The fog hadn't lifted by midmorning. It pressed thick against the shore, swallowing the tops of ships and dulling every sound until even seagull cries felt far away. Tide's Rest moved slower in fog. Men muttered. Dogs slunk close to fires. It was the kind of weather where bad news wandered in without a face.
Salt moved like he always did—quiet, barefoot, eyes on the angles other people missed. He wasn't headed anywhere particular, just pacing the high paths behind the net sheds, watching the gray tide slip in. But then he saw Torric.
The man crept from the edge of the docks, oilskin cloak tight around his shoulders, moving with too much purpose for a man who claimed to be hungover. No bottle in hand. No swagger. Just a bundle under one arm, long and wrapped in sailcloth, and eyes darting toward the watchtower path.
Salt stopped.
Torric didn't see him. He never looked up.
Salt hesitated, then veered left, keeping to the rocks. He wasn't sure why. He'd already told Brune about the tampered crate from the Braavosi ship. Already raised the alarm, such as it was. But something about Torric's gait gnawed at him—tight, nervous. Like a dog that knew it stole meat and didn't know where to hide it.
So he followed.
The cliff path wound up along the side of the old bluff, past the burnt watchtower and the rusted skeleton of a catapult someone had tried to rebuild five years ago. Salt kept low, using the gull-cracked stones for cover. Wind hissed through the grass. A gull wheeled above, screaming once before vanishing into the gray.
Then he saw them.
Torric was at the base of the tower ruin, pacing in a tight half-circle. And he wasn't alone. A man stood opposite him—taller, cloaked in dark wool, pale hair tied back in a neat knot. No beard. No warmth. Hands gloved in black leather.
Salt didn't need to hear much to know this man wasn't from the Stepstones.
Myr.
Torric said something too fast to catch. His voice rose, petulant.
"…not what we agreed. This is worth three times what you gave—"
The Myrman didn't flinch. "You were paid to retrieve it. Not to price it."
"I didn't know what I had," Torric hissed, jabbing a finger toward the bundle. "It's not just trade nonsense—it's… names. Routes. Ships. Real power. The kind men'd slit throats for."
Salt shifted slightly to hear better, heart thudding now.
The Myrman took a step closer. His voice dropped.
"You bring this to someone else, and your corpse floats into Volantis within a week."
Torric hesitated. "You don't scare me."
"Good. Then you'll die stupid."
The Myrman turned and walked back into the fog without looking back.
Torric stood there a long while, cursing under his breath. Then he hugged the bundle closer and started back down the path.
---
Brune was sharpening a gutting knife behind the crab shed when Salt found him. A bucket of fish bones sat nearby, and the old hound from the smokehouse was licking blood off the stones.
Salt came straight up, didn't wait.
"I saw Torric," he said. "He met with someone. A Myrman. By the tower."
Brune kept sharpening. "And?"
"He had a bundle. Sailcloth. Long. Held it like it was worth something."
That got Brune's attention. The knife paused. He looked up, calm.
"Who spoke first?"
"Torric. Wanted more coin. Said he didn't know what he had."
Brune's brow twitched.
"The Myrman didn't care," Salt added. "Said he'd come for it. And kill him if he had to."
Brune leaned back against the post, knife still in hand.
"Figures," he muttered. "Too clean a tip."
Salt frowned. "You mean the ship?"
Brune nodded once. "The Braavosi cog we hit last week. Someone whispered about it in a dockside tavern. Called it ripe. Low escort. Fat with silk and coin. Thought it was a lucky lead."
He spat into the dirt.
"But now I'm thinking different. That wasn't luck. That was bait. Someone wanted that ship taken. Wanted whatever Torric pulled from it. And we were the knife they used."
Salt stayed quiet.
Brune went on, slower now. "And Torric… he didn't just steal something. He tried to sell it back. Play both sides. Idiot."
Salt looked down at his feet, then back up.
"You think it's a ledger?"
Brune didn't answer for a moment.
"I think it's the kind of thing that gets men stabbed in their sleep. And I think Torric has no idea who he's dancing with."
He straightened, tucking the knife into his belt.
"You did right telling me. Keep it to yourself. If word gets out that we're sitting on something important, we'll have half the Stepstones sniffing around."
Salt nodded. "What about Torric?"
Brune's face didn't change.
"He'll hang himself. All we have to do is tie the right knot."
---
Later that evening, Brune gathered Orla, Kreeg, and Bale in the salt-stained storeroom behind the Grubpot Inn.
The smell of fish brine and old smoke hung thick in the air, but the door locked tight, and the walls were thick enough to keep out gossip. Salt was there too, silent by the barrels, still not sure why Brune had included him.
Brune leaned on the table, knuckles scarred and flat against a weather-stained map.
"Salt saw Torric passing something to a Myrman," he said, voice low. "Said it was long, wrapped tight. Sailcloth. Could be a ledger. Could be worse."
Orla frowned. "And we were given the ship?"
Brune nodded. "Too clean. The tip we got — it came from a tavern in Selhorys. Quiet word. Too quiet."
Kreeg scratched his beard. "So it's a setup."
"Aye," Brune said. "Someone wanted that ship hit, and someone wanted what was inside. They used us to get it."
Bale kicked at the ground. "And now Torric's pissing it away."
Brune looked up, steady. "He's trying to sell it again. Double-crossing the people who gave him the play."
Orla leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "They won't like that."
"They don't," Brune said. "Salt heard the threat himself. Three days or they come for blood."
Kreeg grinned. "Let 'em. I'm tired of swinging at ghosts and fish."
Brune ignored that.
"We're going to let him go tonight. Let him think he's ahead. He'll run. And when he does—we'll be waiting."
Orla nodded. "You want him alive?"
Brune's jaw tightened. "I want to know what he gave them. And who's behind it."
Bale glanced at Salt, then back at Brune. "You trust him in the fight?"
Salt didn't speak.
Brune did. "He's seen more than most. And he's still here. That counts."
That was the end of it.
They set the ambush in motion.
---
They let Torric think he was slipping away. By nightfall, he had taken the bait.
Kreeg, Orla, Bale, and Salt tracked him quietly to the tide caves — skiff half-dragged down to the rocks, bundle under his arm.
But they weren't alone.
Salt's pulse didn't race.
It slowed.
Salt crouched low, boots silent on the slick stones. The salt wind cut across his face, bringing the bite of tide and blood. He could feel the pull again—that strange quiet just before chaos. The others were fanned out in a rough half-circle. Kreeg loosened his shoulders. Orla checked the knife at his boot. Brune gave no sign at all.
Then the fog shifted—and they were there.
Figures emerged from the rocks — seven in total — spreading into a crescent through the mist, faces shrouded. One carried a short axe. Another had a curved blade, stained dark. A third—a younger one, maybe no older than Salt—held his sword too tight.
They didn't speak. Just came forward in a rush.
Salt didn't think. He moved.
The first attacker lunged — blade high. Salt stepped under the blow, axe rising, and split the man's ribs wide. Another came low — he spun, caught the wrist with the haft, and dropped him.
A third circled. Salt saw every twitch, every step. It was like the air itself told him where to be.
He flowed through the gap — the gap no one else saw.
A rock slick with tide nearly sent him sliding, but he pivoted hard and drove his shoulder into a charging attacker. The man stumbled, and Salt swung wide—his axe carving through the man's thigh, clean through leather and bone.
He spun again, this time ducking beneath a jagged outcrop. A second attacker followed, slashing down blindly.
Salt's axe met the blade—not with strength, but angle. Steel rang out, and the force of it numbed Salt's arm. He didn't retreat. He twisted, let the blow roll off, and used the rebound to step inside.
The axe came up, hooked behind the man's neck, and dropped him like a sack of soaked canvas.
He breathed through his teeth—slow, measured.
The third came hard — taller, lean, knife in each hand. Fast.
Salt felt the rush before it landed — not fear, but *motion*. He threw a faint to his left, then reversed hard, letting the attacker commit.
One swing — just one — and the axe took him from collarbone to spine.
Three. His count was three.
The rest fell to the others.
Torric lay in the sand, groaning, clutching his arm. The bundle had been dropped. The Myrman, seeing the tide turned, vanished into the rocks.
Salt stood, panting, axe red, hands steady.
The crew said nothing at first.
Brune looked once — at the corpses, at Salt, at the way the fog seemed to avoid his boots.
Kreeg ran a thumb along the edge of his axe, but his eyes were on Salt.
"Didn't flinch," he muttered, not quite approving, not quite afraid.
Orla said nothing. But he stood straighter now, no longer relaxed. Studying.
Bale wiped blood from his cheek, spat, then shook his head. "I don't like it," he mumbled. "Boy moves like he's listening to ghosts."
No one argued.
Brune bent and picked up the bundle — leather-bound, scuffed, heavy with hidden meaning.
"We'll read what's in here," he said. "Then decide who lives."
Salt didn't answer.
He was still listening to the quiet.
Whatever had moved inside him during the fight hadn't left.
Not yet.