The Broken Mast smelled like piss.
Teryn pushed through the door. Let his eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Late afternoon meant the place was half-full, dock workers finishing their shifts, looking to drink away another day of breaking their backs for shit pay.
He moved to the bar. Ordered cheap ale. The keep barely glanced at him. Just slid the mug across and moved on.
Teryn took it. Found a spot near the corner. Not isolated. But positioned where he could hear conversations without obviously listening.
He sat down. Drank. And waited.
"The rates are fucked. Third increase this month—"
"Had to turn away two clients because Harvin's warehouse is full. Full. Like he's holding space for someone who—"
Teryn's ears perked. Kept his expression neutral and filled the information away.
Harvin. Warehouse owner. Holding space. Waiting on a contract.
That's Lord Alaric's doing. Has to be.
He took another sip. Let the conversation drift past him.
