The wind off the docks reeked of fish guts, burnt oil, and wasted time. Kellan's boots scraped hard against the warped wooden planks as he stalked ahead, gloved fists clenched, jaw twitching.
Behind him, Aira kept pace, her own silence radiating fury. She didn't try to hide the scowl pulling at her mouth.
"Three weeks," she snapped finally, voice low and sharp. "Three fucking weeks wasted chasing a ghost."
Kellan didn't turn. "Your ghost."
"You're the one who insisted on questioning every piss-stained dock rat for intel."
"And you're the one who believed that drunk bastard's lead about a 'boatman who knew the dragon's path.'" Kellan stopped short, turning on his heel. "That so-called contact either drowned, ran, or got smart and disappeared. Either way—he's gone. And we have nothing."
Aira's eyes narrowed. "We had something. Until you started tossing people into crates and beating answers out of them."
"You think coddling them would've made the truth appear?"
