Chapter 11 - Wings Over the Salt-Tide
The salt air of the southern port city of Oakhaven smelled of rotting kelp, tar, and hidden corruption. For three days, Wyn and Kalen moved through the crowded, labyrinthine alleys of the lower docks disguised as itinerant traders, blending seamlessly among the dockworkers and smugglers.
Kestrel and a small detachment of wild dragons waited hidden deep within the limestone sea-caves three miles down the rocky coastline—too far to be seen by the town watch, but close enough to answer a single resonant call.
That evening, deep within a subterranean warehouse tucked beneath the fish markets, they found the core of the operation.
Barrels of raw dragon-scale extract lined the damp stone walls, guarded by a dozen hired mercenaries wearing heavy leather breastplates and carrying notched crossbows. At the center of the room stood a nervous, sharp-featured man in merchant silks—a regional magistrate whose pockets had been lined by Reev’s gold.
“Load the remaining crates onto the midnight tide-runner,” the magistrate hissed, waving a manifest in the dim torchlight. “If the royal inspectors catch wind of this—”
“They won't catch wind of anything,” a calm, steady voice echoed from the shadows near the iron-reinforced exit.
The magistrate spun around, his hand flying to his belt knife.
Wyn stepped out from behind a stack of empty crates, her hunter-green cloak pulled back, her hands resting easily at her sides. Kalen stood quietly beside her, his broadsword unsheathed and gleaming coldly in the flickering lantern light.
“You’re out of your depth, magistrate,” Wyn said, her voice cutting sharply through the damp air. “The ledgers from the capital were just the beginning. We know about the port bribes.”
The magistrate’s face twisted into a snarl. He gestured frantically to the guards. “Kill them! Cut them down before they reach the exit!”
Four mercenaries rushed forward, their blades raised, but Kalen moved with the fluid, lethal grace of a veteran combatant. A single sweep of his broadsword knocked the leading mercenary’s weapon spinning into the stone wall, while a swift kick sent the second crashing into a stack of empty barrels.
At that exact moment, a low, bone-shaking vibration rumbled through the floorboards beneath their feet.
It wasn't an earthquake.
It was the unmistakable sound of massive claws striking the stone cliffs outside the city walls.
The roof tiles of the warehouse rattled furiously. A jet of bright, golden-orange flame briefly illuminated the high barred windows as Kestrel’s massive shadow blotted out the moon overhead.
The remaining mercenaries dropped their weapons on the spot, falling to their knees in sheer, paralyzing terror as the roof timbers groaned under an immense, unseen weight.
Wyn walked slowly toward the trembling magistrate, who had backed up against a stack of chemical barrels until he had nowhere left to go.
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“You can tell your masters in the south,” Wyn said softly, her eyes fixed on his pale, sweating face,
“that the sky doesn't belong to men who buy and sell it anymore.”
