Weatherboot strolled out of the Mermaid’s Grotto, heading straight for us.

The scar across his face writhed as his grin spread—wide, eager, and unmistakably ominous.

“Marvellous talent, boys,” he said, his hand clamping onto our shoulders like iron.

A hush fell over the crowd, every eye on him, as Weatherboot raised his voice.

“But it isn’t over yet!” He swung his arms wide. “A greater trial awaits! Win, and your reward will match your new title. Lose…” His eyes gleamed. “…and you’ll remember it.”

Laughter erupted from him—loud, vicious, theatrical.

The docks answered with eager roars of approval. More spectacle. More bloodless cruelty to savour.

We couldn’t say no.

I glanced at Thomas.

Moments ago he’d been on cloud nine—now he looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

My eyes flicked to where the hooded man had vanished.

I had a sinking feeling he was the culprit.

Weatherboot turned away and raised his voice. “Gather up, scupper-lots and rope-wranglers!”

“AYE!” dozens of coarse voices replied in unison.

Mugs and coins were set aside as the dockhands lined up before the dockmaster.

Seagulls shrieked and swooped overhead as townsfolk and travellers watched in confusion.

Weatherboot didn’t waste time.

He planted his boots in the sand and barked a string of orders that cut through the noise of the docks. A few of his men bellowed the orders again, sending them rolling down the shoreline.

Men scattered.

The crews were already in motion, preparing the “trial venue” at the captain’s command.

They dragged coils of mooring rope from the dock sheds and hauled long poles from the nearby repair yards.

The poles were driven deep into the sand along the shoreline, one after another. Soon they marked a wide square that swallowed part of the beach—and even the shallow water beyond.

Heavy ropes were strung between them, turning the open coast into a crude, temporary arena.

I swallowed.

Please don’t let this involve beasts—or monsters.

The crowd swelled as preparations dragged on. Had half of Delmar gathered here?

“Grilled fish, freshly caught!”

“Five coppers for a meat skewer!”

More vendors arrived, each shout louder than the last. Even great pots of spiced broth were hawked to the growing crowd.

Thomas elbowed me and gasped. “Look—a bloody shark tooth!” The colour had returned to his face since Weatherboot’s announcement.

Among the sellers, a man held up a jagged shark tooth to a customer clad in a fine tunic. A wooden box full of such trinkets sat atop a crate, drawing curious glances from the crowd.

“The dockhands say the tooth can ward off evil spirits at sea,” Thomas said, already rambling through another piece of dockside trivia.

The salt air grew thick with the scent of roasted meat and spilled rum.

People speculated freely, voices overlapping as they guessed at the challenge ahead.

I wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Keep an eye on Weatherboot,” I whispered, letting out a faint sigh. “He hasn’t revealed the next trial yet.”

The seamen were still working on the arena—shouting commands, measuring distances, checking the poles and ropes.

Thomas said nothing, his brow furrowed as he processed my words. A moment later, he checked his leather sling with steady hands, adjusting the cords with practised care.

Earning a title—even one born of spectacle—had steadied him in ways I hadn't expected.

I glanced at the sky. The yellow disc had climbed higher, nearing noon. Yet the weak sun struggled to warm us while a near-winter sea breeze bit at our skin.

Did Ol’ Lucia and the others know what was happening here?

I pushed the thought away. They didn’t need this chaos weighing on them.

“Allen, look!” Thomas nudged me, pointing at Weatherboot's crew scattered across the beach.

They hauled crates and barrels from the dock sheds and dragged them into position inside the ring. Some stretched weathered sails between poles, forming canvas walls that rippled in the sea breeze.

The arena took shape quickly—a maze of cover on one side, scattered obstacles on the other, and an open square in the middle where no one could hide.

I swallowed. This wasn’t a simple shooting trial anymore. It was a battlefield.

And I thought it was just a rectangular ring.

A heavy thud echoed across the beach.

Big O’ Scar—the trial’s self-appointed “ringmaster”—rose from his seat and slammed his mug onto a nearby crate.

“It’s about time!” he bellowed.

He crooked a finger, beckoning us forward.

Thomas and I traded looks, then stepped forward to face the dockmaster.

“Second trial—for Delmar’s rising stars!”

Weatherboot’s voice boomed across the beach, riding the wind above the crashing waves. The crowd answered with a thunderous roar, pressing closer to hear him.

He spread his arms wide, as though embracing the entire docks.

“This,” he declared, “is a battle of slings and bleedstones.”

He jabbed a thumb toward us.

“The Soulbreakers Team—”

Then he swept his hand to the right.

“—versus the Dockmaster Team!”

The cheers grew louder, rougher, hungry.

“Two hits,” Weatherboot continued, pacing closer to us, boots crunching against sand, “and you’re considered dead.”

Laughter burst from the crowd at the word, sharp and careless.

“Use all your wits,” he roared, fingers combing through the braids of his hair, “and become the last man standing!”

The atmosphere crested—shouts, whistles, fists pounding against wood and rail.

Then the Dockmaster Team cut through the crowd, making their way toward us.

Five young men—all in their late teens.

Tall and broad-shouldered.

Lean muscle packed into weathered frames shaped by years of dock labour.

They rolled their shoulders, cracked their necks, slings already hanging loose at their sides. Coloured stones clinked in their leather pouches like loose teeth.

Hands on hips. Arms crossed. Smug grins all around.

Their expressions said it plainly: they weren’t about to lose to mere children.

A ripple ran through the crowd.

"Five against two?" someone yelled.

"They're done for!" a dockhand cackled.

"Crush 'em, lads!" another bellowed.

Rough, ugly laughter rolled from the sailors, eager and sharp.

From the back, a small voice broke through: "That's not fair!"

It was quickly muffled, but the protest lingered, stubborn in the air.

My stomach dropped.

Beside me, Thomas went rigid. “Five of them?” he whispered. “Against two of us?”

You’ve got to be joking.

I stared straight at Weatherboot, my disbelief sharpened into a silent protest.

He noticed. Of course he did.

The captain tilted his head slightly, meeting my gaze with open amusement. As he grinned, a golden tooth flashed between his scarred lips—slow, deliberate, mocking.

“Trials and pressure,” he bellowed, voice swelling with theatrical pride, “give birth to unshakable warriors!”

The crowd erupted again.

And just like that, the rules were set—and we were already outmatched.