Dawn had not yet risen. The sky was slowly brightening, a pale whitish glow filtering through the masts and low rooftops.

  The docks were already stirring, dotted with bundled silhouettes. The clatter of buckets, the thud of ropes dropped onto stone, and the crack of wet timber marked the port’s awakening. A hurried stillness, muffled by the fog, hung over the quays. The icy wind from the Sea of Ghosts had picked up in sharp gusts… the first signs of an approaching snowstorm.

  Muffled yet tense voices pierced the frozen mist. Loud enough to be distinct, too restrained to draw attention. Those who passed within earshot slowed for a heartbeat, then quickly looked away and moved on. No one wanted to hear what was being said.

  Behind the dark hull of a ship, an Argonian crouched, busy arranging waterlogged ropes. Greela, the old docker, pretended to work. His posture was ordinary, yet his scales twitched with every exchange.

  “You know what it’s going to cost you,” hissed a low, threatening voice.

  Greela held his breath. He knew that tone -dull, dragging- the voice that mocked and threatened without ever needing to rise.

  “Not one coin more! Cut out my tongue if I give in!”

  The captain spat at the other man’s feet.

  “It won’t be the only thing we cut,” the man replied.

  A brief silence followed. Then came heavy footsteps, the clang of iron soles on the port’s cobblestones. The captain muttered a curse and climbed back aboard his ship, face dark.

  The other, whom Greela recognized as Rilvar, Mercer Frey’s man, Master of the Thieves Guild in Riften, vanished into the shadow of the warehouses.

  Greela stayed motionless for a long moment, head bowed, his hands still resting on the rope as if nothing had disturbed his work. Then, without a word, he resumed it.

  When the sun finally crept above the ramparts, tinting the harbor mist with pale gold, Greela slipped away. He left the docks with measured steps, slid through the still-drowsy alleys, and reached the Grey Quarter, now slowly waking. Always the same route, the same detours… the habitual walk of a docker heading to work.

  At the corner of an abandoned warehouse, a familiar figure appeared at last. Greela passed him without a glance. After a few steps, he turned into a narrow alley. The figure followed, slipping into the shadows.

  “You’re late,” whispered the newcomer.

  Greela watched the Nord throw a quick look toward the entrance of the alley before stepping closer. The lieutenant of the Windhelm guard, Vagn, was still in plain clothes.

  “There was trouble at the docks. I had to stay low…”

  The Nord frowned but gestured for him to continue. The Argonian recounted the argument plainly, watching for any reaction. The captain had refused to pay for protection, and Rilvar had issued a thinly veiled threat. At the mention of the name, Vagn’s lips tightened; his gaze hardened, but he said nothing. He trusted Greela… despite everything that had happened, despite the Argonian’s past weaknesses.

  A moment of silence passed. Then the Nord looked up, his face serious but not unkind.

  “Very well. The information will reach the Commander.”

  Vagn moved toward the mouth of the alley and added, under his breath,

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  “Wait twenty steps before you leave.”

  Greela nodded, remaining still as the Nord disappeared the other way.

  When the sound of his boots had faded, the Argonian resumed his walk. Greela returned to the docks as if nothing had happened.

  The port was properly waking now. Silhouettes had multiplied between the dark hulls, the warehouses, the damp walkways. Dockworkers hauled creaking carts that lurched and rattled, others uncoiled ropes still heavy with saltwater. Wood cracked beneath boots and wheels, groaned under the cold, like an animal left outside for too long.

  Greela slipped back into his place among them, shoulders low, movements slow and precise. His hands knew the work by heart. The knot, the right tension, the way to ignore the wind burrowing beneath leather and wool. Nothing in his demeanor betrayed the exchange from earlier that morning.

  Around him, conversations flowed, but never very far.

  “Storm’s supposed to be a bad one,” muttered a Dunmer while adjusting a frayed cowl.

  “They always are, here,” grunted an Argonian without looking up.

  “No… not like this one.”

  The words were swallowed by the noise of chains, buckets, and orders shouted from the ships. People spoke of delayed cargo, of prices rising, of patrols more numerous than usual in certain districts. They spoke of murders and disappearances. Some cast quick glances toward the upper city, others toward the gray sea, as if either might suddenly offer an answer.

  A Nord passed between the rows of crates, hurried, expression closed. The voices died at once, replaced by the rasp of leather and the sharp knock of wood. When he vanished behind a warehouse, the murmurs resumed, lower still.

  Greela listened without seeming to.

  Argonians spoke little that day, and Dunmer even less. They knew how to recognize the days when it was better to keep certain things to oneself. The port had its rules, unwritten, passed from glance to glance. And that morning, a diffuse nervousness clung to them like frost on the ropes.

  Someone mentioned Helgen and a dragon in a half-whisper. Another fell silent too abruptly.

  Greela tightened a knot a little more than necessary, then straightened, sweeping the docks with his gaze. The captain’s ship was still there, unmoving, a dark silhouette against the mist. Nothing yet hinted at what was to come.

  The port pretended to breathe normally. Greela knew better than to believe the lie.

  Rilvar watched the port from the gallery of an abandoned warehouse, sheltered from the wind that was growing bolder by the hour.

  The fog crept up slowly from the docks, swallowing silhouettes one by one. Dockworkers resumed their mechanical dance, convinced routine alone was enough to ward off bad days. Rilvar knew better than anyone how fragile such illusions were.

  The captain had refused to pay. A mistake. Not the first… but certainly the last.

  Rilvar slipped a hand beneath his coat, the gesture nearly imperceptible, too quick to belong to a man who hesitated. The flask met his palm with a soft knock, reassuring, tempting. He did not bring it to his lips right away. He merely weighed it.

  His throat burned.

  Not craving, no… not yet. Just that insistent dryness that returned whenever things grew delicate. He inhaled deeply, slowly, until the sensation stepped back. Not gone. Just kept in check.

  Below, the North Wind took shape through the fog. A solid hull, too confident. Sailors moved back and forth, unaware of the line stretched beneath their boots. Rilvar followed their movements carefully, noting schedules, absences, careless habits.

  A fire never began with flames.

  He thought of the neighboring warehouses, of barrels of grease, of ropes dried too close to braziers. Of long nights when no one truly watched the docks. Of the icy storm waiting to fall on the city that night. Windhelm had always been quick to look away once darkness settled.

  His grip tightened around the flask.

  He finally raised it to his lips, without haste, without visible pleasure. A short swallow. Burning. Too strong. He barely restrained the tightening of his jaw. His gaze hardened, as though he had swallowed something more bitter than the alcohol itself.

  He slipped the flask back into place at once.

  A watchful eye might have noticed the slight tremor in his fingers. The way his shoulders stiffened after drinking instead of loosening. The breathing held a touch too tightly under control. But the port had other concerns.

  Rilvar straightened and cast one last look over the docks.

  Then he turned on his heel and vanished into the gloom, unaware of the motionless silhouette perched higher on the rooftops, where the austere lines of the buildings merged with shadow.

  Windhelm would burn tonight.

  Not all of it. Not yet. Just enough to remind certain captains that refusal had a price, and that it was not open to negotiation.