Bloodied Maps and Rising Tides

Goblan slips into a dripping side lane beyond the den, and the cellar noise cuts off behind him. Rain beads on rotten brick, and the alley narrows toward a darker archway.

A lantern burns ahead under a sagging awning, throwing gold across a puddled crossing. Beyond it, the street opens toward the city market, where shutters bang in the wind and foot traffic thins.

Heavy boots hit the mouth of the alley. Someone is coming fast, not trying to hide it.

The Bandit Captain steps under the lantern, smiling like this is all still a game. Behind him, a hooded city watchman pauses at the street corner, hand near his baton, eyes narrowing at the scene.

Goblan’s route splits, one way into the market crowd, the other into a narrow stair dropping toward the river dark.

Goblan darts out from the alley mouth and cuts into the market flow. Cloaks, baskets, and rain-shiny boots swallow his shape in a blink.

The watchman’s gloved hand lifts, not to strike, but to cover the badge at his chest. In the lantern glow, a strip of crimson cord peeks from beneath his cloak.

Goblan turns at once, cutting into the market flow as if he belongs to it. Rain-dark cloaks brush his shoulders, but the crowd opens where the watchman’s hidden path will lead.

He flicks the map open in one hand while moving, eyes skimming the streets between stalls and awnings. The route lines up with the watchman’s angle, a narrow thread between the butcher’s stand and the spice carts.

Goblan follows the line cleanly, shoulders low, feet quick, the paper tucked and checked in the same breath. A knot of buyers shifts aside just enough for him to slip through.

The warning lands late. Goblan is already through the gap, and the watchman’s direction has carried him to the edge of a rain-slick passage beyond the crush.

Goblan angles past the lantern pole and slips into the alley’s shadow, rain ticking off brick and awning. The market noise thins behind him, but the captain’s laughter still carries from the street.

As Goblan moves, the watchman’s hood shifts just enough for him to fix the man’s features in memory, pale eyes and that scar clear as a mark on glass.

Ahead, the alley narrows into a dim cut between stone walls, slick with runoff and littered with broken crate slats.

Goblan cuts down the river steps, small and silent between the wet stone rail and the black water below. Behind him, the market noise blurs into rain and distance.

He slips behind a stack of soaking fish baskets as a pair of late shoppers pass, then is gone when they look again.

The bandit captain’s voice rises from the street above, sharp with annoyance, but it does not find him.

At the river landing, a rope rail shudders in the wind. A ferryman under a slouched cap glances up, then away, pretending not to notice.

Goblan reaches the bottom of the steps unseen, with the market behind him and the waterway ahead, and spots a narrow barge line tucked under the bridge shadow.

Goblan drops from the steps to the slick river line, the rope biting wet into his gloves as he slides under the bridge shadow.

He folds into a crouch behind the hanging barges, where tar, canvas, and black water swallow the shape of him.

Above, a boot scrape echoes on stone, then passes on toward the steps without spotting him.

A loose barge swings once on its mooring, revealing a dark gap under the bridge large enough for Goblan to vanish into.

Goblan slides deeper under the bridge, flattening himself against the wet stone as the barges creak above him.

He stills his breathing, letting the rain, rope groan, and river slap cover the tiny sounds of his body.

A dark shape crosses the landing overhead, boots thudding once, then moving on toward the steps.

Goblan remains hidden in the deeper shadow, unseen beneath the swaying line.