The weak illumination from the newborn sun lent clarity to the inn's patrons, carving details from the shadows.
As Marcellus's gaze flitted over the sparse crowd, it snagged on a figure shrouded in the corner.
The man's presence was like a smudge on the otherwise clean canvas of the morning. He sat with an unnatural stillness, almost part of the woodwork, yet undeniably there—a spectre in the corner cradling a cup with a gentleness that belied his stealthy arrival.
Marcellus's eyes narrowed, his mind whirring through the possibilities. The man was unknown to him, yet his attendance here, in this place, at this time, could not be a coincidence.
The silent observer had been waiting, but the question of how he had come to be here, waiting for Marcellus, was a puzzle whose pieces Marcellus found himself rapidly trying to assemble.
The timing was too opportune, the setting too convenient.
Had Finn, in his indiscretion, let slip their rendezvous? Was it possible that in Finn's eagerness to secure Marcellus's service, he had become lax with the secrecy such matters required?
Or perhaps it was no doing of Finn's at all.
In Mythralis, ears were as plentiful as the barnacles clinging to a ship's hull—always listening, always waiting to attach to any morsel of intrigue. In a city thrumming with the pulse of pirate blood, information was as valuable as the gold that lined the city's coffers.
Marcellus felt a frisson of irritation at the notion that his movements could be so easily traced, so quietly observed.
With faked nonchalance, Marcellus took another bite of his meal, the flavours now a backdrop to the careful calculations forming in his mind. His demeanour remained unruffled, a facade of indifference that veiled his alertness.
The dance of danger was about to begin, and he had taken the first step not, but by the mysterious figure nursing a cup in the corner of the room.
And so, as the room gradually filled with the soft symphony of the morning, Marcellus let the question linger in the back of his throat, unvoiced but heavy with implication.
As the threads of realization slowly wove together in Marcellus's mind, the notion that this lonely figure might simply be a fixture of the inn began to temper his initial suspicions that he had seen him the day before in the same spot, petting the same cup, poured a calming balm over the prickling sense of paranoia that had initially gripped him.
It's not uncommon, after all, for locals or regulars to have their particular haunts within an establishment, their little corner of the world where they can watch the comings and goings without being a part of them.
Such characters are often overlooked, their presence taken for granted like the ever-present hum of the sea against the docks. They are part of the scenery, their stillness a counterpoint to the transient bustle.
Yet, Marcellus couldn't wholly dismiss the tactical advantage of such a position. To sit day in, day out, in the same corner—it could be the perfect cover for keeping an eye on the tavern's patrons. An observer could pick up on the patterns of others, notice the ones who try to remain unnoticed and glean the silent stories that every person carries with them like invisible cargo.
Marcellus took another slow bite of his breakfast, chewing thoughtfully. Was the man simply a creature of habit, or was he like the spider in the centre of a web, quietly sensing every vibration along his silken threads?
After all, in a city that thrives in the twilight of law and order, a healthy dose of suspicion was not paranoia; it was wisdom.
So, he has been waiting for me. How did he find me?
The question would hang there, amid the scent of salt and the whisper of clandestine movements, until Marcellus chose to pluck it from the air and unravel the mystery of the man in the corner.
The food was to be enjoyed, the strength to be gathered, for what lay ahead could very well demand every ounce of vitality.
But Marcellus was deliberate. He broke the bread, the crust giving way with a satisfying tear that echoed softly in the hush. He savoured the aroma, letting it fill his senses.
The fish, cured and seasoned by practised hands, flaked under his bread, each piece a deliberate choice.
It was a silent message to Finn; patience was not merely a virtue but a strategy. The young deckhand could only watch and perhaps learn that timing, in all things, was crucial.
Across from him, Finn's tapping foot stuttered to a stop. He watched, and in his watching, there was a dawning understanding.
He saw the poise in Marcellus's slow sips of dark ale, the quiet pleasure in the way he allowed the flavours to linger. Marcellus was not just eating; he was fortifying himself, layering patience over the pulse of his anticipation.
Marcellus caught Finn's eye, and for a moment, the unspoken passed between them. It was a lesson not in haste, but in the power of a measured approach, even in the face of unseen dangers. With each slow bite, Marcellus conveyed his creed that a man who mastered his hunger, who refused to let the demands of the world dictate his pace, was a man who could navigate any storm.
Finn's tapping ceased altogether. He took a seat at last, his restlessness giving way to a begrudging respect. They had time before the world outside would call on them to play their parts.
The meal would end, as all things do. But until then, Marcellus would savour it, drawing out each moment, each flavour, each breath before the plunge into the day's shadowed depths.
They would step into a dance with danger, where every move was calculated, every silence measured, and every word weighed. But first, he would eat.