? Poison ?
Montivara Mountains
The sun dipped low behind the hills, casting long shadows over the winding road. Behind them, the village shrank steadily, swallowed by thick trees and the creeping mist of early dusk. The carriage rocked gently as it moved along the uneven path, its wheels groaning against the stones.
Inside, Alex sat upright, stiff with the effort of composure. His face was still damp, cheeks flushed with the ghost of tears recently wiped away. He didn’t speak. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, jaw clenched as silence settled thick between them.
Dominick, seated beside him, finally broke it.
“You did good back there,” he said. “You were smart. Brave.”
Alex gave no reply. He said nothing, just stared forward, as if afraid that speaking might unravel the calm he had barely stitched together.
His mind returned to the crowd—panicked faces, frantic shouts—and the image of Dominick with a shotgun in hand, calm as death.
And beneath it all, his mother’s voice echoed sharply in his head: "He’s a devil. Do what he says. Don’t challenge him. Don’t trust him."
He swallowed hard. Then, quietly, he spoke.
“Earlier… when you were talking to my parents,” Alex began, voice uncertain, “you said something about me doing… errands for you.”
He paused, as though weighing the question. “What are those errands, exactly?”
Dominick didn’t answer right away. He glanced out the window, watching the forest pass.
“You’ll find out in time,” he said. “I’m not going to babysit you. And I’m not raising some farm boy who milks cows. You need to make yourself useful. If you do, the Dons—my bosses—they might come around. They’ll tolerate you once they see you're helping me. But if you rebel…”
His voice dropped, quieter but heavier.
“…you’ll drag all of us to the guillotine, including your parents.”
“Are my parents safe now?” The boy asked.
Dominick looked at him then, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I helped them disappear. I have eyes everywhere. The Dons won’t do anything behind my back. And if they try… I’ll know.”
Alex absorbed that. Then, quietly, to himself:
"He means it. He’s serious about keeping them safe… especially my mother…"
His brow furrowed, thoughts circling. "What is his story? My parents knew him since they were kids…"
His eyes drifted to the man beside him. There was something about Dominick’s presence—something unnatural.
"It’s like the air around him has weight," Alex thought. "Just by looking at you, it feels like someone put a knife to your throat."
He hesitated, then asked softly, “Can you tell me about my parents? They said they ran away from the city…”
Dominick exhaled. “Figured,” he muttered. “They didn’t tell you anything.”
“I just…” Alex’s voice was quiet. “I learned my father used to treat dangerous men or something. That’s why they ran.”
“No,” Dominick said, flatly. “Your father ran because he saw something that scared him. Thought it might happen to him. Or your mother. Or maybe to you, once you were born.”
He paused for a moment, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly as he flexed his hands.
“No,” he added, voice colder now. “I’m giving him too much credit. He ran because he was scared for himself.”
Alex’s expression shifted. His gaze sharpened, a faint glare rising to the surface. He didn’t like the tone, the insult.
Dominick noticed. He turned his head and met the boy’s eyes.
Alex didn’t flinch. Not immediately. But the silence between them cracked under the weight of Dominick’s stare. The moment stretched—intense, uncomfortable.
Finally, Alex blinked and looked away.
Dominick studied him for another beat, then nodded slightly.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll need that mentality.”
He leaned back, voice quieter now, but firm.
“Don’t let anyone take what’s yours, Alex.”
That line… it sat differently. There was something heavier behind it. A truth that felt too honest to be a lie. Alex didn’t know what to make of it—not yet.
And so the two sat in silence once more, the carriage carrying them forward toward the docks, where the sea waited—and whatever came after it.
Hours later, under the cover of darkness, the carriage pulled into the sprawling docks. The port was alive with movement despite the late hour—men shouting, crates thudding against wood, sails flapping in the night wind. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting erratic pools of golden light across the damp stone and black water. Beyond the piers, a great ship waited, hulking and still. Its silhouette loomed like a mountain of shadows beneath the moon.
Alex stepped down from the carriage and took it all in.
The village—the trees, the hills, the narrow dirt paths—felt a world away now. That life, that simplicity, had vanished behind him. Ahead lay only strangeness, noise, and the vast unknown.
Dominick tilted his head.
“Come,” he said simply.
They slipped into the maze of alleys near the waterfront, weaving past slumped drunks, tired sailors, and vendors closing up their stalls for the night. The stench of fish hung thick in the air, mingling with brine and coal smoke. Wooden crates were stacked high in narrow passageways, and rats skittered out of sight as their footsteps approached.
At last, they came to a crooked wooden sign hanging low above a battered door.
Dominick pushed the door open without pause.
The tavern inside was dim and hazy with smoke. The air was sour with sweat and ale. A few hunched figures sat scattered among the tables—dockhands, perhaps, or sailors too worn to speak. Behind the counter stood an old bartender, leathery and broad-shouldered, his face as weathered as driftwood. He dried a cloudy glass with disinterest and didn’t bother looking up when they entered.
“Hello,” the man grunted.
“Anyone tailing me?” Dominick asked, quiet but direct.
The bartender snorted, slamming the glass on the counter.
“No,” he said. “Ain’t nobody dumb enough to head for the mountains. Nothing up there but goats and ghosts.”
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Dominick placed a few coins on the bar with a soft clink.
“Still gotta ask,” he murmured.
The bartender scooped the coins away without thanks, muttering to himself as he tucked them beneath the counter as Dominick left with Alex following him. They stepped back into the cold air beyond the tavern. Dominick stopped at the edge of the street and turned slightly, one hand reaching into his coat. When it emerged, he held something out to Alex.
Alex took it. A folded sheet of thick paper—crisp and creased.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A map of the city where we are headed to,” Dominick replied. “Once we’re near the docks, we’re strangers. You don’t want to be seen with me. Neither do I.”
“We’ll arrive tomorrow,” he continued. “When we do, go to the spot I marked. Wait for me on the second floor of that address. Don’t lose your way.”
Alex frowned. “Why not just stay together?”
Dominick flicked the ash away.
“I don’t want anyone in the city knowing you’re tied to me,” he said. “Don’t even speak to me on the ship. For your safety as well. Got it?”
Alex nodded stiffly. “Got it.”
Dominick turned again, his boots echoing faintly on the cobblestones as he walked into the night.
Alex remained for a moment, watching the coat vanish into the dark. The cold returned, curling around him like smoke. He looked down at the map in his hand, then up again—toward the ship, toward the sea.
"He’s careful about everything," Alex thought. "Earlier he made sure we weren’t followed. Now this…"
From the far side of the dock, the gangplank creaked under the shifting weight of cargo. The tide whispered against the hull.
Alex tucked the map inside his coat, drew a slow breath, and stepped forward.
The docks groaned under the weight of cargo and footsteps as the ship loomed above, its hull creaking like an old beast stirred from slumber.
Alex walked several paces behind, just as he had been told, the map tucked firmly inside his coat.
Dominick said nothing, never glanced back. He ascended the gangplank with the same calm, unreadable stride he always carried—like a man who knew he belonged anywhere he chose to stand. A sailor at the top stiffened, made as if to block the way, then stepped aside. He did not meet Dominick’s eye.
Alex followed in silence, keeping his gaze low. Halfway up, the sailor’s voice caught him.
“You—are you Alex Merchand?”
Alex blinked, nodding, confused. "Wait… How am I supposed to board? Don't I need an identification or a ticket or something?"
“Go on then,” the man muttered, lowering his voice. “Captain says to expect a child. Strange, though. You’d think city folk could pay for a passenger boat, not smuggle you in a merchant’s hold.”
Alex hesitated. "Smuggle?" The word turned in his head like a pebble in his shoe. He didn’t quite understand, but he knew enough to sense something was being hidden. He bowed his head in thanks. The sailor tilted his own in faint amusement at the boy’s courtesy.
The night wind tore at Dominick’s coat as he stepped onto the deck ahead. Alex’s eyes followed the black fabric, caught by the way it snapped in the breeze. "So… this is how he works."
Dominick strode to a bench by the rail and sat with the ease of someone claiming his place. Alex remembered the instructions and found a spot far down the deck, away from him. Alone.
Minutes passed. The night wrapped itself around the ship, broken only by the lanterns that swung from their hooks. Sailors moved briskly, their voices carrying low across the deck. Ropes slapped against wood as they were hauled up from the bollards; pulleys squealed as canvas was loosed and furled. Somewhere below, the deep cough of the engine stirred, rolling through the hull like a waking heart.
Orders were shouted, echoed, and obeyed. The gangplank rattled as it was drawn in, chains clinking against the iron fittings. Slowly, the ship groaned free from the pier, the black water widening between dock and hull.
Alex hugged his coat tighter, feeling the floor beneath him shift with each breath of the tide. The wind pressed harder now, filling what sails had been set, carrying the smell of tar and salt into his nose.
He had never left the village, never set foot on a boat. Now every sound and motion felt otherworldly—the ropes groaning like voices in the dark, the lanterns swaying as if haunted, the vast timbers beneath him alive with shudders. What was daily routine for the sailors seemed to Alex like watching ghosts at work, pulling the ship into the night.
And the ship sailed.
The sea was colder than it should’ve been. Not the temperature, but the feeling—the slow, sinking kind of cold that lived in the chest and crept outward. It matched the way the clouds rolled over the morning sky, smudging the sun like someone had tried to wipe it out with their thumb.
Alex stood near the edge of the deck, hands in his coat pockets, quiet. The ship rocked gently beneath him, but he barely swayed. His eyes weren’t on the water. They were trained across the deck, past the ropes and crates and half-shouted orders, where Dominick stood like a shadow stitched into the ship itself.
He had said not to talk to him.
Not to be seen near him.
Alex remembered that clearly now, the warning still lodged like a splinter in his ear.
So he stayed back. Unmoving.
A sailor passed him and slapped the back of his head—casual, like tossing waste overboard.
“Watch it, kid. You’re not in the village now.”
The ship lurched slightly as a wave passed under, but Dominick stood as if anchored to the wood. The men moved around him without ever stepping too close. Voices dropped as they passed. They acted like he wasn’t there—but not with neglect. With reverence. Or fear.
One man, big-shouldered and broad-faced, glanced his way. Then whispered to the man beside him.
“That’s Dominick Marviano, ain’t it?”
“Shut up,” came the reply, low and urgent.
“Don’t say his name. You don’t talk about men like that out loud.”
The words caught in Alex’s stomach. Heavy. And suddenly very real.
Dominick didn’t need to speak to be noticed. He didn’t need to command to be obeyed. He simply existed—and the space around him shaped itself to that fact.
A moment later, the same sailor who had slapped Alex ambled toward Dominick, drunk on ego and rum.
“Hey,” the man called, smirking. “Fancy sticks, huh? Spare one for a cold brother?”
Dominick didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the sea.
The sailor tried again. “Hey. I’m talkin’ to you.”
“Walk away,” Dominick said, the words almost too soft to hear over the creak of ropes and waves.
But the sailor only chuckled, like a man too stupid to see the edge of the cliff he was laughing on.
“What, too good to talk now?” He reached out and flicked Dominick’s coat, careless.
“C’mon, don’t be shy—”
Dominick turned. His face came into view like a blade slipping from its sheath—slow, glinting, deadly.
“Captain,” he said, not looking away from the sailor. “Is this Jonathan?”
From the quarterdeck, the captain's voice snapped like a whip. “Damn it—Jonathan, what the hell are you doing?!”
Jonathan blinked. “What? I was just askin’ for a cigar!” Then, more uncertain:
“…And how does he know my name?”
The captain was already descending. “Just go away. Leave him alone, Dom…”
Dominick’s voice was quiet now.
He took a single step forward. The space around them contracted like a held breath.
“You’re Jonathan Merlin, aren’t you?"
"Joined the crew last spring. Factory underpaid you, so you thought of maybe trying as a sailor.”
Jonathan swallowed. The laughter had drained from his eyes.
“You met a girl two weeks ago,” Dominick went on. “At a dockside bar. Pretty one. The waitress with the chipped tooth.”
He paused, then added with surgical flatness, “Don’t get too attached. She says the same things to every man that buys her drinks.”
“And your father,” Dominick continued, as though consulting a ledger, “still sick, isn’t he? Try doctor Kranz instead of doctor Paul. He will keep him alive.”
Jonathan didn’t answer. Just listened. The air had turned thick as rope tar.
Dominick tilted his head slightly. “You were quiet on the way here. But now you’re drunk.” His gaze swept the deck, slow and deliberate, “Let me guess. Rum?”
There was a shift in the air. A ripple. Some of the men stopped working.
He glanced down at the mug in Jonathan’s hand. Then around the deck.
“The bottles came from a warehouse I more or less manage. I’m taking over the ship.”
A silence fell like a sheet of lead.
“What is he blabbering about?” someone muttered. Other whispers followed.
“Very soon, the poison will kick in,” Dominick said, exhaling smoke. “Whoever drank earlier—it won’t be pretty.”
“Dominick—what the hell?,” the captain barked, his voice cracking. “Stop joking.”
Dominick’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not.”
He turned calmly back to the group. “I need to pick up some cargo. The few that survive will do as crew. I know you don’t drink on the ship, Captain. I need you.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the men—nervous, uncertain. One wiped his brow, muttering under his breath, “No way… it can’t be true, right?”
Another shifted, unease creeping up his spine. He thought of his family, imagining the last time he might set foot on the deck. Retiring from the life he’d known, and now this… poison?
A third man’s eyes darted, panic rising as though hallucinations were crawling along the walls.
Then it happened.
Someone screamed. Another dropped to his knees, trying to vomit what he drank.
A man clutched his stomach, trembling, as if the very idea of poison was already working through his gut.
Then, quietly, Dominick laughed.
Not loud. Not manic. One soft, low laugh. Precise. Measured. Somehow worse than shouting.
“I was joking, of course,” he said with a grin.
The sailors froze.
“Calm down,” he added. “No poison. That would be stupid. All of you are needed. The ship can’t sail with half the men vomiting over the rail. You have to be smarter than that.”
He turned to Jonathan, still frozen, white as salt.
“Don’t try what you did again,”
“I don’t step aboard a ship without knowing what keeps the crew awake.”
“I don’t enter a room without knowing who waits inside.”
“Bartenders talk. Policemen listen.”
“I could get your father to describe the night you were conceived.”
“I can reach you anytime. No need to touch your coat.”
“All I need… is you being you.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Emotional. Human. Stupid.”
Jonathan didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The others shifted uneasily. Anger burned through their shame — men muttering, jaws tight, hands twitching near ropes or tools. They’d been made fools of, whipped into panic like green boys.
A curse cut the air. Someone spat. Another sailor muttered, “Bastard’s toying with us…”
But no one stepped forward. Not one.
Dominick hadn’t raised a hand, yet the deck felt colder, smaller. The silence he left was heavier than any chain.
From the shadows, Alex drew his knees up tight. The sea roared in his ears.
No one had died. It had only been a joke.
But nothing about it felt like one.
Dominick had bent the ship into chaos—
all because a sailor touched his coat.
And Alex wondered: When would the jokes stop being jokes?
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