The tide was low, dragging seaweed and broken shells against the barnacled pillars of the pier. The sound was steady, rasping, as if the sea itself were grinding its teeth. Morning mist rolled in from the horizon, thick and colorless, swallowing the line where water should have met sky. The world seemed pared down to grays and silvers, the air damp enough to cling to the tongue.
Ira stood at the end of the pier, a lone figure braced against the weight of it. His cloak clung heavy with dew, every breath misting before him. The boards beneath his boots groaned with the shifting tide, old wood swollen and dark from years of saltwater. He could smell the rot beneath the planks, the tang of rust from the chains piled nearby, the faint sourness of fish gutted here before dawn.
He scanned the horizon again, though there was little to see. Nothing moved beyond the veil of fog but the occasional wingbeat of gulls, their cries thin and distant. Even the village behind him was hushed, its morning bustle muted by the shroud of mist. It was as if the pier had been cut loose from the world, suspended in silence and waiting for something to break it.
The map stirred faintly in his pack, a pulse against his spine, as though it too were aware of the meeting to come. Whispers rose at the edges of hearing—fragments of voices he could not place, warnings threaded with laughter. He ground his teeth, dragging in a steady breath to steady himself.
He hated waiting. But more than that, he hated not knowing who—or what—was about to step out of the fog.
Moments later footsteps echoed behind him. Not the sharp, measured tread of a soldier or the rushed steps of the many inhabitants of the pier, but something looser, almost careless. A whistle followed—off-key, irritatingly familiar. Ira's hand went to the hilt of his knife before he turned.
Rust emerged from the fog.
He looked the same and yet not: the same lanky frame, the same patched coat slung across his shoulders, the same grin that hovered between confidence and apology. But his eyes carried more weight than before, shadows that hadn't been there the last time Ira had seen him.
"Ira," Rust said, lifting two fingers in a mock salute. "You've aged."
Ira's voice was flat. "You're late."
"Only by a few minutes. Tide doesn't keep time that strictly." Rust leaned against one of the pier's beams, as if he'd come to chat instead of dredge up a wound.
Ira didn't smile. He didn't move. He only studied Rust, head tilting slightly, the way a man might study a puzzle with too many missing pieces. "I should've known it would be you."
Rust's grin twitched. "And here I thought you'd be glad to see me."
"You weren't invited."
"That's the thing about old ghosts," Rust said, spreading his hands. "We don't need an invitation."
For a long while, the two men let the waves do the talking, their crash and retreat filling the space between them. Rust's posture was relaxed, but his eyes kept flicking toward Ira's hands, his stance, the set of his shoulders. Old habits—ones a subordinate never quite lost around a commander.
Finally, Ira said, "You should've stayed away."
Rust's grin faltered. "Because of what they said?"
Ira didn't answer, but the silence was sharp enough.
Rust exhaled, slow. His voice dropped, softer. "You know it wasn't betrayal. Not really."
The words hung in the salt air. Ira's jaw clenched, but his eyes betrayed nothing.
"I did what I was told," Rust added, almost like a confession.
"At ease man' Ira said the words leaving his mouth out of habit
"We both know the bullshit those old fucks were on before the swap" he continued patting Rust on the shoulder
The sea groaned beneath them. Gulls wheeled above. Ira turned his gaze back to the horizon, refusing to give Rust the satisfaction of a reply.
Rust cleared his throat, attempting levity. "Anyway. Seems Like we both got the same invitation i presume? Well ain't that dandy."
"Sure just Dandy," Ira echoed, but his tone made it sound more like a curse than a blessing.