In the canal-laced city of Vellsmouth, where bridges sighed under the weight of too many secrets, there paddled a duck that shouldn’t exist.
Its feathers weren’t white or mallard-green, but the precise color of tarnished lockpicks —a greasy, metallic gray that shimmered like wet cobblestones. The urchins who slept under the docks called it "Old Clickbill" and swore it could open anything:
— A smuggler’s padlock with three twists of its neck
— A banker’s safe by tapping its beak in Morse code
— Even the iron chastity belt of the Mayor’s wife (though what it took from inside, no one dared ask)
But Old Clickbill never kept its prizes. Each stolen item would vanish by dawn, replaced by a single perfected feather —sleek as a key and just as hard. Street children collected them to pick their own locks, only to find the feathers dissolved at midnight, leaving their pockets full of brackish water.
The city guard posted notices: "20 Crowns for the Duck’s Head." But the hunters who tried always returned empty-handed, their boots filled with canal muck, their muskets missing the firing pins .
Then came the night the Ducal Vault was breached. Not a single gold bar was taken—but every deed, every secret ledger, every blackmail letter within had been neatly nibbled into the shape of ducklings and set floating in the vault’s reflecting pool.
At the center floated Old Clickbill itself, preening a new feather into place—this one gleaming like polished silver. As the guards rushed in, the duck dove...
...straight into the Duke’s own reflection in the water.
Now when the fog rolls thick off the canals, you might spot a metallic shimmer in the puddles. And if you’ve a secret worth stealing, you’ll hear a soft click at your door at midnight—
—followed by the quiet, satisfied sound of a bill snapping shut.