The sun had dropped behind the western hills by the time I reached the harbor road, painting the sky the color of old bruises. My lungs felt raw, scraped clean by smoke and panic. Every muscle screamed for rest, but rest was a luxury the dead could afford, not me.
The docks were quieter than they should have been. No longshoremen shouting, no creak of cranes, no slap of ropes against masts. Only the low, uneasy murmur of water against pilings and the occasional distant scream carried on the wind from deeper in the city. Most of the smaller fishing boats had already fled; what remained were a handful of trading hulks and Mona's sleek cutter, *Silver Wake*, riding at the outermost berth like she was ready to bolt the moment the lines were cast off.
I spotted them before they saw me.
