Fog lay low over the river, thin as breath against water.
Something moved within it.
Not drifting.
Guided.
The hull rode shallow, iron-banded wood slipping through reeds without splash. No sail caught the air. No oars disturbed the surface. Only a muted pulse carried beneath the deck — a contained rhythm, steady as a second heartbeat.
A figure stood at the stern, one hand resting against a compact engine housing bolted low and central. Through metal and timber, vibration traveled into bone.
Below deck, a valve adjusted with careful precision.
Steam rerouted.
The faint plume above the vessel thinned until it vanished entirely.
The craft became almost indistinguishable from debris caught in current.
Ahead, a lantern swayed lazily over the river's central channel.
Patrol.
Two silhouettes shifted aboard the larger boat — relaxed, unhurried. One laughed. The sound carried.
The smaller vessel did not slow.
At the bow, another figure raised two fingers.
The stern inclined their head once.
The rudder adjusted barely a degree.
Iron brushed against stalk and root with a soft hiss.
The patrol lantern drifted closer.
Ten yards.
Eight.
Five.
No call.
No alarm.
The larger vessel passed through the fog unaware.
Only when distance widened did the pulse beneath the deck deepen again.
A whisper rose from below.
"It holds."
A quiet reply from above.
"For now."
The fog thinned as the craft cleared the bend.
On the far bank, blackened stone stood where an old watchtower once monitored river traffic. Its upper half had already collapsed weeks prior — damaged, abandoned, waiting for repair.
Waiting.
The figure at the bow studied it.
A hand signal.
The pulse beneath the deck intensified.
Steam redirected through narrow-lined chambers.
Along the vessel's flank, concealed ports slid open with soft mechanical clicks.
Three compact charges launched in silent arcs.
They struck low.
Precise.
A breath of stillness—
Then the tower's weakened base failed.
Not an explosion.
A surrender.
Stone folded inward on itself with a heavy, controlled collapse. Dust rose, thick and sudden, swallowed quickly by fog.
By the time debris settled into the riverbank, the vessel was already turning.
Reeds parted.
Steam thinned.
It vanished the way it had come.
An hour later, two fishermen found the rubble.
They stood in silence, staring across the water.
"No blast," one muttered.
"Didn't hear one," the other replied.
They watched the surface.
For a moment, nothing.
Then—
A faint shimmer passed midstream, distorting the reflection of morning light before fading entirely.
The older man swallowed.
"It moves under the fog," he said.
"Who?"
He did not answer.
The vessel slowed only when the reeds thickened enough to swallow it whole.
Steam softened to a low hum.
From below deck, a young figure climbed up through the hatch, wiping soot from one cheek with the back of his wrist. His eyes were bright despite the heat.
He looked back at the water.
At the thin trail still barely visible in the warming air.
"It leaves a mark," he said quietly.
No one responded.
He studied the distortion again.
Heat trembling over the river's skin.
"Like an ember," he murmured.
The word seemed to hang there.
He tested it once more, softer but certain.
"Emberwake."
The figure at the stern turned slightly.
A pause.
Then a single nod.
No ceremony followed.
No discussion.
The engine resumed its steady rhythm.
The vessel carried its name forward.
By dusk, word would spread along the docks.
A tower fallen without warning.
A patrol that saw nothing.
Smoke without flame.
Something moving where nothing should move.
No one would agree on its size.
Or its shape.
But they would agree on one thing.
The river was no longer loyal to the city.
And somewhere beneath the reeds, the pulse of Emberwake continued — quiet, deliberate, waiting.