The Scumbags Guide to Enslaving Demon's

Far beyond the Bone Coast, the Black Mouth Exchange opened its gates.

Austin Veyron’s strike team left Grand Meridian at dusk, taking the repaired court route out through the east side of the city. The city did not gather to watch them go, because it was too busy holding itself together. South-quarter kitchens were posting food counts on boards for anyone to check. Market streets were forming witness rotas so no line went unwatched. Elena and Nahlia had already sent the visible-ration safeguards down every route that would carry them, determined that the city would not slip back into secrecy the moment the strike team’s backs were turned.

Marcus met Austin Veyron at the east gate with a folded relay sheet in hand.

”City network is stable,” he said, ”not safe. Stable.”

”That is enough to leave?” Austin Veyron asked.

Marcus looked back at the working city behind him, at the lit boards and the moving volunteers. ”It has to be,” he said. ”We cannot make Grand Meridian wait for one person to solve every problem it has.”

Austin Veyron nodded once. ”Send what you learn. We send what we find.”

The expedition took the fast road to Ossuary Harbor, then boarded a neutral vessel to carry them along the black coast. Vessa led the market preparation, going over trade postures the way she once went over battle plans. Ceryn carried the treaty records in a waterproof case, guarding them like the only proof any of this had happened lawfully. Nyra kept the heart shard wrapped in three layers of cloth against her chest, as if the extra fabric might quiet its pulse. Orena watched the coast currents for anything trailing them. Rin ranged ahead whenever the shoreline allowed it, scouting paths the ship couldn’t see from the water. Veyra and Sable stayed close enough to Austin Veyron that he could not pretend, even to himself, that his hunger was a private matter anymore.

At the Black Mouth Exchange, the sea ended at a cliff shaped like an open jaw.

Thousands of stone teeth formed the gate, jagged and uneven, worn smooth in places by centuries of traffic passing between them. Between the teeth lay a market built directly into the cliff’s throat: bridges strung across open air, hanging warehouses lashed to the rock, trading cages stacked three deep, and lantern-lit docks piled on top of one another until the whole structure looked like it might collapse under its own appetite. Ships came and went constantly through the gap in the teeth, carrying grain, salt, medicine, weapons, and things no one on deck ever named aloud.

A sign carved over the gate read: HUNGER HAS A PRICE. PAY HONESTLY.

Vessa snorted at it. ”That is how you know it will be dishonest,” she said, and no one on the team disagreed with her.

At the checkpoint, three exchange brokers waited behind a counter made from black wood polished by countless hands. They wore plain gray robes and smooth masks carved with small, deliberate mouths. Beside the counter stood a rack of food sacks, each one stamped with a red seal that caught the lantern light.

”Travel purpose?” the first broker asked, voice flat behind the mask.

”Trade observation,” Vessa replied. ”We carry no sovereign claim and request no credit.”

The broker looked over the assembled team slowly. ”No credit? Unusual.”

”Not impossible,” Ceryn said, holding up nothing more than a steady gaze.

The broker’s mask turned toward Nyra next, tracking something none of the others could sense. ”Attunement residue,” it said. ”Declare artifact.”

Nyra did not touch the pouch beneath her coat, though her hand wanted to. ”Personal object,” she said. ”Not for sale.”

”Everything enters the Exchange under a category.”

”Then classify it as not for sale,” she said again, letting the words stand as their own answer.

The broker’s small carved mouth widened, just slightly, as though it found the refusal interesting rather than final.

A second broker pushed a food sack across the counter toward them. ”Relief package,” it said. ”No immediate cost. Your route looks tired.”

The sack smelled of warm bread, rich enough to cut through the salt air.

Austin Veyron felt the hunger logic coiled inside it before anyone else moved to take it. The relief package carried a future claim folded into the label so neatly that it almost looked like kindness, the way a trap can look like shelter if you’re tired enough to want it to.

ACCEPTANCE OPENS CREDIT.

Veyra looked at him, already reading his stillness correctly.

”Target?” she asked.

”Entry credit clause,” Austin Veyron said. ”Not the food. Not the brokers. Not their whole market system.”

”Witnessed,” Veyra replied.

”Witnessed,” Sable said.

Austin Veyron touched the sack’s red seal, and DEVOUR opened beneath his hand.

The clause tasted like soft bread laid over an empty pantry, a comfort built on top of a debt no one had agreed to.

ACCEPTANCE OPENS CREDIT.

He consumed the claim, and only the claim, leaving the bread itself untouched.

The red seal went gray in an instant, and the broker’s mask cracked straight down the center with a sound like a dropped plate.

”You altered Exchange stock,” it said.

”No,” Austin Veyron replied. ”I removed a lie from the label.”

The counter shook beneath them, hard enough to rattle the food sacks on the rack.

Hunger-contract collectors climbed out from beneath it, thin figures stitched together from grain sacks and red paper, each one carrying a mouth sewn crudely into its chest. They reached for the team with hooks shaped like ration tags, moving with the jerking hunger of things built only to take.

Rin’s arrows pinned the first two collectors to the checkpoint wall before they’d fully risen. Veyra cut a third apart cleanly, but its severed pieces kept crawling toward Nyra’s pouch on their own, twitching hands still reaching. Orena drove her spear through the floorboards, trapping the red paper shadows beneath the wood before they could regroup.

Ceryn held up a treaty sheet like a shield made of ink. ”We entered as observers,” they said. ”Exchange law permits defensive refusal against undisclosed credit.”

The surviving broker hesitated at that, mask cracked but still upright.

It was not sympathy that stopped it. It was procedure, and procedure, apparently, still meant something here.

Vessa stepped forward and produced her courier permit from Kharos, holding it out like proof of a life the broker couldn’t argue with. ”Record the dispute,” she said. ”We accept no relief package and claim no exchange credit.”

The broker’s cracked mask worked soundlessly for a moment, mouth opening and closing without sound, before it struck a black stamp onto a strip of bone paper and held it up for all of them to see.

ENTRY RECORDED: NO CREDIT.

The collectors collapsed at once into ordinary sacks and scraps of red paper, whatever animated them gone as quickly as it had come.

The gate opened.

Inside, the Exchange was louder than Kharos had ever been, and far less subtle about what it was selling. Food stalls offered sacks of grain beside cages holding contract animals that watched the crowd with too much awareness. Brokers shouted prices for river rights, hunger wards, and ration codes, their voices layering into a single unbroken roar. Every merchant, without exception, had a black mouth symbol painted somewhere on their booth, small or large, proud or half-hidden.

The team moved through the crowd without stopping, none of them eager to be noticed for longer than necessary.

Nyra’s heart shard pulsed once beneath her coat, sharp enough that she pressed a hand flat against it.

”Vordessa is close,” she whispered.

Rin caught the scent first, nose lifted toward the higher levels of the cliff market. ”Forge metal. Red salt. Upper market,” she said.

They climbed a stair carved directly into the cliff’s throat, worn smooth by generations of feet. Halfway up, a market worker stepped into their path without warning. She was an adult woman with silver eyes and a ledger chain looped twice around her waist, and she looked at them as though she’d been waiting.

”You are looking for the midnight exchange,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Vessa did not slow her pace. ”Are we?”

”You carry a fragment resonance,” the woman said. ”The plague broker is auctioning a living recipe tonight. Sovereign buyers have already arrived.”

Ceryn’s face tightened at the word. ”Recipe?”

The worker tapped her ledger chain twice, as if the motion helped her choose the right words. ”A hunger pattern that can be mixed into food contracts,” she said. ”Not a disease. A rule. It teaches people to believe taking is survival.”

”Where is the auction?” Austin Veyron asked.

The woman looked at him carefully, longer than she’d looked at any of the others. ”Upper mouth,” she said. ”But entry requires a bid, a debt, or an invitation.”

”We have none,” Vessa said.

”You have something better.” The worker’s eyes flicked toward Austin Veyron’s wrist mark, lingering there. ”The Exchange has smelled the Maw on you. It thinks you might bid with hunger.”

Austin Veyron’s jaw tightened at that, the words landing somewhere he didn’t like.

”We are not bidding with anyone,” Veyra said, flat and immediate.

The worker nodded toward a narrow side passage cut into the rock. ”There is a service route to the upper mouth,” she said. ”I can show you, if you agree to one thing.”

”What?” Sable asked.

”When you find the recipe, do not burn every record in the Exchange. Some of us use records to keep our families from starving. The plague broker hides his work among real supply agreements, tangled in with everything the rest of us depend on.”

Ceryn looked at Austin Veyron, the weight of the request settling on both of them at once.

It was the same problem as the pantry, dressed in different clothes. Destroying the network outright might destroy the very people depending on it to eat.

”We target the coercion,” Austin Veyron said. ”Not the food routes.”

The worker studied him for a long moment, weighing the answer, then nodded slowly. ”Call me Amra,” she said. ”I choose to guide you to the upper mouth.”

The distant market bell began to ring somewhere below them, low and resonant.

Midnight exchange was approaching.

Amra led them into the service passage, which climbed behind the public stalls through narrow ducts thick with the smell of flour, smoke, and sea salt. Through cracks in the stone, Austin Veyron caught glimpses of sovereign buyers gathering below: a court delegate in a white spiral mask, a reef lord crowned with rows of teeth, and human merchants wearing black-mouth pins beneath coats far too fine for a place like this.

”They do not all want plague,” Amra whispered, leading them onward without slowing. ”Some want leverage over food routes. Some want a cure they can sell later. That is how the broker makes every buyer part of the spread, whether they mean to be or not.”

Nyra pressed a hand flat against the passage wall, eyes distant. ”The heart shard feels another fragment in the auction hall,” she said. ”Vordessa is using it to make the recipe look inevitable.”

Ceryn added the detail to the record sheet without breaking stride. ”Then the first thing we expose is the hidden cost,” they said. ”People need to see what they are buying before they buy it.”

Above them, behind black stone teeth worn smooth by centuries of hunger passing through them, Vordessa’s plague recipe was about to go on sale.