The horse snorted as he slid down from the saddle, boots hitting damp stone.The dock smelled of salt and old fish, the kind that clung no matter how far inland you went.
He looped the reins around a post and rested his forehead briefly against the animal's neck.
The sack stayed on his shoulder.
It wasn't large, but it pulled at him like it weighed more than it should.
The tavern stood a short walk from the water, lanterns glowing behind fogged windows. Laughter spilled out in careless bursts, loud and unguarded. He paused at the door, listening.
Normal sounds.
Too normal.
He stepped inside.
Warmth hit first. Then noise. Mugs against wood. Dice clattering. Someone laughing too loudly near the hearth. No one looked at him for longer than a breath.
Good.
He moved to the counter and let the sack rest by his boot.
The tavern owner met his eyes for half a second, just long enough, then looked away.
They both knew the rules.
"Drink?" the owner asked.
"Something cheap."
The sack vanished beneath the counter. Coins slid back the other way, cold and quick.
Done.
He wrapped his fingers around the mug when it was set before him. The drink burned going down, but his attention stayed elsewhere, the door, the windows, the corners of the room.
Something felt off.
Not danger. Not yet.
Stillness.
The door opened.
Cold air swept in first.
Then boots.
Not dock boots. Not sailors'. These struck the floor with weight and intent, metal whispering beneath leather. Conversation thinned, not all at once, but enough to notice.
Men entered in pairs. Dark cloaks. Polished edges. A sigil he pretended not to recognize.
The tavern owner froze.
"Easy," a voice said pleasantly.
The man who spoke smiled as he stepped forward, as if greeting old friends. His eyes were sharp despite the curve of his mouth.
"Search the place," he said. "Quietly."
They moved.
Barrels opened. Crates shifted. Hay pulled aside.
Nothing.
Hope crept back into the room, thin and foolish.
Another barrel. Clean.A crate. Empty.
Then a hand stopped.
Hay lifted.
Something wrapped in dark cloth slid free.
The smile didn't change.
"Take them outside."
Hands grabbed shoulders. Someone shouted. Someone tried to run and was dragged down hard.
His pulse roared.
Back door. Now.
He slipped from his seat, heart hammering, pushing through the narrow hall. The door was inches away when it opened toward him instead.
A gauntleted hand closed around his collar.
"Thought so," a guard muttered.
They dragged him back.
The smiling man had taken a seat now, one boot hooked casually on a chair rung. He watched as if it were a performance he'd already seen.
He turned toward the bar.
"Drink," he said. "Whatever he was having."
No one moved.
He waited.
A mug was poured with shaking hands.
Outside, chains rattled. Inside, the fire cracked.
The man finished his drink slowly, then set the mug down carefully, as if it mattered.
"Burn what's left," he said. "Seal the place."
He stepped back into the night.
Torches lined the street now, casting long shadows across damp stone. The sea whispered somewhere beyond the buildings, indifferent.
A man fell into stride beside him, voice low.
"Aerin is waiting."
The man nodded once.
They turned toward the quieter end of the port, where lamps thinned and ships rested in silhouette. A small group stood there, not guards, not quite servants. Men dressed well enough to matter, tense enough to know it.
Aerin stood apart.
No armor. No sigil. Just a dark coat and boots still too clean for dock work. He watched the tavern doors close, smoke beginning to curl upward.
"Is it always like this?" Aerin asked.
"When it needs to be."
"That many men," Aerin said. "For one tavern."
"Ports carry rumors faster than goods," the man replied. "Tonight, we slowed both."
A pause.
"My uncle won't like this."
The smile thinned, just slightly.
"Your uncle prefers order," he said. "We provided some."
"Order," Aerin echoed quietly.
He reached inside his coat and drew out a folded parchment, sealed in pale wax. He held it between two fingers for a moment before offering it.
"I'm not here to question what you did," he said. "I'm here because you're being moved."
The man glanced at the seal. His smile returned, slower this time.
"Of course I am."
He took the decree, breaking the wax with his thumb. His eyes skimmed the lines, unhurried, as if he were reading something he already knew by heart.
Further east.
His mouth twitched.
"They never send letters to say thank you," he said. "Only to say where the mess is worse."
"You're to retain full authority," Aerin said. "Same mandate. Different coast."
"And less patience," the man replied. He folded the parchment neatly and slipped it into his coat. "Let me guess. This is being framed as an opportunity."
Aerin didn't answer.
"That bad, then," the man said. "Shame. I was just getting comfortable here."
He looked back toward the tavern, now dark and sealed, smoke thinning into the night.
"You know," he added, "for the hours this job takes off my life, you'd think they'd at least pay enough to pretend I enjoy it."
Aerin allowed himself a small breath of amusement.
"My uncle believes duty is its own reward."
The man laughed softly at that.
"Your uncle has never had to enforce it."
They stood in silence for a moment. The harbor creaked. Water lapped against hulls. Somewhere, a bell rang once and went quiet.
"When do you leave?" Aerin asked.
"By morning," the man said. "Any later and people start asking why."
He turned back to Aerin, studying him more closely now.
"You didn't come all this way just to deliver paper."
"No," Aerin admitted. "I wanted to see it for myself."
"And?" the man asked.
Aerin looked at the street, at the smoke-stained stone, at the men quietly dismantling what remained.
"And now I have."
The man nodded once.
"Then my work here is done."
He stepped past Aerin and gestured for his men to follow.
Behind them, the last torch was put out.
The harbor returned to shadow.