The salt tang of the sea tickled our noses as we moved toward the docks. The road widened into an open square before the grand arch.

  I drew a sharp breath — the place was packed. Merchants and travellers arriving from the port streamed beneath the arch toward the Customs House, funnelled along the barricades in orderly lines.

  “A big ship at the pier,” Thomas muttered, pointing past the crowd. A medium?sized galleon had docked, its passengers filing down the wooden gangplank.

  Several groups of guards moved briskly among the merchants, checking crates and ledgers. Goods had to be declared and duties paid before trade could begin in Delmar. Travellers, meanwhile, dropped only a copper or two for entry.

  Thomas’s gaze lingered on a richly dressed merchant and his retinue as they crossed to the left wing of the arch, where carts and carriages were rented.

  “Stop staring,” I whispered, elbowing him. “Even a glance might invite trouble.”

  The stone arch was built into the town’s outer wall, standing like a sentinel over the ebb and flow of arrivals. Watch posts flanked the arch, each bristling with spearmen whose sharp eyes swept the crowd, ensuring no one slipped past unchecked.

  Thomas and I slipped into the line and passed through the heavy side door in the wall. Locals needed no declaration to pass. Guards at the post barely glanced at them—they knew the faces, the crews, the guild tokens. Anyone else trying to pass that way would be stopped in an instant.

  I lifted my chin—the sun was warm, but the gales off the open water cut sharper. Thomas left the crowd and leaned against the pitted wall of a stone warehouse, arms folded. “Where the hell is he?” he muttered.

  Beyond the arch, the docks stretched wide along the beach. To the left: berths and piers, warehouses, and maze-like alleys. Midway, the path bent into Craft Row—a tighter line of workshops. And at the far end, the fish quay and market reeked of guts and scales. It was a maze of wynds and alleys where a man could vanish without trace.

  “Just ask around — someone’ll know,” I said. “C’mon, quit stalling.” I brushed damp black hair from my sweaty forehead and called to him.

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  Weather?beaten men crowded the docks, their voices rougher and angrier than the merchants of the bazaar. They were seafarers — rowdy, intimidating, quick to bare their teeth.

  Even Thomas and I, who had worked here as long as we could remember, never felt safe among them; appearances mattered too much. Some went half?naked, their bodies a map of scars old and new.

  Most carried the same mark — the skin craft. Roosters or pigs inked on their calves. More than once, Thomas nearly blurted something foolish, and I had to smack his head before trouble found us. I wouldn’t admit it, but the fat pig tattoo trotting on a brawny man’s leg nearly made me laugh too.

  I still recall when we were younger, wandering unfamiliar alleys, and overheard someone moaning. Around a bend, under a shabby shack, a dockhand groaned as a half?bald old man pricked an anchor into his arm.

  The needle bit, plant dye bled into the skin, a thin trickle of blood on the table. The poor man bit his lips, tears streaking his cheeks. Heaps of blood?stained needles piled on a crate beside them. Our faces paled — we thought it was punishment. We scrambled away at once.

  “Do you think he’ll accept our apology?” Thomas asked, his tone tight. We walked along an alley between warehouses toward the Dockmaster’s Office.

  I glanced at him. His jaw was set, but his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides—a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken.

  "Depends on his mood," I said honestly. "Weatherboot's... unpredictable."

  Thomas swallowed hard. We bent left past a few more warehouses. The salt?crusted dirt crunched underfoot as he slowed deliberately.

  “Remember Toothless Pete?” he broke the silence. “One punch from Big O’ Scar.” He rubbed his front teeth, then added, “And Jerky Jack… soaked in brine for a day. Ever smelled him? Every time he sweats, he stinks like a pickle.”

  I gripped his shoulder firmly. “He won’t throw us in the brine,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Worst case, we grovel. Sweep floors, clean boots.”

  “You worry too much,” I sighed. “I can always find another place to work. Now that we’re settled in town, it’s easier.” I caught his knitted brows and chuckled.

  “We’re not part of the crews, not real seamen. Just kids picking up shifts. If we lose this job, I’ll manage. You’ve got your own path now—hunter boy. Follow the Master Hunters, not my worries.” I mussed his already tousled hair.

  We brushed past dockhands working their fingers to the bone and came to a massive stone building opposite the cargo pier. The Dockmaster's Office—a squat fortress of weathered blocks, its heavy door reinforced with iron bands. A faded sign hung above: a painted anchor crossed with a cutlass.

  Two guards flanked the entrance, arms crossed, watching the flow of workers with bored eyes.

  Just as we set foot on the first stair, a roar split the docks.

  “You pieces of scum!”

  “Do you want me to gut you like a fish—or drown you in a barrel of brine?”

  Seagulls burst into the air. Conversations died mid?breath, as if that single voice had shattered every other sound.

  Thomas and I exchanged a glance.

  I gave a wry smile. “Bad timing.”

  He shuddered, muttering too softly for me to catch.