The harbour of Galveston stretched along the coast like a scar that refused to fade. Its docks were splintered, remnants of night fog still clung in the air. Planks darkened by damp and neglect.
Ships creaked against their moorings as wind rolled in from open water, sails drawn tight while ropes strained and creaked. Merchants barked orders over the noise, crates struck wood with thuds, and the area reeked of salt, fish guts, and bodies that had gone too long without washing.
Gabriel moved through it without drawing attention. His cloak was pulled low, the hood shadowing his face, though the weight at his belt felt wrong with every step. The Church sword hung there, foreign and unwelcome, its sigil scraped away with a stone taken from the slums.
It was no replacement for the blades Lucius had broken, but it would cut, and that was enough for now.
He did not look back.
