Mort aux Pirates

"Being hated for something you didn't do feels exactly the same as being hated for something you did. The crowd doesn't care about the distinction—and after a while, neither do you."

The street hit me like a wall.

Sound first—a roar of voices, laughter, argument, the clang of metal and clatter of wheels and a dozen other noises I couldn't identify, all crashing together into a single overwhelming wave. Then smell—smoke and cooking and sweat and something sharp and chemical, layered over the organic scent of too many people in an enclosed space. Then movement—figures everywhere, crossing and recrossing the street, emerging from doorways and disappearing into alleys, a constant churning flow of humanity that made the quiet terraces feel like a distant dream.

The grey balked beneath me, its ears flattening against its skull.

I knew how it felt.

"Bougez!" Duval's voice cut through the chaos. "Formation serrée!"

His men closed ranks, their bodies forming a barrier between the prisoners and the crowd. But it wasn't enough to block the stares. Wasn't enough to stop the faces turning toward us—curious, hostile, hungry for spectacle.

We pushed into the flow.

The street was narrow here, buildings pressing close on either side, their facades a jumble of styles I couldn't process. Spanish ironwork beside French shutters beside something older, stranger, carved with symbols that belonged to no tradition I recognised. Washing hung from lines strung between windows. Children's faces appeared and disappeared in doorways. A woman leaned from a balcony, shouting something to someone below, her words lost in the general roar.

And everywhere, light. The rivers I'd seen from above threaded through channels cut into the street itself, their glow competing with lanterns and torches and the luminescent threads woven into a thousand different garments. The effect was dizzying—shadows that shifted and danced, colours that seemed to pulse with their own rhythm, a visual chaos that matched the auditory assault.

The vial pulsed against my chest. Warm. Steady. A single point of calm in the madness.

Sylvie, I thought. Hold onto that.

A vendor's cart blocked half the street, forcing the formation to squeeze past. I caught a glimpse of the wares—pale vegetables, strips of dried meat, something that glowed faintly in a jar—before we were past it, plunging deeper into the crowd.

"Piratas!"

The word cut through the noise. A man's voice, harsh with hatred.

"Piratas! Les Éclaireurs ont attrapé des Piratas!"

Éclaireurs. That's what they called Duval's patrol—I'd heard the word several times during the descent. It meant something like scouts or rangers, I thought. The ones who ventured beyond the mountain.

Heads turned. The crowd's attention shifted, focusing on our formation with sudden, predatory interest.

More voices joined the first.

"Piratas!"

"Combien?"

"Deux—regardez, deux!"

The Éclaireurs pushed forward, but the crowd was thickening now, bodies pressing closer, the narrow street becoming a gauntlet. Someone spat—I heard the sound, felt something wet hit the grey's flank. The mule snorted, sidestepping, and I swayed against the restraints.

A face appeared beside me—a young man, barely older than me, his features twisted with rage.

"Assassin!" he screamed. "Voleur! Tu mérites la mort!"

I caught fragments. Assassin—that needed no translation. Voleur—thief, maybe. And mort. Death. Whatever else he was saying, he wanted me dead.

I didn't flinch. Couldn't flinch. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do except sit there and let the hatred wash over me like a wave.

The street opened into a small plaza.

The crowd was thicker here—not just passersby now, but people who had gathered deliberately, drawn by the commotion, eager to see the spectacle. They lined the edges of the space, pressed against buildings, climbed onto low walls for a better view.

Duval raised his hand. The formation halted.

No, I thought. Keep moving. Don't stop here.

But we stopped. Right in the centre of the plaza, surrounded on all sides by hostile faces.

"Mort aux pirates!"

The chant started somewhere to my left—a single voice, quickly joined by others.

"Mort aux pirates! Mort aux pirates!"

Mort. Death. Pirates. That one was clear enough. The words hammered against me, each repetition driving the message deeper. I wasn't a person to these people. I was a symbol. An enemy. Something to be destroyed.

The vial pulsed against my chest.

Light in darkness. Hold onto that.

Something struck my arm. Small, hard—a stone, thrown from the crowd. The pain was sharp but brief, already fading into the background noise of my battered body. More objects followed. A piece of rotted fruit splattered against the grey's neck. Something metallic clattered off the restraints holding my legs.

I ducked my head, trying to protect my face.

The chanting grew louder.

"Mort aux pirates! Mort aux pirates!"

And then—

"Arrêtez!"

Duval's voice cracked through the chaos like a whip. The effect was immediate—the missiles stopped, the chanting faltered, the crowd drew back as if pushed by an invisible force.

He turned in his saddle, his eyes sweeping over the plaza with cold authority.

"Ces prisonniers appartiennent au Conseil des Luminarques," he announced. His voice carried easily, cutting through the residual murmurs. "Justice sera rendue selon nos lois. Pas dans la rue comme des barbares."

I caught Conseil—council. And justice, lois—laws. He was invoking some kind of authority, some governing body that made even this angry mob step back. Whatever he'd said, it worked. The crowd shifted, anger giving way to something more like resentful obedience.

The formation began moving again.

But before we cleared the plaza, a child broke from the crowd.

Small. Five or six years old, maybe. She ran toward the formation with the fearless curiosity of youth, her pale face bright with interest rather than hatred.

One of the Éclaireurs moved to intercept her, but Duval raised a hand.

The child stopped beside my mule, tilting her head back to look up at me.

"Pourquoi il est attaché?" she asked.

Pourquoi—why. Attaché—tied, attached. She was asking why I was bound. Simple curiosity, from someone too young to have learned hatred.

A woman rushed forward—the mother, probably—her face tight with anxiety.

"Parce qu'il est dangereux," she said, reaching for the child. Dangereux. Dangerous. Even I could work that one out.

The girl studied me for a moment longer. Then she shook her head.

"Il n'a pas l'air dangereux." She paused, her small face serious. "Il a l'air triste."

I didn't catch all of it. But I caught triste. Sad. She was saying I looked sad.

Something cracked in my chest. A fissure in the wall I'd been building, the wall of numbness and survival and refusal to feel.

The mother scooped up her daughter, shooting me a look—not hatred, but warning—before retreating into the crowd. The girl peered back over her shoulder, those curious eyes still fixed on my face.

Then she was gone.

And the formation was moving again, leaving the plaza behind, plunging into another narrow street where the crowd pressed close and the chanting resumed, muffled now but no less hostile.

I blinked hard. Swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

The vial pulsed against my chest.

Triste. Sad.

She wasn't wrong.

The streets blurred after that.

More crowds. More stares. More fragments of shouted hatred in languages I couldn't fully understand. The grey walked on, steady and patient, carrying me through a gauntlet that seemed endless.

I stopped trying to process it. Stopped trying to understand the architecture or the culture or the thousand small details that made up this underground world. There was only the noise and the movement and the vial's steady pulse and the desperate need to hold myself together until we reached wherever we were going.

The crowd thinned.

The buildings grew older, rougher, their facades marked with symbols that seemed ancient even by this place's standards. Workers in practical clothes stepped aside to let us pass, their expressions more wary than hostile.

And then we stopped.

A building loomed ahead—larger than its neighbours, set back behind a low wall of carved stone. Above its doorway, words glowed in bright luminescence. I couldn't read them, but I recognised the architecture of authority. The unmistakable presence of an institution designed to impress and intimidate.

Duval reined in his mount.

"Quartier de détention," he announced. His eyes found mine, cold and flat. "Votre nouveau domicile. Jusqu'à ce que le Conseil des Luminarques décide de votre sort."

Quartier—quarter, district. Détention—that was clear enough. And there was that word again: Conseil. Council. The same authority he'd invoked to quiet the mob.

Whatever came next, it would be decided by the Council of Luminarques.

The gates swung open.

The noise of the city fell away behind us, replaced by something quieter. Something that waited.

I looked down at the vial resting against my chest, its soft glow pulsing steadily.

Light in darkness, Sylvie had said. The light you carry matters more than the light around you.

I was going to need it.