The docks of Maeril were quieter than they should have been.
Ashlynn stood at the edge of one of the ancient stone loading platforms, watching the organized chaos of Baron Loghlan's retinue as they loaded supplies and passengers onto a line of river cogs that bobbed gently against the frost-slicked quay.
The platforms themselves were relics of an older age, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of use and carved with faint grooves that might once have guided Eldritch ropes across a bridge that no longer existed. Now, they served as little more than convenient ledges for human dockworkers to stack crates and roll barrels toward the waiting boats.
It was barely past first light, and the sky above the River Luath was the color of old pewter, heavy with clouds that pressed low against the water and bled into a thin fog that clung to the surface like a second skin.
