The docks of Crestmar Wharf were quiet that evening, a hush that did not quite belong, as if even the waves sensed something was coming. Lanterns flickered gently in the warm breeze, casting pools of amber along weathered wood and stone. Shadows danced silently, weaving stories no one lingered long enough to hear.
Far out over the eastern waters, beyond the soft curve of the horizon, dark clouds gathered thick and low, their edges bruised with heavy purple and steel gray. The promise of rain hung there, weighty and certain, waiting for them in the direction they would soon fly.
Arthur stood near the water's edge, the first hints of moonlight catching on his white cape, the one the rainfolk had woven with quiet reverence. Beside him, Aleks adjusted the heavy backpack slung over his shoulders, straps pulled tight against the solid frame of his body. Fedlimid waited with arms crossed, sword sheathed neatly at his hip, eyes distant but alert.
