The air was heavy as Damien, Amara, and Carys made their way through the narrow streets away from the docks. The rhythmic pounding of their boots on cobblestones was the only sound in the early dawn, their breaths misting in the cold. Every step carried the weight of what they had uncovered—this wasn't just smuggling or scattered remnants of rebellion. Someone powerful and well-resourced was orchestrating a plan from the shadows, and they'd barely scratched the surface.
Amara twirled one of her daggers absently, her sharp blue eyes scanning the quiet alleys for signs of pursuit. "Well, that could've gone better," she said, breaking the silence.
"We found what we needed," Damien replied, his steel-gray eyes fixed forward. "More than we expected."
"And we nearly got skewered for it," she shot back, though her tone carried more amusement than anger. "I counted at least twenty of them in there. Organized, well-armed. That's not just some leftover bandit crew."