Chapter 19: Information

The morning sun filtered through thick sea fog, casting Seagard in a muted glow that blurred the lines between land and sky. The salty breeze swept across the cobblestone streets, mingling with the scent of fresh bread from street vendors and the tang of fish being unloaded at the harbor. Life pulsed through the city's veins—merchants hawked their wares, sailors barked orders, and townsfolk bustled through narrow lanes.

Ethan stood near the edge of the marketplace, his gaze sweeping across the thriving chaos. The weight of his ambitions pressed heavily on his shoulders, but it only fueled his resolve. Every city had its secrets, hidden alleys where fortunes were made and deals struck in whispers. Seagard would be no different.

"Where do we start?" Kieran asked, his tone low but eager as he adjusted his belt, his dagger glinting in the pale light.

Ethan took a slow breath. "We watch first. Talk later. People here know more than they let on, and if you listen long enough, they'll spill what you need to hear."

Kieran frowned but nodded, clearly impatient for action.

The two wove their way through the crowd, blending seamlessly with the throng of merchants and laborers. Ethan's sharp eyes caught every detail—the subtle exchanges between traders, the coded gestures used by dockhands moving contraband, and the wary glances of guards patrolling with their hands resting on sword hilts.

A burly man with a graying beard stood by a cart piled high with bolts of fabric. His voice boomed over the din as he extolled the virtues of his wares. "Finest linens from the Riverlands! Stronger than iron, softer than a maiden's touch!"

Ethan suppressed a smirk. The fabric looked decent but was far from remarkable. Still, it was clear that this merchant had influence; several buyers hovered nearby, coins clinking eagerly in their pouches.

"That one," Ethan murmured to Kieran, nodding subtly toward the man. "He's got connections. We might need him later."

Kieran arched an eyebrow. "You sure? Looks like he's just selling rags."

"Trust me," Ethan said. "It's not what he's selling—it's who he's selling to."

They moved on, their steps purposeful but unhurried. The heart of the marketplace revealed a sprawling network of stalls and shops, each one offering glimpses into the city's economy. Fishmongers shouted over one another, their tables laden with glistening catches. Blacksmiths hammered away at red-hot metal, sparks dancing like fireflies in the air.

But it wasn't just the goods that interested Ethan—it was the flow of power. Who controlled the shipments? Who decided which traders prospered and which were driven into ruin? Those were the people he needed to find.

As they passed a shaded alley, a sudden commotion drew their attention. Two guards in polished armor were dragging a wiry man by his arms, his face bloodied and defiant.

"Smuggling's a crime punishable by death, you bastard," one of the guards snarled, tightening his grip.

The man spat blood onto the cobblestones. "Only a crime if you get caught," he muttered with a grim smile.

Ethan's mind raced. Smuggling was a dangerous but lucrative business, often controlled by powerful factions willing to kill to protect their interests. If this man was involved, he might be a valuable source of information—if he lived long enough to share it.

"Think we should step in?" Kieran asked, his hand already drifting toward his dagger.

"Not yet," Ethan said. "But keep an eye on where they take him. That might lead us to something useful."

They continued their exploration, eventually reaching a quieter part of the city where stone buildings loomed like ancient sentinels. The Sea Eagle Inn stood at the end of the lane, its wooden sign creaking in the breeze. It was a modest establishment, but its strategic location near the harbor made it a hub for sailors, merchants, and travelers alike.

As they entered, the warm glow of lanterns cast flickering shadows across the room. The air was thick with the smell of ale and roasted meat. Conversations hummed around them, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clatter of mugs.

Ethan led Kieran to a corner table, their backs to the wall. From here, they could observe the room without drawing attention.

A serving girl approached, her brown hair pulled back in a simple braid. "What'll it be, travelers?" she asked with a friendly smile.

"Two ales," Ethan said, sliding a few coins across the table. "And if you hear any interesting talk, let us know."

The girl's smile faltered for a moment before she nodded. "Aye. I'll see what I can do."

As she walked away, Kieran leaned in. "Think she'll actually tell us anything?"

"People like her hear everything," Ethan said. "And they remember who pays."

They waited in silence, the hum of the tavern washing over them. Ethan's thoughts drifted to Bjorn and the twins. He hoped their reunion with Alistair had gone smoothly, but there was no time to dwell on it. The future of their group—and his ambitions—depended on what they learned here in Seagard.

The serving girl returned with their drinks, setting the mugs down with practiced ease. "A sailor over there," she whispered, nodding discreetly toward a weathered man nursing a tankard of ale, "was talkin' 'bout strange shipments comin' in at night. Said somethin' about shadows movin' where they shouldn't."

Ethan's pulse quickened. "Thank you," he said, slipping her an extra coin.

As she walked away, Kieran frowned. "Shadows? Sounds like nonsense to me."

"Maybe," Ethan said thoughtfully. "Or maybe it's exactly what we need."

He took a long sip of his ale, the bitter taste grounding him. The path ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear—Seagard held secrets waiting to be uncovered. And Ethan was determined to find them, no matter the cost.