Chapter 100: That Smelled Like Trouble III
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Auri’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the street noise like a thin blade. "Master," she said, "Reyan’s eyes are dishonest."
They were already outside the office, back in the crowded shop district. Chaos stone carts rolled past with clattering wheels. Two beastkin argued over the price of a polished spearhead. Somewhere nearby, a child was crying because someone had bought the last honey-cake.
Sekhmet did not look at Auri. He kept his pace even, hands clasped behind his back like a calm young lord on a casual stroll, not a man who had crawled out of purgatory with divine blood in his veins. But his lips curved faintly.
"I saw," he replied.
Auri’s gaze sharpened under her hood. Her posture did not change, yet the air around her tightened as if her wings wanted to open. "Do you want me to investigate him," she asked.
Sekhmet paused for a moment. Not long enough to look uncertain — only long enough to let the city’s sound wash over him.
Shout... haggle... clink... clink...
He pictured Reyan’s smile. Too quick. Too clean. The kind of smile merchants wore when they were selling someone else’s goods and pretending it was their own.
Sekhmet shook his head slightly.
"Not yet," he said. "If we strike too early, we reveal our hand. Let him think I am blind."
Auri nodded once, immediate and absolute. "Yes," she said.
They continued down the street. Sekhmet’s mind moved faster than his feet. He was already sorting the orc treasure into piles in his head — auction-grade, shop-grade, hidden-grade. Some items could be shown safely. Some items could be sold only to specific buyers. Some items carried residues so sharp they would attract the gaze of half-gods like blood in water.
"Not everything is wealth," he reminded himself. "Some things are bait."
And he had no intention of dangling bait in public unless he was prepared to kill what came for it.
He did not get far.
The street ahead subtly changed. It was not dramatic. It was not an obvious crowd reaction. It was a shift, like a flock of birds sensing a predator’s shadow. Conversations dipped. Heads turned. Vendors suddenly found urgent reasons to rearrange their goods. People made space in the walkway without being told.
Tap... tap... tap...
That sound reached Sekhmet before the man did.
Not the sound of normal boots.
The sound of expensive boots that believed the ground should be grateful.
Sekhmet lifted his eyes.
He saw them.
Dickon Iron.
Young Master of the Iron family.
Dickon walked like the street belonged to him. His clothes were tailored and bright, not a speck of dust on his sleeves, the kind of outfit that screamed, I do not touch the dirty parts of life; I pay others to touch them for me. His hair was styled neatly, his smile practiced, his face handsome in the clean, predatory way of noble sons who had never been denied anything except consequences.
Two guards flanked him.
Not city guards.
Personal guards.
Their eyes were cold, trained, and already measuring the distance between Sekhmet’s throat and the nearest blade.
Dickon spotted Sekhmet instantly. His smile widened in public performance.
"Oh," Dickon called loudly, voice dripping with mockery. "Look at that."
People slowed down. Some pretended to browse the nearest stall while angling their bodies so they could watch. Some stopped outright and folded their arms like they had purchased seats for entertainment.
Everyone liked drama.
Especially when merchant houses clashed.
Dickon stepped closer, his voice rising so the street could hear every syllable.
"I heard you died in purgatory," he said with exaggerated surprise. "What a miracle. What a shame."
Sekhmet kept walking. He did not answer.
He had learned a long time ago that the fastest way to feed a barking dog was to throw it your attention.
Dickon’s smile sharpened.
"You are ignoring me," he said, voice rising. "Are you too proud, Dawn boy, or too embarrassed to show your face after your house became a starving dog."
Sekhmet’s jaw tightened slightly.
Auri’s hand moved subtly beneath her cloak, ready. Not eager. Ready. The difference mattered.
Sekhmet kept walking anyway.
Dickon stepped into his path.
"Stop," Dickon said.
Sekhmet stopped.
The street held its breath.
Dickon smiled wider, tilting his head as if he were inspecting an object on a shelf. "You really are alive," he said, eyes scanning Sekhmet’s coat, his posture, his face. "I thought you would be bones by now."
Sekhmet spoke calmly, voice flat.
"Move," he said.
Dickon laughed like he had been offered a joke.
"Oh," he said, "the famous Sekhmet Dawn. The little merchant prince. The boy who used to glare at me like he could bite."
Dickon leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound intimate while still being heard by anyone within a few steps. "I want to thank you," he said softly, a cruel delight in his tone. "Your absence has been... profitable."
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed.
Dickon stepped even closer and placed one hand on Sekhmet’s shoulder as if they were friends.
That was the mistake.
It was not an insult. Not the mocking. Not the rumors.
It was the touch.
Sekhmet’s body reacted before his mind did.
A reflex born in purgatory.
A reflex born from chains.
A reflex born from three weeks of helplessness, dragged and beaten and forced to endure the sound of water like a torture bell.
His arm moved.
Wham!
He grabbed Dickon’s wrist, twisted, stepped sideways, and threw him.
Dickon’s body flew through the air like a sack of expensive arrogance.
Crash!
He slammed into a cart of vegetables. Cabbages bursts apart. Tomatoes rolled across the stone like fleeing soldiers. A vendor screamed like his entire bloodline had been murdered.
"Aaaah! My cabbages!"
The street froze.
Then the whispers exploded.
"Oho!"
"Did he just throw him?"
"That is Dickon Iron!"
"Dawn boy is crazy!"
Dickon groaned and pushed himself up, face red with shock and rage. Cabbage leaves clung to his hair like a crown of humiliation.