Meanwhile,
The scent of salt hung in the air, thick and heavy like the breath of the sea.
Waves crashed against the weather-beaten docks in a rhythm older than the city itself, their foam spraying onto cobblestones that had seen centuries of sailors, thieves, and whispers.
Lanterns flickered against the dark, casting long shadows as the wind swept through the narrow alleys of Wyfhaven—the famed, infamous seaside city of Wyfn-Garde.
Alaric stood tall, his silver cloak whipping in the breeze, eyes narrowing at the small group of men blocking their path.
Salviana's grip tightened on the satchel strapped across her shoulder, while Lucius was vibrating with an uncontained fury just beneath his calm façade.
The air between them all sizzled with tension.
The man at the center of the local group—clearly their leader—was lounging with the sort of arrogance only those who feared nothing could afford.
