The docks stank of rotting fish and salt-crusted wood, the air thick with the promise of another storm. Nero kept low, weaving through the maze of abandoned nets and broken crates, his heart hammering against his ribs. The Stormguard's torches flickered in the distance, their armored boots pounding against the wet stone.
Ribygy's distraction wouldn't last forever. He needed to move.
A flicker of movement in the shadows—a hunched figure with a lantern, standing near a listing sloop. A smuggler.
Nero approached fast, keeping his voice low. "I need passage. Now."
The smuggler—a wiry man with a face like sun-cracked leather—eyed him with suspicion. "Ain't no one sails tonight. Storm's coming."
"I'll pay double." Nero shoved a handful of coins into the man's palm.
The smuggler weighed them, then jerked his chin toward the boat. "Get in. We leave before the tide turns."
Nero didn't hesitate. He vaulted over the rail, ducking into the hold as the smuggler's crew—three rough-looking men with knives at their belts—cast off. The sails snapped taut, and the ship lurched forward, cutting through the choppy water.
From the deck, Nero watched the island shrink behind them. He should have felt relief.
Instead, something gnawed at him.
He pulled out the scarecrow's eye—one last use—and pressed it to his face.
His vision ripped away, soaring back toward shore in the body of a crow.
The town was chaos. Stormguard moved in formation, kicking in doors, dragging people into the streets. And there—near the lighthouse—
Ribygy.
The old man stood defiant, a rusted cutlass in hand, surrounded by four Stormguard. Their leader—a tall man with a rapier that gleamed like ice—stepped forward.
"You've harbored a traitor," the Stormguard said, his voice like winter.
Ribygy spat. "Only traitor here is you, boy."
The rapier flickered.
A single, precise thrust—straight through Ribygy's chest.
Nero's breath caught.
Then—frost.
Ice crackled from the wound, spreading like wildfire. Ribygy's skin turned blue, his limbs locking in place, his last breath a frozen cloud in the air. The Stormguard yanked his blade free, letting the old man's body shatter on the stones.
Nero's vision snapped back to his own body.
The scarecrow's eye crumbled to dust in his fingers.
The smuggler's voice cut through the silence. "You alright, mate?"
Nero didn't answer.
He stared at the black water, fists clenched.
Somewhere out there, the Stormguard had a blade that froze men solid.
And Nero would see it buried in its owner's chest.