The scent of brine and old blood clung to the air like a second skin as Kellan stalked through the alleys of the sea village, a few miles away from the port, boots splashing through puddles of oil-slick water.
The storm from the night before had left the wooden planks of the docks soaked and groaning, as if the whole port had aged decades overnight. Lanterns flickered with dying flame, casting long shadows that danced like spirits. It was early—too early for drunks, too late for honest men.
Behind him, Aira walked with slow, deliberate steps, her arms folded tight against her chest as if shielding herself from the filth of the world around them. Her face was as icy as the wind that rolled in from the sea, but her eyes burned with silent revulsion every time she looked at him.
"I want him alive," Kellan said over his shoulder. "But not… untouched."
