At the fish deport in the early evening, the last catch of the day was being hauled in. Workers moved with stiff shoulders and downturned gazes, murmuring little as crates of slick fish were stacked and tallied. The air was heavy with salt and brine, but no one commented on it. They had learned not to linger near the table.
There, beneath a canvas awning, sat a man with a scar curling over the right side of his upper lip. His hair was slicked back with oil, catching the dying light like polished onyx. His sleeves were rolled just below the elbow, exposing a pair of thick, hairy forearms—strong but deliberate in movement.
A folder lay open in front of him, voice notes scribbled on yellowing pages beneath a polished revolver that glinted like a threat. He flipped a page lazily, then looked up.
Across the table stood three familiar fishermen. One in particular—Old Miller—clutched his cap so tight his knuckles had gone pale.
Darius Frisker smiled faintly. "Evening, boys."
The younger two mumbled greetings. Old Miller's mouth twitched.
Darius tapped the butt of the revolver once on the folder.
"So. The foreigner."
Old Miller nodded, voice dry. "He came around askin'. About the disappearances. Pike mostly."
Darius blinked slowly, then turned a page in the file without reading it.
"Pike," he repeated. "Course he did. What else?"
"Talked a bit 'bout politics. Government and all. Nothin' bold, just… asked questions."
A pause.
Darius scratched his chin with the edge of his thumb, then flicked a glance at Miller. "Did he ask about the Butcher?"
Miller swallowed. "No, sir."
"No?" Darius tilted his head, almost disappointed. "Not even a whisper?"
"Not even a breath."
"Hm."
Darius leaned back, the chair creaking beneath his weight. He lifted the revolver, spun it once in his hand—not menacingly, just… habitually. Like a man bored of hearing the same song.
"He didn't give you a name?"
"Didn't ask ours, neither."
"So polite," Darius mused, almost fondly. "And what did he look like?"
"Foreign," the youngest one answered quickly.
That got a chuckle out of Darius. "They always do."
The tension held for a beat too long.
Darius let the revolver rest again. "If he comes back asking about anything else—you tell me. Immediately."
"Yes, sir."
"And if he says the wrong thing…" His voice dropped slightly, though the smile didn't leave his face, "...I want to know before he starts to stink."
He waved a hand, signaling they could go. They didn't need to be told twice.
As they hurried away, one of the dockhands glanced up from his crates—just briefly—before returning to his tally. Darius stayed seated, watching the waves beyond the harbor. The sky was bruising into dusk, and the fog was starting to curl in from the sea.
Somewhere out there, the foreigner was circling something. Maybe Deepwell. Maybe the town.
And maybe, if he wasn't careful, it would circle back.
---
The Black Harpoon wasn't loud tonight. A group of four men sat hunched at a corner table, their laughter slow and sticky like the smoke they exhaled. One man swayed in rhythm to a half-sour reggae track warbling from the old speaker near the counter. It was the kind of song that invited a drink before deciding if you liked it.
Behind the counter, the tattooed bartender polished nothing. She leaned with one elbow on the bar, watching the floor get mopped by a sluggish kid with a mop and a glazed-over look. The floor was still wet where Elias had first stepped in.
He nursed his drink quietly for a moment, then spoke just loud enough to be heard over the music.
"Didn't expect to find bourbon in a town without a newspaper."
The bartender glanced up, her eyebrow raised. "We're full of surprises."
He took another sip, swirled it, nodded slightly. "Not bad. Makes me think someone here's got taste."
"Or a cousin who smuggles."
Elias smirked. "And here I thought I was the only one with good connections."
She watched him for a second longer than she needed to. "Keep behaving and you might get a refill. Act out, and I'll have you on the curb before the glass hits the wood."
"Cruel," Elias said, hand to his chest with mock offense. "And I had a date tonight."
"Oh?" She poured something for herself this time. "Who's the lucky soul?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" he said with a wink.
She scoffed. "I didn't peg you for a tourist."
His grin faded just a touch. His eyes, usually dancing, sharpened.
"And what do I look like?"
She paused. The sound of the mop dragging behind her filled the gap.
"A troublemaker."
It came with a smile, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.
Elias raised his glass to that, downed what was left, and let the silence hang for a moment before offering, "I'm a friend of Edward."
She stopped polishing. Looked at him.
"Edward Wren," he clarified.
That got a look—subtle, but focused. The kind of look that knew better than to show its hand too early.
Elias didn't press. He stood, letting the music guide his steps. The beat had changed—now something bluesy with just enough swagger to sink into. He moved toward the back, half-dancing, half-meandering, as the janitor mopped where he'd been sitting.
He swayed, one hand in his pocket, another lazily gesturing with an invisible cigarette. The liquor warmed him. The music loosened something.
His mind wandered.
The capital. Her laughter. The balcony overlooking the shipping yards. The endless train rides. The assignment gone sideways. The knight they lost.
The stories he never got to write.
A voice pulled him back.
"You don't look like you're from around here."
Elias turned to the table of men.
He paused. Took a breath. Then recited, soft but clear:
"Glory wanes, and pain with it.
Stone yields, and crowns fade.
All things end—only ruin remains."
One of the men blinked. "You some kinda wordsmith?"
Elias tilted his head. "Something like that."
"That what you continentals call it, right? World leaders and all that," another said with a mocking tone. "What brings a soft coat like you to the Reach?"
Elias pulled out a chair and sat down. "A long story."
He let the words hang, then turned to one of the men—glasses too small for his face, teeth stained yellow. Elias leaned in, voice low.
"What's the craziest thing you've ever seen?"
The men looked at each other.
One of them snorted. Another shrugged.
Then the roughest of the group, eyes already glassy, leaned forward and spread his hands apart.
"This big," he said. "Mean. Hair like smoke. A fat, pissed-off pussy."
The men erupted in laughter.
Elias chuckled—short, amused, but distant. He let the echo of their laughter roll past him, like a wave he'd seen coming.
Then the doors of the pub swung wide, and the night shifted.