Adventure of Zia 1

Salt wind rolls off the harbor as Zia steps from the boat into First Landing’s bustle. Drums thud in the square beyond the quay, and lantern-bearers hurry past with banners and garlands.

Under a rotting pier, a hunched old hermit waits in the shadow between pilings. He lifts his head as Zia nears, watching her through wet, bright eyes.

He drags a hand from his rags and reveals a jagged obsidian relic. Sickly light crawls through its black seams, and the boards above him answer with a low, strained groan.

Behind him, festival workers keep tying streamers and hauling planks, blind to the trap under their feet. The hermit tightens both hands around the relic, and the pier shivers again.

The relic’s black light flickers across his hollow face. Above them, the pier timbers creak, but he does not flinch. He only watches Zia, as if her answer weighs more than the wood overhead.

A breath of salt drifts through the shadows. The festival goes on beyond the pilings, bright and careless, while the hermit holds the trap steady and waits for Zia to speak.

Zia answers with a sharp wash of power. Water bursts up behind the hermit, a cold wall that shoves him hard out from under the pier.

He yelps and stumbles, fingers clamping on the relic as the surge tears it sideways. Zia’s gauntleted hand flashes in, and the obsidian slips free into her grip.

The price lands at once. The water smacks the pilings, and the pier shudders loud enough to carry through the harbor, a cracking groan answering her spell.

He catches himself at the edge, half-knee deep in the swell, soaked and wide-eyed. The relic is gone from his hand, but his mouth is still open, ready to shout.

Above them, festival light flickers through the gaps in the boards as the pier strains again. Zia has the relic, the hermit is off-balance, and one more cry could carry to the crowd.

Zia lunges in and clamps the hermit by the front of his soaked robes, wrenching him away from the gap in the boards. Her shout for the harbor guards rings out over the festival music, hard and clear enough to turn heads above the pier.

The hermit jerks in her grip, but the relic is gone and his balance is broken. His free hand scrabbles at Zia’s vambrace, and he hisses as the first boots pound toward the pier from the lantern-lit walkway.

His words carry only a few strides before the waves and the crowd swallow them. Several guards are already looking down from above, one hand on spear shafts, while the pier gives a long, ugly groan under their weight.

The nearest guard points at the hermit’s soaked hands and Zia’s seized relic, then starts down the steps. The hermit freezes for a breath, cornered between the water and the boots closing in.