The docks at night were a place of creaking wood, dripping ropes, and the smell of brine so thick it coated the tongue. Lanterns swayed on rusted hooks, casting fractured shadows over the slick planks. The tide was low, and the black water lapped sluggishly at the pilings.
Greaves led the way, his boots thudding against the boards. "Fisherman swears he saw her," he muttered. "Said the fog rolled in just past midnight, and she walked right out of it. Didn't make a sound."
Adrian scanned the darkness between the ships. Too quiet. Even the gulls had gone silent. He had the sense of being watched — not by a person, but by the water itself.
They reached a narrow pier jutting far into the harbor. A single lantern burned at the end, casting its circle of light over something laid carefully on the boards.
It was a bouquet of white lilies.
Adrian crouched beside them. They were fresh, their stems wrapped in black ribbon. Beneath the flowers lay a scrap of parchment. He lifted it, the paper cold and faintly damp. The handwriting was elegant, looping, unmistakable:
For the man who refuses to answer.
Greaves peered over his shoulder. "She's taunting you."
"She's marking territory," Adrian said. He felt the weight of her earlier words pressing against the back of his mind.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement — a ripple in the water just beyond the pier. Something pale and slender broke the surface, then slipped away before he could focus on it.
A sudden wind swept through, carrying with it the faintest trace of a woman's laughter. It wasn't loud. It wasn't even entirely audible. But it slid beneath his ribs and settled there like a cold stone.
Greaves swore under his breath. "We're not alone out here."
Adrian tucked the note into his coat. "No. And she wants us to know it."
They turned to head back toward the main dock — but the path they'd taken was no longer clear.
A wall of fog now stood between them and the city.