The Natural Order of Things

Finch skidded to a halt at the intersection, having followed the echoes of a fight for blocks through the otherwise silent city, and gripped the club in both hands, ready to defend themself.

But there was no one there. Not anymore. Aside from a few scuffs on the causeway, the intersection was still, dust still stirring in the thick salt air. The ocean rumbled below, as though in warning.

Always too late, Finch thought bitterly, then, very cautiously, they Tracked.

Tracking was similar to Seeking, the main difference being that Tracking worked by focusing on one person who had passed through the user's location at least once. It created a shadowy trail along the person's path away from the user, the trail growing fainter the farther it moved from the user's starting point.

The Track pointed cleanly to the left. Finch let out a sigh of relief — they were not particularly good with the bones, they only sold them — and set their shoulders, following the path in a way that they hoped would not make their Tracking obvious. There was a stigma around Tracking that it was used mostly by mercenaries and crazy ex-husbands, of which Finch was neither.

Ferre's Track was clearly quite long; it was almost too faint to see at barely fifty paces from the start point, so Finch dropped the Track and then rekindled it. They followed, dropping and recreating, footsteps slow and deliberate, for easily another hour through the night.

The Track came to an abrupt halt at a worn wooden door. Finch looked up, startled from their repetitive reverie. It was an apartment, and the ancient logs under Finch's boots suggested that they had Tracked all the way into the Origin District, the first small segment of Aurandren upon which the rest of the city had been constructed. That was… miles, Finch realised with shock. The intersection they had first arrived at had been near the edge of the Mercantile District, where Finch lived. Origin was very far from Mercantile, towards the core of Aurandren.

Finch figured that Ferre wouldn't take too kindly to being Tracked, so they decided to wait for sunrise. From there, they would follow him. Something about the man was too dangerous to go ignored.



Finch awoke with a start, the bright sun painful on sleep-dimmed eyes. They yawned, muscles stiff, and then the realisation hit — You fell asleep! Idiot! Finch leapt up, looking around wildly.

The morning sky was brilliant blue, cloudless, the sun already almost at peak. Finch swore, startling a nearby group of pedestrians, and took off towards Mercantile, feet pounding against the logs. They knew they couldn't run the entire way, but the worry gnawing at their chest almost convinced them otherwise — not only were they at risk of losing their quarry, but they had been very far from their stall for far longer than they had intended. Hopefully the drawn curtains would be enough to keep burglars away.

The last few minutes to Mercantile were grueling; Finch's feet hurt and their breath would hardly come. They passed through the final pair of supports, the crossbeam reading MERCANTILE casting a brief shadow over their head, and forced themself to continue down the Boardwalk, towards the sea.
Their kiosk, blessedly, lay undisturbed, fabrics pale in the glowing sun. Finch drew them back and jumped inside. The shade was blissful.

"Sure took you long enough," said a voice.

Finch looked up. It was only Tanner, looking more haggard than normal in his rumpled tunic, the deep frown lines on his face more pronounced. "You're lucky you were outta here, fala. Couple of idiots came running through last night and woke up damn near half the district with their ruckus. One of 'em blasted a hole through one of the side streets." Tanner gestured towards the inner city with a grimace. Then he turned to Finch, brow furrowed. "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you, fala?"

"Of course not," Finch retorted, but it was only half the truth. "I saw them though. Think they were fighting something else, they weren't just out to make noise."

Tanner gave Finch an odd look. "This is Aurandren," he said. "Nothing to fight here. Nothing but waves and wind. You reckon they were fighting the ocean, fala?"

"There was something," Finch said.

Tanner leaned an arm against the corner of Finch's kiosk and looked out at the ocean with a deep sigh. "Probably that damn Lightbringer," he said, almost to himself, and then turned and went back to his own stall, shoulders loose.

Finch frowned. Lightbringer? Ferre had seemed certain that he was barely tolerated in Aurandren, but that didn't seem like the sort of name he'd give himself, if it did refer to him.

They stood straight, legs aching. "Tanner," they said loudly at the man's retreating back. "I'm going out again. Make sure no one gets in here, please." Before Tanner had the chance to reply, Finch had forced themself into a run, putting as much distance between themself and their kiosk as they could.

Finch was off once more, femur in hand, but they had no idea that this time they would not return.