Chapter 8: Chapter 8: A Girl Named Cabbage

Back in the alley

Kaz surveyed the street like a general watching his armies march.

Whispers were spreading.

People chuckling, people frowning, people looking at the cobbles under their feet like they’d just noticed them for the first time.

Good.

It wasn’t about the buttons, it was about getting them to talk. Getting them to think.

And if a little chaos came of it, all the better.

Kaz was halfway through congratulating himself when he saw her.

A girl about his age, standing by a scorched-out teleportation circle with the kind of expression normally reserved for people who had just misplaced their castle.

She wore a cloak that might have worked as a disguise if it weren’t embroidered with silver thread and lined with silk.

The hood was pulled up, but not enough to hide the wild golden curls spilling out in rebellious spirals.

She looked like a princess playing dress-up as a beggar and doing a horrible job of it.

Kaz adjusted his hat, straightened his coat, and sauntered over with the kind of swagger that usually only belonged to con artists and bards who were very bad at being humble.

“Kaz Swindleton,” he announced, offering a bow that was a little too dramatic to be sincere but just sincere enough to be charming.

“Age ten. Professional nuisance, aspiring legend, and temporary governor of all cobblestones. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The girl blinked, clearly fumbling through a mental checklist.

Kaz watched her lips move silently, likely running through an elaborate backstory, a web of names and reasons and motives, some grand design concocted with the intelligence of a prodigy and the practical sense of a particularly ambitious cat.

Kaz held his smile, patiently waiting for her to finish whatever masterpiece of a lie she was sculpting.

He had to admire it, really.

There was something delightful about someone who planned their deception like it was an art form.

Finally, she seemed to settle on an answer.

She lifted her chin, took a breath, and declared:

“I am… uh… Cabbage. Yes. Cabbage… Flowerpot.”

And somewhere, hidden in the gears and pulleys of the city, Fate began sharpening its teeth.

Leonor had been planning for this moment.

Not just planning, preparing,

the way generals prepare for war,

or particularly ambitious cats prepare for grand heists involving entire fish markets.

She’d spent the better part of a week in her room with nothing but a chalkboard, twelve books on regional dialects, and three very confused servants who had been sworn to absolute secrecy.

The plan was flawless.

It was intricate.

It involved several layers of deception, at least one fictitious uncle in the Ministry of Waterways, and a completely fabricated boarding school called Saint Appledown’s Institute for the Magically Adequate,

which she thought sounded just realistic enough to be ignored by anyone important.

All she had to do was say it.

Which is why, when Kaz Swindleton extended his hand and introduced himself with the sort of theatrical flair usually reserved for bards and men about to be arrested,

she panicked.

“I am… uh… Cabbage. Yes. Cabbage… Flowerpot.”

Kaz blinked at her,

the grin on his face widening like he’d just been handed a joke with no punchline and a thousand possibilities.

His hand was still extended, but now he looked more like he was presenting her with a particularly curious riddle.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Flowerpot,” he said,

shaking her hand with all the gravity of a diplomat sealing an international treaty.

“I must say, it’s not every day you meet a Flowerpot.”

Leonor,

no, Cabbage,

she had to remember that now,

straightened her back and gave what she hoped was a dignified nod.

“Yes, well, there are… a lot of us.”

Kaz raised an eyebrow. “Flowerpots?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding too vigorously. “Absolutely brimming with us. You can hardly walk through the, uh, the Academy of Arcane Studies without bumping into one.”

“Really?” Kaz said,

the grin now stretching into something nearly feral.

“And would that be Saint Appledown’s, by any chance?”

Her eyes went wide. “How did you,”

“Oh, I make it my business to know things,” he said breezily.

“And also, you muttered it under your breath just now.”

Leonor’s cheeks flushed pink. “Did not.”

“Did too.”

“...Fine.”

She squared her shoulders and tried to summon the regal bearing she’d been practicing in front of her mirror.

“I’m here on… important business. Magical research. Brindlward’s mana turbulence is,”

“,a nightmare,” Kaz interrupted,

nodding with such gravity you’d think he’d been studying it his whole life.

“Horribly unstable, especially near the ports. I saw what happened with your teleportation circle.”

Leonor blinked. “You… you did?”

Kaz leaned in conspiratorially, eyes glimmering with mischief.

“Burned itself out right proper, didn’t it? Must’ve been some shoddy spellwork. Or maybe,”

he gave her a look that was equal parts amused and daring,

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“,someone’s not too good at moderating their mana flow, eh?”

Leonor's mouth opened and closed in rapid succession.

She’d never been accused of bad spell work before.

At least, not to her face.

“That’s not, it was a turbulence pocket!

The mana stream fluxed right as I was casting, and the spell rebounded off the,”

“Sure, sure,” Kaz interrupted again, waving his hand dismissively.

“Happens to the best of us. No need to be embarrassed.”

He grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“But I’ve got to say, it’s brave. Very brave.

I mean, coming to Brindlward of all places to study mana turbulence? You must be practically fearless.”

Leonor hesitated.

It… did sound good when he put it like that.

Kaz wasn’t finished.

He started pacing in front of her like a salesman pitching snake oil.

“I mean, not just anyone would pick the one place in the whole of Ferenwyld where magic goes all wibbly-wobbly and think,

‘You know what? I’ll just set up shop here. Study it. Solve it even!’”

He stopped dramatically, throwing his arms wide.

“Why, I think you might be a visionary, Miss Flowerpot!”

Leonor found herself nodding.

She was fairly certain she’d been insulted somewhere in there,

but it was buried under so much enthusiasm she couldn’t quite dig it out.

“That’s… exactly right,” she said,

with the kind of conviction that only shows up when you’ve been given a much better story than the one you had planned.

“I’m here to study it! Study the mana turbulence and… and come up with a solution!”

Kaz clapped his hands together.

“Brilliant! That’s what I like to hear! A bit of ambition, a bit of pluck!”

He paused, tapping his chin.

“Course, you’re going to need a guide. Can’t just wander Brindlward alone, not with the Smugglers about.”

Leonor stiffened. “Smugglers?”

“Oh yes,” Kaz said, nodding sagely.

“You didn’t think that teleportation circle was just for decoration, did you?

It’s part of the Brindlward Network.

Unofficial, of course.

But they get right uppity if you burn one out. Bit possessive, that lot.”

Leonor's eyes widened. “I, I didn’t know,”

“But!” Kaz announced,

cutting off her panic with the flair of a stage magician,

“I could be persuaded to act as your guide. Help you navigate the, er, local politics. And in return…”

Leonor narrowed her eyes. “In return?”

Kaz’s grin grew wider.

“You help me fix that teleportation circle before the Smugglers notice.

Shouldn’t be too hard for someone studying mana turbulence, right?”

Leonor straightened her back,

lifting her chin with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Of course. That’s… that’s nothing. I could fix it in my sleep.”

Kaz leaned back, hands behind his head, and gave a low whistle.

“A magical prodigy and brave enough to wander the Brindlward alone?

My, my. I do pick ‘em.”

Leonor glared. “Are you mocking me?”

“Absolutely,” Kaz said cheerfully.

“But only because I like you. So what do you say, Miss Flowerpot? Partners in crime?”

She considered him for a moment,

eyes narrowing as she took in his too-big hat, his ridiculous coat, the pockets that jangled with buttons.

He looked like a prank that had somehow gained sentience.

And yet… he also seemed to know what he was doing.

Or at least how to make it up as he went along.

Which, in her experience, was sometimes just as good.

Leonor stuck out her hand. “Partners.”

Kaz took it, shaking with dramatic flourish.

“Splendid! Now, let’s go fix that teleportation circle before someone starts asking questions.

And after that,” he flashed her a grin full of promises and mayhem,

“,let’s cause some trouble.”

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Trivia: If a discerning eye were ever to linger on Kaz Swindleton,and it would linger, because Kaz had the sort of wardrobe that didn’t just catch the eye but mugged it, rifled its pockets, and left it dazed in a side alley,it would notice several things at once. Chief among them was that his entire attire seemed designed not for thievery, but for being arrested after thievery. His boots were built less for running and more for spraining ankles. His cape was the kind of cape that, if capes were given instruction manuals, would’ve had CAUTION: SNAGGING HAZARD printed on page one. And his fashion sense was a riotous ensemble that announced his presence louder than any terrified bystander shouting “GUARDS!” ever could

Now, if you were rash enough to ask Kaz directly why he dressed in an outfit entirely unsuited to the two fundamental duties of a thief,namely, to go unseen and, failing that, to run like hell,he would likely give you one of three answers:

1. “Why should I run?”

2. “I don’t mind being seen.”

3. “Why do you think I gave myself this last name?”

And if, Saints preserve you, you pressed for an honest answer, Kaz would lean back, fold his arms, and lean in again with that insufferable little grin of his,the one that made you feel as though you were about to lose money, even if you didn’t have any.

And then he’d begin. Not quickly, Not methodically, but with the kind of deliberate slowness that suggested a story was being uncorked, and you were expected to drink it whether you wanted to or not.

It would be about a fisherman. A proper, weather-bitten one, who smelled faintly of salt, despair, and the sort of tobacco that comes in tins labelled Stoutman’s Friend. Every day, this fisherman hauled up fish. Not the ordinary sort, either. These were feral fish. The kind that thrashed and spat and swore terrible oaths in languages the fisherman didn’t even speak. Some of them threatened revenge. Most simply swore they’d naw off his fingers. .

And every day the fisherman would hold them down gently as they thrashed, listening intently to their threats, before gutting them anyway. Because that was the job.

Until one evening. One evening he caught a fish that was different. Smaller than most. Paler, too. And with a single, staring eye.

It did not thrash.

It did not curse.

It did not even blink.

It just looked at him.

And then,without fuss, without so much as a wiggle,it coughed. A single, damp little cough. Out of its mouth rolled an eye: blue, round, and bright as the summer sky.

The fisherman, being a man of experience, immediately recognized this for what it was: the sort of omen you do not, under any circumstances, try to keep arguing with. He fed the fish his finest bait, whispered something halfway between a blessing and an apology, and slid it back into the waves with the tenderness usually reserved for firstborn children.

The eye he kept. Not as a curse. Not as a treasure. But as a gift. The sort of gift you don’t entirely trust, but which you also don’t dare throw away.

And if you then asked what on earth this had to do with his boots, cape, or general aura of poorly concealed larceny, Kaz would only smile wider, tilt his head in that maddening way, and say:

“Well now, since you like questions so much, why don't i ask you one of my own? Who was really caught that day,the fish, or the fisherman?”

And then, naturally, you’d feel as though you’d been robbed. Not of your purse, but of the answer. Which, for Kaz Swindleton, was very much the point.

Personal Anecdote Submitted by System Agent Cassidy