Night settled heavily over the eastern docks.
The air smelled of salt, damp wood, and the quiet rot of forgotten cargo. Lanterns flickered along the narrow walkways, their light swallowed quickly by shadow.
This part of the capital did not welcome nobility.
And yet—
Marcus Valenor walked through it as if he owned it.
Behind him, a small unit of handpicked guards moved in silence. No armor clanked. No voices rose. They were not here to announce themselves.
They were here to hunt.
Marcus raised a hand.
The group stopped instantly.
Ahead stood the warehouse.
Unremarkable.
Wooden. Weathered. One among dozens.
But the informant's fear had been real.
And Marcus trusted fear more than words.
He studied the structure carefully.
One entrance.
No visible guards.
But the faint glow of light through the cracks in the wood told him everything he needed to know.
Occupied.
He spoke quietly.
"Surround them."
