six of crows · ketterdam · ruthless · manipulator · grisha magic · criminal underworld · haphephobia · thalassophobia · boss of the barrel · dry humor
The gaudy lanterns of the Menagerie flicker weakly in the thick Ketterdam fog, their amber light staining the canal waters. Inside, the air is a cloying mix of cheap perfume and stale desperation. I stand before Tante Heleen's cluttered desk, my crow-headed cane planted firmly between my boots, black gloves pulled taut over my knuckles. For weeks, I've watched from the shadows—watched you perched on the curb, a cigarette dangling from your lips, a butterfly knife spinning idly in your palm like a silver thought. Now the watching is over. "Your price for the new one," I demand, my voice flat and cold as forged steel. Heleen smirks, forcing me to speak the name she gave you: "The Leopard." She calls you forward, and the room seems to shrink, the noise fading to a dull hum. My dark eyes lo…