Dragon Wharf

On the horizon, a pale mist dissipated between aligned masts — like upright spears of the imperial legions, under the lazy morning sun. Despite his alertness to his surroundings, his gaze soon fixed on the high towers of the senatorial ring, located in the heart of the Gran-Devana.

Surely, dressed as he was — a long, well-fitted coat with silk lapels and golden buttons over a satin vest, from whose pocket hung the silver chain of an elegant pocket watch, and a starched white shirt with a high collar, adorned with a blue tie pinned by a pearl — he would have no trouble infiltrating. Completing the ensemble was a white linen cloak with subtle floral embroidery, fastened by a lion-shaped brooch — symbol of a minor house from the city of Doreagate, forged for him by the Convergence.

In Castra Devana, capital of the Empire of Ordinem Finis, appearance and lineage were everything.

But this was not the noblest region of the harbor. Dragon Wharf lay north of the Outer Ring, between shady taverns and opium dens. Thieves and dockworkers shared space like dogs, under the watchful eyes of a corrupt militia. The salty air mixed with chimney smoke from the Middle Ring, and yet Daniel walked as if he were in the Senate itself, attracting stares… and lewd laughter.

That’s when a predator emerged. The woman was slender, with elongated features and eyes painted black. Tiny chains tinkled around her neck, her fingers wore several rings, and she was draped in a black raven-feather cloak, subtly embroidered with the insignia of an outlaw guild.

“Are you lost, my lord?” she asked with a catlike purr. “Perhaps I could guide you to the gates of the Senatorial Ring.”

Daniel smiled, feigning a frightened delicacy, and stepped back. The woman then pretended to bump into him, mimicking a fawning hurry with a clumsy step.

A message appeared before Grace’s eyes, in white letters over a translucent blue rectangle — something only he could see:

[A mundane has used the Pickpocket skill to attempt to steal your belongings. The skill level is very low!]

He suppressed a smirk. If only she knew the nature of his gift, she’d have thought twice before going for a sneaky approach.

His left hand rose in a gesture of surrender, while his right let go of the dark wood cane with a silver handle he carried — not out of need, but for style. With a single swift, invisible movement, he cut through the space between them and seized the purse she hid under her cloak.

“No need, my dear,” Daniel replied, stepping briskly toward the next block.

“I insist!” she called back, still with laughter in her voice.

She must have been a local crime sub-boss. The insignia marked her as a member of the Sons of the Mist.

Around him, he noticed at least half a dozen suspiciously busy men performing mundane tasks. Their sideways glances, abrupt head turns, craned necks at every noise, and aimless pacing didn’t fool him.

“In that case…” with a graceful flourish, he tossed the woman’s purse into the air and caught it again, “perhaps I should reward you for your service. Since I’m short on cash at the moment, I’ll borrow this.”

“Ah…” she let out a strangled gasp, eyes wide.

Before the thugs could surround him, Daniel Grace leapt between stacked crates and vanished into the guts of a narrow alley. He didn’t slow down to make out what they yelled, but he heard the shouts and hurried footsteps coming his way.

A more alert bodyguard tried to follow, but tripped over a fishing net Grace had swept to the ground with his cane. The man’s frustrated groan echoed as he was left behind.

Without time to plan an escape route, Daniel continued aimlessly for a while. Still, his pursuers might already have alerted the Sons of the Mist's spy network, prompting him to move with more caution and eventually seek out a guide.

He stopped in front of a decrepit shack with its doors and windows hanging wide open, nestled in one of the many alleys of the outer ring, where a ragged band of southern men — their long, filthy beards and skin marred by countless cuts and bruises — begged with wooden bowls. Grace slipped a gold coin into one of their hands, drawing wide-eyed stares.

Then, he struck the pavement loudly with his cane, grabbing everyone's attention with the sharp sound.

“Gentlemen,” he said, removing his top hat and bowing, “I require safe passage to Storm Cove. Long live the king!”

Some exchanged puzzled looks, but soon a tall, narrow-faced man emerged, wearing a ragged turban that had once been magenta. With a skeletal finger, he pointed to a back door opening in another shack down the side alley.

“Your lordship doesn’t much resemble the king’s subjects.” he said in a deep, drawling voice, the accent of the city of Khurutas giving his words a sing-song quality. “But you paid the price and showed respect.”

“Long live the king of beggars!” Daniel replied, nodding, before following the indicated route.

The man briefly stroked the tangled knots of his beard, measuring Grace from head to toe. At last, he bowed in return.

“Long live the king.”