ESTERA'S USUALLY THE FIRST ONE at the docks when they've got a job that involves sea-faring. She likes to make the acquaintance of whatever crew Kaz assembles, test out the give of the sails, get a feel for how the wind fills them.
But today, she's running a bit behind.
She has no one to blame but her own self-sabotaging mind. She supposes she could blame Matthias—the Fjerdan's existence in Estera's life stirs up bad memories, and said bad memories like to come back to her in dreams, the ghost that dogs at her heels making an appearance when her consciousness is at its most vulnerable.
She can't remember the exact golden-brown of her mother's eyes, or the timbre of her father's voice, but she'll never forget the green eyes of her most persistent ghost. It's as cruel as what she did to earn the haunting in the first place.
(No, what she did was more cruel by miles—but she likes to pretend it isn't. She pretends it helps her sleep better at night.)
She's sure Kaz will reprimand her for not being punctual (as she is known to be, unlike Jesper), but as the air begins to smell of the sea, she finds it hard to worry about his incoming anger. She hopes her ghost won't follow her to sea, but it's a futile hope—her ghost comes whenever she likes.
The docks are peaceful as she nears them. There's a light mist rising off the water, blurring the world just a bit. Estera has sailed these waters countless times, her powers as a Squaller almost as useful as a Tidemaker on a ship, and since most of the Tidemakers in Ketterdam are either in the Council of Tides or indentured to some merchant, she's the best choice for sea-faring Dregs.
She can almost make out the figures of her waiting friends when she senses a shift in the air. Half a second later, she feels the presence, but it's too late to run.
A hand snatches her wrist, yanking her into a broad-shouldered, musty-smelling body. Before she can cry out a warning, a second hand clasps over her mouth, muffling any scream she might try to get out.
She forces herself not to panic. She assesses her options as quickly and calmly as she can. Summoning the wind won't do her any good with her assailant holding her like this, her back to his front. Not to mention one of her hands is pinned to her chest. Her other hand is free—it's her left, but she's not hopeless with it. She flicks her wrist and feels the dagger up her sleeve slide into her grip, but before she can even think to use it, she hears the click of a tongue.
She turns her head as much as the hand on her mouth allows, and her heart stammers at the sight of a pistol aimed square at the side of her head.
"Careful, Squaller," Jurren Ophoff, a member of the Black Tips, warns teasingly. "Wouldn't want to blow your pretty little brains over the docks. Terribly gruesome for incoming tourists to see."
"Drop the knife," the man holding her orders, and she recognizes his gruff voice, almost identical to Jurren's. Martien, Jurren's twin brother. She fights an eye-roll—of course they're together. The Ophoff twins' co-dependency is well-documented in the Barrel, and the first thing to be exploited.
Connections are dangerous.
"He said drop it," Jurren says, as if Estera could miss the voice of a man inches from her ear.
Under Martien's hand, her lips tilt into a smirk.
If you insist.
It's a dangerous trick, but danger's a necessity in the Barrel. She uncurls her fingers, letting the knife fall. With one hand free, she summons a gust of wind, pushing the knife forward suddenly like an arrow loosed from a bow, aimed at Jurren's thigh.
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Stars ― Kaz Brekker
Fanfiction[SLOW UPDATES] 𝘪 𝘦𝘯𝘷𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴 ， 𝘪 𝘦𝘯𝘷𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴， 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘦𝘯𝘷𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵，𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰�...
