The fog clung to the streets of Galveston, thick enough to swallow vision. It carried the stink of the harbour with it. Salt, rot, and filth that never quite left the stones.
Dawn had barely touched the horizon, staining the sky a dull red that did nothing to lift the gloom of the slums.
Buildings leaned into one another for support, warped wood pressed tight after years of damp and neglect. Roofs sagged. Alleyways twisted inward narrowly.
Somewhere beyond them, birds cried over the docks, and ships groaned against their chains, restless in the waves.
Gabriel moved through it all without sound. His boots found the cobblestones by instinct, each step placed with care despite the urgency burning in his chest.
The hooded robe taken from the tavern hung loose across his shoulders, light and unfamiliar without the weight of armour and his swords.
