The morning haze was thick enough to taste, a familiar blend of sea salt and humidity that clung to the air. But today, another scent wove through it: the thin, acrid smell of smoke. As Finn made his way toward the docks, the cries of the gulls overhead seemed sharper, more frantic than usual. He saw the source before he was halfway down the main pier—a blackened ship's hull listing in the shallows, its main mast snapped and trailing in the water like a broken limb.
Dockhands gathered in small, whispering knots, their usual boisterous energy replaced by a sullen watchfulness. Finn drifted near one group, his gaze fixed on the wreck as if he were just another curious onlooker.
"Insurance," a grizzled old sailor muttered, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the murky water. "Captain swore a faulty lantern caught the rigging, but the whole thing went up too fast. Smells like a cover for a short cargo."
Finn's eyes narrowed. He scanned the debris field floating around the wreck: splintered planks, a torn sail, and several half-submerged crates. Most were standard merchant stock, but three of them, bobbing sluggishly near the pier, bore stencils he didn't recognize—a stylized bird of prey clutching a key, painted in a deep, foreign blue. He committed the design to memory, another piece of the city's undercurrent, another detail to be filed away.
He left the dock's simmering tension behind for the more controlled chaos of the upper market. He was weaving between stalls of colorful silks and fragrant spices when he saw her. She was a trader he'd never noticed before, standing behind a meticulously organized table of lacquered boxes and carved wooden charms. She was tall and moved with a self-possessed grace that seemed out of place among the market's frantic energy. Her clothes were practical but well-made, and her dark hair was tied back with a simple leather cord.
Drawn by a professional curiosity, Finn stopped at her stall, feigning interest in a small, polished box. "New to Port Mire?" he asked, his tone casual. "Haven't seen your goods before."
She looked up from a ledger, her eyes sharp and appraising. A faint, unplaceable accent colored her words. "My suppliers are particular. They prefer quiet trade." She offered a polite, closed smile that was a clear dismissal.
Finn took the hint and gave a slight nod, turning to leave. As he walked away, he noticed two street kids loitering near a neighboring stall. They weren't watching the goods, however. They were watching her, their expressions too still, too focused for simple urchins. They were watchers, positioned as if on orders. Finn filed that away, too. The woman, her goods, and her silent sentinels—all of it was a current running in a direction he couldn't yet see.