The Thames smelled like rot, salt, and desperation.
Eva Thorne had grown up breathing that smell.
It clung to everything—the damp wooden docks, the piles of fish guts rotting in crates, the sweat of men hauling cargo from sunrise to midnight. Even the fog drifting over the river carried the stink of poverty.
And tonight, as the last light of dusk bled across the water, the docks felt more like a prison than ever.
“Move faster, girl!”
The whip cracked against the wooden crate beside her.
Eva flinched, her fingers tightening around the rope she was dragging across the dock. The crate weighed almost as much as she did, packed with sacks of salted fish bound for some merchant ship that would sail away with riches she would never see.
Her arms trembled from exhaustion.
But she didn’t stop.
Stopping meant punishment.
And Bill Morgan loved punishment.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the man barked again.
Bill Morgan stood behind her like a bloated king ruling his filthy kingdom. He was massive—thick neck, red face, greasy beard—and his belly strained against the stained coat he wore.
Around him, the other dock workers kept their heads down.
No one interfered with Bill Morgan.
Not if they wanted to keep their teeth.
Eva pulled the crate another few inches.
Her back burned. Her hands were raw and bleeding. She hadn’t eaten since morning.
Still, she forced her face to remain blank.
Never cry.
Never show weakness.
Her mother had taught her that before the sea took her life.
The memory hit Eva suddenly—her mother’s voice, soft but firm.
The world eats girls who look afraid.
So Eva learned not to look afraid.
Even when she was.
“Pathetic little rat,” Bill muttered.
He grabbed the back of Eva’s coat and yanked her upright.
The crate slammed back onto the dock.
“You’re slower every day.”
His breath smelled like ale and rotting teeth.
“You know what happens to useless girls, don’t you?”
Eva didn’t answer.
Her silence annoyed him.
Bill grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“I’ve got a buyer,” he said with a grin.
Something cold slid through Eva’s chest.
“A farmer outside the city. Old bastard lost his wife last winter.”
Bill chuckled.
“Needs a new one.”
The words hung in the damp evening air.
Around them, the dock workers froze.
Some looked away.
Others watched with quiet pity.
Eva’s stomach twisted.
“You’ll fetch a decent price,” Bill continued. “Not pretty, but young enough.”
He released her face with a shove.
“The wedding’s tomorrow.”
The world seemed to tilt.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would belong to a stranger.
A stranger who would own her body the way Bill owned her labor.
For a moment, Eva couldn’t breathe.
Her fingers curled slowly into fists.
Across the river, ships rocked gently in the fading light. Their tall masts cut dark shapes against the orange sky.
Freedom was out there somewhere.
But girls like Eva didn’t get freedom.
They got sold.
“Don’t look so miserable,” Bill added mockingly. “Marriage suits a girl your age.”
He laughed loudly.
And something inside Eva snapped.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet, final breaking.
Night fell over the Thames hours later.
The dockside taverns roared with drunken laughter. Lanterns flickered along the piers. Sailors staggered between brothels and gambling tables.
Bill Morgan was drunk.
Very drunk.
He sat on a wooden crate near the warehouse, half a bottle of rum hanging from his hand.
Eva approached silently.
The iron hook lay hidden beneath her coat.
She had stolen it from a cargo net earlier that evening.
Bill noticed her and grinned lazily.
“Ah, my bride.”
He raised the bottle in a mock toast.
“Come to thank me?”
Eva stopped a few steps away.
Her face was calm.
Too calm.
“You ruined my life,” she said quietly.
Bill blinked.
Then laughed.
“Your life?” he wheezed. “You had one?”
He drank again.
“Your parents were dock rats. Just like you.”
Eva’s jaw tightened.
Images flashed through her mind—her father laughing as he carried her on his shoulders, her mother humming while repairing fishing nets.
They had been poor.
But they had been alive.
Until the pirates came.
“You remember the ship they worked on?” Eva asked softly.
Bill shrugged.
“Plenty of ships sink.”
“They didn’t sink.”
Her voice turned cold.
“They were attacked.”
Bill squinted at her, trying to focus.
“So?”
The iron hook slid from Eva’s sleeve.
Moonlight glinted off the metal.
Bill’s smile faded slightly.
“What’s that for?”
Eva’s heartbeat thundered in her ears.
“For them.”
Then she swung.
The hook smashed into Bill’s temple with a sickening crack.
His eyes widened in shock.
Blood splattered across the wooden crate.
He collapsed backward.
For a moment, the world went silent.
Eva stood there, breathing hard.
Bill Morgan—the man who had beaten her, starved her, and sold her like cattle—lay motionless on the dock.
Dead.
Footsteps echoed somewhere nearby.
Voices.
Someone shouted.
Eva’s heart lurched.
They would hang her for this.
Without thinking, she ran.
The docks blurred around her as she sprinted through the fog.
Behind her, shouts erupted.
“Bill’s down!”
“Someone fetch the constable!”
Eva’s lungs burned.
She couldn’t stop.
If the guards caught her, she’d swing from a rope by sunrise.
Ships loomed ahead, their gangplanks still lowered as crews prepared for night departure.