The dockmaster's momentary confusion bought them seconds, not safety. They melted into the churning human current of Liangshui Wharf, Grandma Xiu a frail weight between Nian and Mei Lin. The Starfall fragment hummed against Nian's hip, a constant, warm counterpoint to the cold dread coiling in her stomach. Its influence on the dockmaster had been subtle, profound, and utterly terrifying. It hadn't controlled, it had *shaped perception*, making them insignificant pebbles in the roaring stream of the port. But pebbles could still be noticed, especially with a fortune in gold dangling over their heads.
"Keep moving," Mei Lin hissed, her eyes scanning the chaotic docks like a hawk's. "Don't look at the bulletins. Don't meet anyone's eye. Head for the fish market – easier to lose ourselves in the stink and noise."
They navigated a gauntlet of sensory overload. Crates of pungent dried fish swung overhead on creaking pulleys. Baskets of writhing eels spilled onto the muddy planks. Merchants bellowed prices, porters grunted under sacks of grain, and the air vibrated with the thud of hammers from nearby shipyards. Imperial soldiers in polished crimson patrolled in pairs, their eyes sweeping the crowds with detached suspicion. Nian felt the fragment's subtle resonance wrap around them like a cloak of mundane exhaustion, dampening the frantic energy that might otherwise draw attention. *Be weary. Be ordinary.*
They reached the relative cover of the sprawling fish market – a cacophony of shouting vendors, squawking gulls, and the pervasive reek of brine and decay. Stalls overflowed with glistening silver catches, crabs clattering in bamboo cages, and mounds of pungent seaweeds. The press of bodies was thicker here, the scrutiny less focused. Mei Lin guided them towards a stall tucked under a sagging awning, where an old woman with forearms like knotted rope gutted fish with frightening speed.
"Granny Po," Mei Lin murmured, her voice barely audible above the din. "Knows the river better than her own wrinkles. Might know a boat needing quiet passengers." She dropped a few coppers onto the fish-scaled counter. "Salt mackerel, Granny. And news of the current?"
Granny Po's knife never paused. Her sharp eyes flicked from Mei Lin to Nian and Grandma, lingering a fraction too long on their worn, damp clothes and the unnatural stillness Nian projected around Grandma. "Current runs swift downstream, Lin-girl," she rasped, wrapping fish in damp leaves. "Imperial inspectors thick as flies on a carcass past Sandbar Point. Looking for something. Or someone." She slid the parcel across. "Heard tell of a junk. *Mist Weaver*. Captain's a queer one. Takes odd cargo. Asks few questions. Paid in silver, not chatter. Docked at Pier Seven. Old wood, green hull. Looks ready to sink." She wiped her knife on her apron, her gaze sharpening. "Trouble follows you, girl. Smells like deep water and deep shadows."
Mei Lin pocketed the fish. "Trouble's always hungry, Granny. Thanks." She nudged Nian and Grandma back into the flow.
Pier Seven was at the far end of the wharf, older, less maintained, crowded with vessels showing the scars of hard use – leaky fishing boats, a barge laden with cracked pottery, and there, moored precariously at the end, the *Mist Weaver*. Granny Po hadn't exaggerated. The junk was ancient, its green paint peeling like diseased skin, its timbers warped and stained. Tattered grey sails hung limp. It looked less like a vessel and more like a derelict waiting for the next storm to finish it off. A lone figure leaned against the rail – a tall, lean man with skin the color of teak, clad in practical, salt-stained grey. A wide-brimmed straw hat shadowed his face, but Nian felt his gaze lock onto them the moment they stepped onto the rickety pier. It wasn't hostile, but unnervingly direct. The fragment pulsed a note of caution, sensing focused intent, but no immediate malice.
Mei Lin approached first. "Captain of the *Mist Weaver*? Seeking passage downriver. Three passengers. Discretion appreciated."
The captain didn't move. His voice, when it came, was low, gravelly, and carried the rhythm of the sea. "Downriver runs swift. Current carries whispers. And shadows." He tilted his head slightly, the shadow from his hat shifting to reveal one piercingly blue eye. It fixed on Nian, or rather, on the pouch at her hip. "Heavy cargo for a frail craft."
Nian tensed. Could he *sense* it? The fragment hummed, not hiding, but not projecting. Assessing.
Mei Lin's hand rested near her knife. "The cargo is our concern, Captain. Can your vessel bear the weight?"
The captain pushed off the rail, unfolding to his full height. He moved with surprising grace for a man on such a decrepit ship. "The *Weaver* bears what she must. For a price. Silver buys silence. Gold buys speed. What do you offer for passage through… watched waters?" His blue eye held Nian's. "Besides coin."
Grandma Xiu stirred, her voice thin but clear. "We offer no trouble, Captain. Only the need for quiet waters."
"Quiet waters are scarce," the captain replied, his gaze still on Nian. "The river sings of hunters. Imperial hounds. Rockbreaker moles. And something… colder. Sharper. Like ice in the blood." He took a step closer. The fragment pulsed a sharper warning. Nian felt it – a subtle pressure, not physical, but probing. Like fingertips brushing against the edges of her concealed light.
*He knows.* Not everything, but enough. The fragment reacted instinctively. Not with aggression, but with a surge of pure, resonant *presence*. It wasn't a shout, but a clear, undeniable declaration of its nature, its wholeness, its profound harmony, directed solely at the captain. It projected an image: the mended silver vein within the emerald jade, glowing with steady light. *This is what we carry. This is why they hunt.*
The captain froze. His single visible eye widened fractionally. A flicker of something profound – awe, recognition, perhaps fear – crossed his weathered face. He took a slow step back, his hand unconsciously touching a small, worn jade amulet hanging at his own throat, carved with a simple wave pattern.
"Spirits of the deep," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper lost in the dock noise. He looked from Nian to the shard's pouch, then back to her face, seeing her anew. "The mended sky…" He bowed his head, a gesture far deeper than respect for potential passengers. "The *Mist Weaver* is yours, Singer. Such light… it changes the current. We sail with the dusk tide. Be aboard." He named a price in silver – fair, not extortionate. "Keep your coin hidden. And your light… cloaked. The river has many eyes."
Relief warred with a new kind of tension. They had passage, offered by a man who recognized the celestial shard not as plunder, but as something… sacred? Or at least, too dangerous to cross. But his words confirmed their fears: the hunters were known entities on the river.
They spent the tense hours until dusk huddled in the shadows of a tar-scented net loft near Pier Seven. Nian shared Granny Po's fish, the salty taste doing little to calm her nerves. The fragment remained watchful, its resonance a low thrum, constantly scanning the Qi of the bustling port. It tracked the patrols, the flare of greed near the bulletin boards, the distant grind of Rockbreaker scouts moving through the town's outskirts like subterranean tremors. And then, it pulsed a sharp, icy warning.
*Southwest. Edge of docks. Cold. Sharp.*
Nian peered through a gap in the stacked nets. At the far end of Pier Seven, where the wharf met the muddy shore, a figure stood. Cloaked in darkness that seemed to absorb the late afternoon light, face obscured. Two points of cold, fractured moonlight glowed where eyes should be, scanning the moored vessels, lingering for a moment on the decrepit *Mist Weaver*. The Shadow-Silk. It had found the port.
The figure didn't approach. It simply stood, a sentinel of void-cold hunger, radiating a subtle pressure that made the nearby dockworkers unconsciously give it a wide berth, shivering without knowing why. It was waiting. Watching. The fragment vibrated against Nian, a mix of focused vigilance and a strange, almost… competitive intensity. *The Shattered Moon seeks to sunder what was woven whole.*
As the sun dipped towards the horizon, painting the river in blood and gold, Captain Renshu (as he'd tersely introduced himself) appeared at the *Mist Weaver*'s gangplank. "Now," he called softly, his voice cutting through the noise. "Swiftly and silently."
They boarded the ancient junk. It smelled of damp timber, old fish, and tar. The deck was cluttered with coiled ropes and patched nets. A few grizzled crew members, as worn as the ship itself, cast incurious glances their way before returning to their tasks. Captain Renshu guided them below decks to a cramped, low-ceilinged cabin smelling of mildew and salt. A single oil lamp guttered.
"Stay here. Out of sight," he ordered, his blue eye serious. "We cast off soon. The first stretch is watched." He paused at the door, looking at Nian. "The cold blade is on the shore. It cannot follow on water… yet. But it *will* find a way. The mended star's song, even cloaked… it draws the void." He closed the door, leaving them in the dim, rolling confines of the cabin.
The *Mist Weaver* creaked and groaned like a living thing as it got underway. Nian felt the deck vibrate beneath her feet, heard the shouts of the crew, the rattle of chains, the splash of the anchor rising. They were moving. Escaping Liangshui.
Grandma sank onto a narrow bunk, exhaustion etching deeper lines on her face. Mei Lin peered through a grimy porthole. "Patrol boat," she reported tersely. "Passing us by. Renshu's reputation, or the *Weaver*'s state, buys us indifference… for now."
Nian sat on the floor, her back against the cabin wall, the Starfall fragment cradled in her hands. Its light was soft in the gloom, the vein of silver pulsing gently. She projected her relief, her gratitude for the passage, her lingering fear of the Shadow-Silk watching from the shore.
The fragment responded with warmth, reassurance. It projected the sensation of the river's flow, the junk's steady movement downstream. Then, a new image: not the open river ahead, but a narrowing. A fortified point. Stone towers on both banks. Imperial banners snapping in the wind. The cold, metallic sting of concentrated Imperial Qi, thick as fog. *Sandbar Point.* The blockade Granny Po had warned of.
The fragment's resonance shifted, deepening into a focused thrum. *Harmony through the discord.* It wasn't a plan, but a statement of intent. The mended star had navigated primordial forests, drowned cities, and whispering reeds. Now, it faced the clenched fist of the Jade Empire on its own river. The journey downstream had begun, but the most perilous current lay dead ahead, where Imperial steel waited to test the strength of celestial harmony. The *Mist Weaver* sailed towards the teeth of the dragon, carrying a secret that could shatter empires or mend the sky anew.