The harbor of Silkan City stretched before him, narrow piers and bustling streets framed by warehouses and low towers. Ashmore's four ships glided into position with precision, their sails taut and disciplined, the formation unbroken. Nearly fifty soldiers moved across the decks with quiet efficiency, checking weapons and lines, eyes alert for the slightest irregularity.
Ashmore stood at the prow of his flagship, gaze fixed on the dock, feeling the city's pulse through its canals. His second-in-command, draped in a red cloak over one shoulder, moved beside him with the same measured awareness that had earned him Ashmore's trust. The third-in-command and one of Ashmore's most important aides followed closely, observing the flow of dockhands and merchants.
"Scout reports?" Ashmore asked without turning.
"Ship broken down in the southern harbor," the third-in-command replied. "Cargo secured. Survivors—if any—have not been reported by locals yet. Scrolls and books are being transported to the capital for proper examination."
Ashmore inclined his head. "Good. Ensure the cargo reaches the City of White intact. Knowledge of that magnitude cannot be lost." His voice carried across the deck, calm but absolute. "And observe all channels. No movement escapes our notice."
The ships nudged against the docks, their anchors biting into the shallow harbor. Ashmore stepped down onto the pier, his boots echoing on the stone. Beside him, the second-in-command's eyes swept the streets, noting every gesture, every line of posture, every flicker of expression. It was then that he noticed the boy—a small figure moving among market stalls, leaning too close to observe the bustle. Something about the boy's posture, the way he observed without drawing attention, pulled a memory from the red-cloaked man's past: a sparring partner at the Royal Church of Gods, trained in patience and awareness, subtle yet dangerous.
Ashmore's voice cut through his thoughts. "We proceed to the noble house. Refuel, gather information. Any survivors from the ship are to be identified and reported immediately."
The noble house stood slightly inland, a wide stone building with marble accents, its banners flapping lazily in the morning breeze. A count, tall and stiff-backed, came forward as Ashmore disembarked, bowing with practiced arrogance.
"Saint Ashmore," the Count said, his voice carrying a smooth authority. "Welcome to Silkan. I trust your stay will be… comfortable."
Ashmore inclined his head once, curtly. "We require refueling for our vessels, provisions for our men, and information regarding any survivors from a ship recently reported broken down near your docks."
The Count's expression hardened slightly. "Survivors? I assure you, there is nothing of the sort here. No such ship, no such cargo—"
Ashmore let the words hang for a moment, his dark eyes unblinking. "Very well. Refueling will proceed as expected. I trust your cooperation will be prompt."
The noble bowed again, concealing his irritation beneath practiced politeness. Ashmore's second-in-command noted the tension, eyes scanning for subtle signs—gesture, glance, hesitation—that could hint at hidden truths. None were evident, but the city moved like a web of silent currents, and even the Count's arrogance carried weight in the undercurrents.
Refueling began immediately. Sailors worked efficiently, transferring water and supplies, checking sails and rigging. Ashmore watched from the pier, hands clasped behind his back, calculating every movement. His attention occasionally drifted to the streets below, to the boy who had caught the second-in-command's attention. The resemblance was uncanny, but he said nothing, merely filed the observation away. Time would reveal its relevance.
"The cargo is secure," one of Ashmore's aides said quietly, stepping to his side. "Scrolls and books have been taken for examination. No interference noted."
"Good," Ashmore said. His voice was calm, but beneath the surface lay the precise weight of authority. "This city is a test. Discipline, observation, patience. Nothing else matters until we leave. Every move here echoes elsewhere. Let the city remember that we are precise, that we are not distracted."
Hours passed, the refueling completed with meticulous efficiency. Ashmore moved along the docks, silent, watching the currents of merchants, sailors, and city guards alike. His presence was a shadow over the bustle, unnoticed in casual interactions but impossible to miss when observed closely.
The second-in-command lingered nearby, eyes still drawn to the boy in the market, replaying memories of the sparring partner he had trained with at the Royal Church of Gods. The boy's movements, subtle and deliberate, mirrored something he had known long ago: patience, calculation, potential. Ashmore's gaze caught him once, a silent acknowledgment, and then returned to the harbor.
Finally, Ashmore returned to the flagship. The men were ready, lines secured, sails adjusted. The city had been observed. The noble house had provided the necessities, and the harbor had been cataloged in detail. Every movement had been recorded.
"Prepare to depart," Ashmore said, voice cutting through the morning air. "We leave in two minutes. Keep formation tight. Observe all waterways. We return through the canals, quietly and efficiently."
The men moved instantly, ropes taut, sails lifted, the ships slipping through the harbor like shadows over water. Ashmore stood at the prow of the flagship, eyes on the horizon, the canals stretching ahead. The city receded behind him, its streets, its markets, its arrogant Count, all cataloged in his mind.
The second-in-command's gaze remained distant, following the boy one last time. Memory and present converged, a silent thread connecting what had been and what would be. Ashmore said nothing; observation was always silent, precise, and patient.
And then, with the wind catching the sails and the water opening before them, Saint Ashmore's fleet departed the port of Silkan City, leaving behind the docks, the noble house, and the city's whispered secrets. Ahead lay canals, strategy, and calculation—every move measured, every consequence anticipated.