The city of Harbinth was already awake when the dwarves reached its gates.

  Thora tilted her head back slightly. “Hold your tongues,” she murmured over her shoulder. “We’re traders. Friendly ones. Terribly impressed with everything, aye?”

  Behind her, Bram Flintbrace couldn’t resist. “Aye. Quite the marvel. Stonework held together by sea air and wishful thinking.”

  Farin Duskshade stifled a laugh. Thora gave Bram a look, not sharp enough to wound but steady enough to remind him that every word mattered now. He shrugged but fell quiet.

  Fog hung low over the cobblestones, thick enough to soften the outlines of the stalls being opened for the morning market. Fishmongers shouted half-heartedly as they lifted crates of salted cod. A potter leaned wearily on his counter as he set out chipped bowls that no one seemed eager to buy. Everything moved with the slow rhythm of the first bell, the hour when bodies were still stiff and voices had not yet gathered their full strength.

  The twelve dwarves entered through the north gate in pairs, their steps sure and heavy against the damp stones.

  Thora Greyfell walked at the front. She kept her hood pulled forward, but her eyes were sharp beneath the shadow it cast. Every glance she gave seemed purposeful, measuring guard stances, counting arrow slits, noting the creak of the portcullis overhead. Her boots struck the stone with the steady cadence of her people, a rhythm that could not be hidden no matter how carefully she tried.

  At the gatehouse, two city guards leaned on their spears. One was broad-shouldered, his helmet pulled low over his brow. The other looked younger, with a jaw too tight and fingers tapping nervously at the wood of his spear.

  “Halt a moment,” the older guard said, holding out a hand. “What brings a dozen dwarves to Harbinth?”

  Thora stopped and motioned for the others to wait. She drew back her hood just enough to meet his eyes. “Trade,” she said simply. “We’ve come down from the northern passes with goods to barter, bronzeworks, stone tools, a few barrels of whiskey. Nothing more than that.”

  The guard studied her face for a long moment, as if weighing whether to press further. Then he leaned slightly on his spear. “Be cleared out by evening.”

  Thora frowned. “By evening? Why?”

  “The city’s expecting a major storm,” he said, the words coming quickly, almost rehearsed. “Plans are already being put in place for evacuation.”

  Thora tilted her head. “Do you evacuate often for storms?”

  The man didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked to his partner. The younger guard’s grip shifted on his spear, and Thora noticed how his knuckles whitened. He wasn’t looking at her anymore; he was staring past her, down the road, like he wanted this exchange over as quickly as possible.

  The older guard cleared his throat. “Be out by evening,” he repeated, louder this time, as if the words themselves were an order he had to drive home.

  Thora gave a slow nod. “Understood.”

  She pulled her hood forward again and stepped past them. The dwarves followed, their boots striking the cobblestones in steady rhythm. Thora didn’t look back, but she didn’t forget the nervous tapping of the young guard’s fingers, or the way the older one refused to answer her question.

  The group split naturally once they were inside. It was safer that way. A cluster of twelve dwarves together drew too much notice, even in a port city used to foreigners. In pairs and trios, they wandered along the arteries of Harbinth, one pair toward the forge quarter, another drifting along the riverside docks, two more weaving through the northern market where cloth stalls and spice sellers shouted prices into the fog.

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  To any watching eyes, they looked like traders. They paused to peer at barrel prices, weighed bundles of dried herbs, and even listened with exaggerated patience to a street musician whose lute had only five strings left.

  Still, dwarves this far south were rare, and a group of them rarer still. People stared openly. A few children tugged on sleeves and whispered. Merchants looked twice before naming prices. The city was used to strange things, but even so, eyes lingered.

  Thora stopped at a tanner’s stall where a rack of belts hung stiff with dye. She lifted one, pretending to examine its uneven color. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of two dockhands sitting on overturned barrels nearby. Their voices carried low but clear enough.

  “—told you, price went up again,” one muttered.

  “No, I’m telling you it’s because the Watch keeps buying it all,” the other shot back. “Grain, barley, doesn’t matter. They’re stockpiling.”

  “Since when does the Watch care about barley?”

  The first man shrugged. “Since something’s coming, I’d wager.”

  Thora slid the belt back onto the rack and walked on, her mind working.

  Elsewhere, Bram passed by a tailor’s shop where curtains were only half drawn. Two voices whispered inside.

  “—they say Elzibar was a fluke. Just bandits, nothing more.”

  “You call burning an entire town a fluke?”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t kobolds. My cousin saw it. Nothing left but ash.”

  “Your cousin drinks lye.”

  Bram kept walking, but the words stuck with him. They all had heard the same whispers. Every story bent differently, but every one carried the same weight: Elzibar gone, its people scattered or dead.

  Rumor in a port city flowed like a river, always moving, rarely deep. But it still told you when the wind was changing.

  The dwarves drifted back toward one another at the crossroads, sharing quick glances but no words. They didn’t need to. Each had heard enough to know something was wrong.

  Then the sound cut through the morning.

  A horn. Low and rolling, carrying farther than a voice ever could. It came first from the eastern wall, deep and mournful, then another answered from near the inlet gate, then another from a tower higher up the ridge. The notes did not make a song. They made a warning.

  The kind that stopped men in their tracks.

  Shouts followed almost at once.

  “To arms!”

  “Citizens to shelter!”

  “All watchmen to post!”

  The fog seemed to break apart with the noise. Stalls were abandoned mid-sale. A boy darted past with a loaf of bread still clutched in his hands, his mother pulling him toward their door. Shutters clapped closed as families bolted their homes from the inside. Horses reared at the sound, their handlers cursing as they fought to control them.

  The steady rhythm of armored boots filled the streets as watchmen poured into the avenues, red sashes flashing beneath their coats. They carried spears and short swords, their voices sharp as they barked orders into the chaos.

  “Clear the street!”

  “Get inside, now!”

  Thora stood very still in the middle of it all.

  The horns echoed again, louder this time, rolling across the city like a wave breaking against stone. The cries of merchants and guards tangled together until it became one sound, fear tightening its grip on Harbinth.

  Korrik Helmbarrow appeared at her side. His face was hard, the kind that had seen too much battle to mistake this for a drill. “Think we found something,” he said quietly.

  Thora did not blink. “Think it found us first.”

  For a moment, they stood together in the storm of movement, dwarves among humans who rushed past them without pause. She adjusted her cloak and let her eyes follow the rising black pennant above the harbor tower.

  The horns did not stop. They called again and again, dragging the city into a shape it could not escape.

  It was time to stop pretending.

  The storm had come.