.
“That’s what those men are.”
Apparently the markings carried by the Inked are valuable far outside Greyharbor.
Collectors.
Craftworkers.
Bookbinders.
Nobles.
Wealthy buyers fascinated by “living marks.”
I nearly stopped breathing after hearing that phrase.
Living marks.
The innkeeper continued speaking calmly.
Too calmly.
Like someone discussing weather patterns that became impossible to change generations ago.
“The problem,” he eventually said, “is that sometimes buyers grow impatient.”
Nobody spoke after that.
Not immediately.
Joan finally managed to calm the little girl enough that she stopped shaking slightly.
Then Joan crouched beside her and said something very softly.
“Your grandmother paid for your future already.”
The child cried harder after hearing that.
But Joan kept holding her anyway.
“You have to become stronger now,” she whispered.
“For your brother and sister.”
While she spoke, I noticed Joan’s own markings shifting faintly near her throat again.
Almost like movement beneath shallow water.
Then the lower dining hall door opened.
Spathian finally returned.
At first he looked confused.
Then I explained what happened.
Very badly, probably.
I do not think my thoughts were functioning correctly anymore.
Halfway through my explanation, Spathian stood up so suddenly his chair nearly fell backward.
For the first time since meeting him…
I saw genuine anger on his face.
Not annoyance.
Not eccentric excitement.
Actual anger.
His eyes looked almost red beneath the lanternlight.
Then Ryn spoke.
“Sit down.”
Spathian ignored her.
“Sit down,” she repeated.
This time colder.
Sharper.
The entire room became quiet afterward.
Even the rain.
Finally Spathian asked:
“So we do nothing?”
Ryn looked exhausted suddenly.
Not emotionally exhausted.
Structurally exhausted.
Like someone forced to explain gravity.
“What exactly do you want to do?” she asked quietly.
“Save them?”
Spathian did not answer.
“This city survives because the rest of the world already decided what these people are,” Ryn continued.
“You think one fight changes that?”
Still nothing.
“Unless you can feed this harbor for generations,” she said, “or change how entire continents see the Inked, intervention only destroys the balance keeping people alive.”
Then after a pause:
“It’s cruel. But stable.”
I think that sentence may haunt me for a very long time.
Spathian slowly sat down afterward.
But the anger never fully left his expression.
That frightened me more than if he had shouted.
Ryn closed her ledger a little later and quietly announced we would leave Greyharbor in two days.
“Five days here was already enough,” she said.
Nobody argued.
The little girl eventually fell asleep beside Joan near the fire.
Even while sleeping, the marks across her shoulder continued spreading slowly beneath the lanternlight.
I could not stop watching them.
The body remembers.
Even when people desperately wish it would not.
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