The moon hung low over Seagard, casting pale silver light across the rooftops and narrow alleys. Shadows pooled in every crevice, stretching like dark fingers along the cobblestone streets. The lively bustle of the day had faded into the hushed murmur of nighttime activity—a quieter but no less dangerous rhythm.
Ethan and Kieran moved through the city with purposeful strides, their boots scuffing against uneven stones. The Sea Eagle district, which had once felt like a refuge, now bristled with unseen tension. Seagard at night belonged to a different breed of people—cutpurses, smugglers, and mercenaries who thrived in secrecy.
The lead Kieran had gathered from the docks pointed them toward The Broken Compass, a dimly lit tavern nestled on the edge of the district, notorious for harboring information brokers and those willing to break the law for the right price. Its chipped wooden sign swayed lazily in the breeze, creaking ominously with each gust of salty air.
"You sure about this place?" Ethan asked, his voice low.
Kieran smirked faintly. "Sure as I am that it's gonna stink inside." He gestured toward the half-rotted planks making up the tavern's door. "But places like this? They see and hear everything."
Ethan nodded, pushing the door open. The stench of stale ale and sweat hit him immediately, thick and cloying. The interior was dim, lit by flickering lanterns hung unevenly on the walls. Rough wooden tables were scattered throughout the room, occupied by men whose faces were half-hidden beneath hoods and shadows.
Kieran's eyes flicked around the room, assessing the clientele. "There," he murmured, nodding toward a burly man seated near the back. Scars crisscrossed the man's forearms, and a wicked-looking knife rested casually on the table beside a dented tankard.
Ethan followed Kieran's lead as they approached the man's table. Without waiting for an invitation, Kieran pulled out a chair and sat down, his posture relaxed but ready for trouble. Ethan remained standing, his presence a silent but unmistakable threat.
The scarred man looked up, his gaze sharp. "What do you want?"
"Information," Kieran said smoothly. "We're looking for a friend. Big guy, blond hair, built like a warhorse. He went missing two days ago after escorting some kids to the Mallister estate."
The man's lips curled into a sneer. "Why should I care?"
Ethan leaned forward, resting his palms on the table. "Because if you help us, you'll walk out of here with all your teeth. If you don't..." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Let's just say it'll be a rough night for you."
The scarred man's eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of uncertainty beneath his bravado. "Fine," he grumbled. "Might've heard somethin'. There's been talk 'bout a new group musclin' in on the city—real nasty types. They ain't from around here, but they've been takin' over parts of the docks, shakin' down merchants."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "And?"
The man hesitated before adding, "Word is, they grabbed a big fella near the east gate a couple nights back. Took him outside the city, toward the old watchtower by the cliffs."
Kieran's eyes darkened. "Why?"
"Don't know," the man said, shrugging. "But if they took him there, he's either dead or wishin' he was."
Ethan straightened, his expression cold. "Thanks for the warning."
They left the tavern without another word, the night air biting against their skin as they stepped back onto the street.
"The cliffs," Kieran said grimly. "If they've got him there, it won't be a friendly conversation."
Ethan's mind raced. The watchtower by the cliffs was an old, abandoned structure, its strategic importance long diminished. It was isolated—far enough from the city that no one would hear screams.
"We need to move now," Ethan said, his voice hard. "Bjorn doesn't have time for us to wait until morning."
Kieran nodded, his jaw set in determination. "Let's find him."
The journey to the cliffs was perilous. The cobblestone streets gave way to uneven dirt paths, shrouded in darkness. The faint crash of waves against the jagged rocks below echoed through the night air, mingling with the distant cries of seabirds.
As they neared the watchtower, Ethan's heightened senses picked up on subtle details—the faint glow of torchlight flickering through cracks in the stone walls, the low murmur of voices carried on the wind.
"They're here," Ethan whispered, drawing his sword.
Kieran unsheathed his own blade, his eyes gleaming with a fierce resolve. "How do you want to do this?"
"Quiet, if we can," Ethan said. "Fast, if we can't."
They crept toward the watchtower, sticking to the shadows. Two guards stood near the entrance, their silhouettes outlined by the flickering torchlight. Their relaxed posture suggested they weren't expecting trouble.
Ethan signaled to Kieran, who nodded and moved silently toward the guard on the left. Ethan circled around to the right, his movements fluid and controlled.
In a blur of motion, they struck simultaneously. Kieran's blade sliced cleanly across his target's throat, while Ethan drove his sword through the second guard's chest. The men crumpled to the ground without a sound.
"Clean," Kieran muttered.
Ethan gestured toward the tower. "Inside."
They moved swiftly through the narrow entryway, the stone walls damp and cold. The torchlight flickered ominously, casting twisted shadows along the corridor.
Voices echoed from deeper within the tower. Ethan's heart pounded as he recognized one of them—gruff and defiant despite its weariness.
Bjorn.
They quickened their pace, rounding a corner to find a makeshift cell at the end of the corridor. Bjorn was chained to the wall, his face bloodied but defiant. A burly man stood over him, a cruel smile on his lips as he brandished a dagger.
"You'll talk," the man sneered. "Everyone talks eventually."
Ethan didn't give him the chance. He lunged forward, his blade slicing through the air. The man barely had time to register the attack before Ethan's sword found its mark, driving deep into his side.
The man gasped, eyes wide with shock, before crumpling to the ground.
Kieran moved swiftly to dispatch the remaining captors, his blade flashing in the dim light. The skirmish was brief but brutal, the air thick with the scent of blood.
Ethan knelt beside Bjorn, who managed a weak grin despite his injuries. "Took you long enough," Bjorn rasped.
"Good to see you too," Ethan said, his voice tight with relief.
Kieran began working on the chains, his fingers deftly picking the lock. "You look like hell," he remarked.
Bjorn chuckled weakly. "Feel worse."
The chains clattered to the ground, and Bjorn slumped forward, his weight supported by Ethan.
"Let's get out of here," Ethan said grimly. "We're not out of danger yet."
Together, they made their way out of the tower, the cold night air biting against their skin. The cliffs loomed dangerously close, the waves crashing violently below.
But they were alive.
And for now, that was enough.
Dawn broke over Seagard, painting the sky in hues of soft gold and pale pink. The sounds of the harbor roused the city from its slumber—merchants shouting orders, ropes creaking as ships bobbed against the docks, and the rhythmic clatter of cart wheels on cobblestones. Despite the morning bustle, the Sea Eagle Inn remained a pocket of relative calm.
Ethan sat by the window of their rented room, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sea met the sky. The faint tang of salt lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of burning wood from the hearth. Bjorn lay on the bed behind him, still unconscious but breathing steadily. His injuries, though severe, had been cleaned and tended to by a local healer Kieran had discreetly found during the night.
Kieran, ever vigilant, leaned against the wall near the door, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic sound of metal against stone filled the room, a quiet reminder of the dangers that lingered outside these walls.
"He'll be fine," Kieran said without looking up, sensing Ethan's concern. "Stubborn bastard like him won't go down that easy."
Ethan nodded absently, his mind already turning over their next steps. Bjorn's capture wasn't just a random act of violence—it was a message. Someone in Seagard knew who they were and saw them as a threat. The question was, who?
"We need information," Ethan said finally, breaking the silence. "Whoever's behind this isn't going to stop. They're testing us, seeing how far they can push."
Kieran sheathed his blade with a metallic snap. "Then we push back harder."
Ethan appreciated the sentiment, but brute force alone wouldn't solve their problem. Seagard was a city built on trade, influence, and secrets. If they wanted to survive—and thrive—they needed allies and leverage.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Both men tensed, hands instinctively moving toward their weapons.
"Who is it?" Kieran called sharply.
"It's me," came a familiar voice.
Ethan relaxed as the door creaked open, revealing a weary but determined Bjorn. He leaned heavily against the frame, his face still bruised but set with resolve.
"You should be resting," Ethan said, rising to help him back to the bed.
Bjorn waved him off stubbornly. "Rest is for the dead. I'm not there yet."
Kieran smirked. "Could've fooled me."
Bjorn grunted as he lowered himself into a chair by the hearth. "Listen," he said, his voice rough but steady. "I've been thinkin'. Those bastards that grabbed me—they weren't just thugs. They knew too much. Someone in the city tipped 'em off."
Ethan's brow furrowed. "Any idea who?"
Bjorn shook his head. "Not yet. But there's a group here, calls themselves the Black Wave. Smugglers, mercenaries, and cutthroats. They control a lot of the shady dealings around the docks. If someone wanted to send a message, it'd be them."
"The Black Wave," Kieran repeated thoughtfully. "Sounds charming."
Ethan leaned against the table, his mind racing. "If they're involved, then we need to know why. What do they gain by coming after us?"
Bjorn's expression darkened. "Could be they don't like new faces messin' with their business. Or maybe someone hired 'em to get rid of us."
"Either way," Kieran said grimly, "we can't let this slide."
Ethan nodded. "Agreed. But we need to be smart about this. Charging in blind will get us killed."
Bjorn smirked despite the pain. "Didn't take you for the cautious type."
"Call it self-preservation," Ethan replied dryly. "We'll start by gathering intel. Find out who's pulling the strings and why."
Kieran straightened, his expression sharp. "I'll hit the docks, see what rumors are floating around. People talk when they think no one's listening."
Ethan glanced at Bjorn. "You stay here and rest. We'll handle this."
Bjorn scowled but didn't argue. "Fine. But don't get yourselves killed. I'm not draggin' your sorry asses back here."
Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll be careful."
As they left the Sea Eagle, the crisp morning air greeted them, carrying the scent of the sea and the promise of trouble. The docks were already alive with activity—sailors hauling crates, merchants haggling over prices, and laborers unloading goods from ships newly arrived from distant lands.
Kieran moved with practiced ease through the crowd, his sharp gaze taking in every detail. Ethan followed closely, his senses heightened by the tension in the air.
"Where do we start?" Ethan asked quietly.
Kieran nodded toward a cluster of rough-looking men near a tavern called The Salty Mast. "There. Dockhands always know what's going on. We'll see if they're talkative."
As they approached, the men eyed them warily but continued their conversation. Ethan caught snippets of their words—something about a shipment gone missing and a fight that had broken out the previous night.
Kieran leaned casually against a barrel, his tone deceptively friendly. "Heard there's been some trouble around here lately. Black Wave causing problems?"
The largest of the group, a burly man with a thick beard, narrowed his eyes. "What's it to you?"
"Just curious," Kieran said smoothly. "We've got some business in Seagard and want to know who's worth dealing with—and who to avoid."
The man grunted. "You'd do well to steer clear of the Black Wave. They don't like strangers nosin' around."
"Sounds like they're not too popular," Ethan chimed in.
The dockhand spat on the ground. "They ain't. But they've got power, and that's all that matters. Cross 'em, and you end up floatin' in the harbor."
Kieran's smile didn't waver. "Good to know. Thanks for the advice."
As they walked away, Ethan's mind churned with possibilities. The Black Wave was clearly a force to be reckoned with, but they had a weakness—fear. If they could exploit that fear, they might just gain the upper hand.
"Looks like we've got our target," Kieran said quietly.
Ethan nodded, determination hardening his resolve. "Time to make some waves of our own."