Time rewinds to five days ago.
Tarry Port.
This was a port born of the monsoon. Every time the month of storms arrived, the merchant ships plying the waters between the northern and southern ends of the Duchy would flock to this natural harbor to rest and resupply, like migratory birds returning to their nests.
At this moment, the Third Fleet, the pride of the Golden Sail Commerce Association, was moored quietly in its exclusive deep-water berthing area.
The flagship, the Strong Alcohol, rested majestically in the center. Its figurehead was a roaring lion, inscribed by Mages with the dual enchantments of "Wave-Breaking" and "Fortitude," ensuring the hull's stability in even the most treacherous seas.
On the docks, the shouts of sailors, the clang of smithies, and the cries of vendors mingled together, composing the cacophonous symphony of the port.
No one noticed a dockworker in a plain, coarse linen tunic.
