The carriage wheels hissed over damp cobblestone, their rhythm softened by the fog that clung low across the harbor. Zhemchug lay wrapped in a pall of silver mist, the kind that blurred distance and turned every sound into an echo. Somewhere beyond the haze, a bell tolled from the shipyards — dull, slow, and uncertain, like a memory refusing to fade.

  The air was heavy with the scent of salt and coal smoke. Lanterns burned along the piers, their light swallowed almost whole by the fog. Silhouettes of masts and rigging rose like a forest of black spears, their pennants hanging limp in the still air. The Morozov fleet lay at anchor — shapes without detail, shadows without allegiance.

  The carriage came to a halt before the harbor office, its wheels crunching over frost-bitten gravel. The escort fanned out ahead, their brass-buttoned coats glinting faintly through the murk. Alaric rode at the front, posture straight and easy in the saddle despite the cold. When the coach door opened, he dismounted in one fluid motion and turned toward it.

  “Careful,” he murmured, extending a gloved hand.

  Katerina placed hers in his, her fingers cool against the leather. The faintest breath of wind stirred her veil as she stepped down, boots meeting the ground with quiet finality. Around them, dockworkers and stevedores paused in their tasks, watching from the corners of their eyes — uncertain whether to salute, bow, or simply pretend not to see.

  “I hope the transfer goes smoothly,” Katerina said, her voice low but steady.

  “I hope so,” Alaric replied, a faint smile ghosting beneath the fog, “but in my experience, transfer of ships from a broke owner always have some problem.”

  Katerina followed his gaze toward the ships. Through the shifting veil of fog, several figures broke from a cluster of sailors and sprinted up the gangplank of a moored brig. Their boots thudded hollow against the planks before vanishing into the ship’s shadowed hull. The shouts that followed were muffled, tense — too distant to make out, but sharp enough to draw notice.

  Alaric’s eyes tracked them lazily, a faint gleam flickering in their depths. “Here goes the trouble,” he murmured.

  Katerina turned to him. “Trouble? Did you see an assailant nearby?”

  He chuckled softly, gloved fingers adjusting the cuff of his coat. “No,” he said. “I’m not the only one who is collecting debt today, madame.”

  Her brow knit slightly. “What do you mean?”

  Alaric tilted his head toward the ship, the ghost of amusement in his voice. “Just wait, and you’ll see.”

  Alaric’s expression shifted — still calm, but his eyes sharpened like a blade catching light. With a slight motion of his hand, he gestured to the marines nearby. They moved without a word, forming up a few steps behind him, boots thudding in practiced rhythm against the damp stones.

  From the edge of the escort line, Mila approached, her stride precise and soundless as clockwork. “Sir?” she asked, eyes flicking toward the commotion on the docks.

  “My dear,” Alaric said softly, lowering his voice so only she could hear, “could you take the horse and ride fast to the Nocturne? I need you to fetch Big Rowan. I’ve got a feeling we might need it.”

  “But—” Mila began, her tone flat but edged with concern.

  “If you leave now,” Alaric cut in smoothly, “you might come back before something actually happens.”

  For a heartbeat, she hesitated — not in doubt, but in silent protest. Then she nodded once, sharply, and turned. In a single motion she mounted the horse, wheeled it around, and vanished into the fog at a gallop, her platinum hair flashing once before the mist swallowed her whole.

  For a moment, the harbor held its breath. Only the soft lap of tide against timber broke the silence. Then, through the fog, figures began to emerge from the ships — silhouettes first, then shapes resolving into men draped in heavy coats and weather-stained tricorn hats.

  They came down the gangplanks one by one, their steps measured, the weight of command clinging to each of them. Even through the haze, Katerina could tell — these were not dockhands, but captains, proud and cautious. Behind them followed sailors in loose clusters, their faces wary, eyes shifting between the newcomers on shore and the woman who now bore the Morozov name.

  The air thickened with unease. A gull screamed somewhere above, its cry swallowed by the fog.

  One of the captains stepped forward — tall, broad-shouldered, his beard frosted with sea salt and age. He studied Katerina for a long moment before speaking, his voice roughened by years of wind and rum.

  “Are you Lady Katerina?”

  “I am,” she replied evenly.

  The man gave a curt nod, then turned his gaze toward Alaric. “And who are you?”

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  “Alaric Van Aerden,” Alaric said boldly, his tone smooth but carrying like a bell through the mist. “And I’m the new owner of the ships you’re currently crewing.”

  The captain’s brow rose. “Funny. I didn’t know Morozov sold his ships.”

  “He didn’t,” Alaric replied with the faintest smirk. “I seized them. He owed me a great deal of debt and had the fleet listed as collateral.”

  The captain’s lips curved into something halfway between a smile and a sneer. “Well, it seems Morozov owed quite a few people debts these days…” He took a step closer, boots scraping against the damp planks. “The ships may be yours, Mr. Van Aerden, but first the lady needs to pay her husband’s debt.”

  Katerina’s composure wavered. “Debt?” she asked sharply. “What debt?”

  “Well…” the captain began, drawing out the word with a sailor’s weary patience, “you see, our wages from last month haven’t been paid — and from what I can tell, it’s already turning into a new month.”

  Katerina exhaled slowly, rubbing at her temple. “And how much, exactly, does my husband owe you in total?”

  “Ten thousand four hundred and sixty silver coins,” the man replied without hesitation. “That’s for this month and the last.”

  Katerina’s expression barely flickered, but inside her thoughts reeled. Ten thousand? The number struck like a cold wave. Why didn’t Alexander terminate the contracts when he couldn’t pay? she wondered bitterly. Why let it come to this?

  Alaric, watching her closely, caught the faint tightening of her jaw — the small betrayals of her calm. He stepped forward with an easy confidence that seemed to settle even the fog around them.

  “Madame,” he said gently, “let me handle this.”

  “Oh, please don’t trouble yourself,” Katerina replied, forcing composure into her voice. “This is caused by my husband, so it should be my responsibility.”

  “I insist, madame.” Alaric’s tone left no room for argument — polite, but absolute.

  “Gentlemen!” Alaric’s voice cut cleanly through the fog, firm enough to halt the murmuring among the gathered sailors. “I know we haven’t made a contract, but as the new owner of these ships, I will regard you as my own.”

  “Mr. Van Aerden,” the lead captain said sharply, “this doesn’t concern you.”

  “But it does,” Alaric replied with a smirk that carried the weight of command. “Currently, I don’t have enough crew to ferry these vessels to my dock. So, how about this— I propose you ferry the ships to the Twin City for me.”

  Murmurs rippled through the group. The captain crossed his arms. “We’re not going to make another contract when our wages haven’t been paid.”

  “Morozov is broke,” Alaric said flatly. “He has nothing left to give you. Even if you drag his corpse to court, you won’t see a single silver out of it.”

  A voice rose from the crowd — rough, indignant. “We don’t like working with foreigners!”

  Alaric didn’t flinch. “You don’t need to,” he said coolly. “If you don’t wish to be my crew, then see yourselves as contract workers. Just ferry the ships to Twin City, and you’ll be paid — along with an extra fee to get back to Zhemchug.”

  The dock fell quiet again, the fog thickening around them like breath held between opposing wills.

  “So what will it be?” Alaric’s voice rose above the murmuring fog, sharp and commanding. “Wait for wages that may never come — or sign a contract with me?”

  The gathered sailors exchanged uneasy glances. Their whispers rippled through the mist — fragments of argument, doubt, and temptation tangled together.

  Katerina watched in silence, her expression calm but her thoughts restless. Why is he doing this? she wondered. Why trouble himself to such lengths? Does he mean to impress me — to prove his worth so I’ll accept his proposal? The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

  Then, cutting through the murmurs, a single voice rang out — bold, defiant, and laced with challenge.

  “Hold on just a second!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  The noise died instantly, all eyes turning toward the speaker as his figure stepped through the fog.

  The figure who stepped forward looked weathered, his face lined deep by wind and salt, the coat hanging from his shoulders stiff with years at sea. His voice carried the rough cadence of a man used to being heard over storms.

  “We are not some kind of mongrels,” he barked. “We worked for Morozov! Did none of you have any semblance of loyalty?”

  “That’s right!” several of the crew shouted, emboldened by his words. A low rumble of agreement passed through the crowd.

  Alaric’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “There you are,” he murmured under his breath.

  Katerina stepped closer, her tone low. “That’s Pyotr Pavlov,” she whispered. “He’s one of Alexander’s oldest captains.”

  Alaric only nodded, eyes fixed on the man.

  Then Pavlov jabbed a finger toward Katerina, his voice turning venomous. “And you! You’re Alexander’s wife? Why would you help a stranger steal his ships, you bitch!”

  “How dare you! You don’t know any—” Katerina began, anger flashing through her composure, but Alaric moved between them in a smooth, deliberate step.

  “That’s not how you speak to a lady, Mr. Pavlov,” Alaric said coldly. “Especially your employer’s wife.”

  “Bah!” Pavlov spat. “She wags her tail for you. She’s no more than a bitch in heat!”

  “Pyotr, that’s enough! You’re out of line,” another captain snapped, but Pavlov only threw him a glare that silenced him mid-step.

  “Pavlov, a loyal dog like you didn’t deserve a man like Morozov. In fact, serving that cockroach is beneath you,” Alaric said, his tone laced with mockery and challenge.

  Pavlov’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “What did you just call me?”

  “A loyal dog,” Alaric said evenly. “But I do mean it as a compliment. I have respect toward the canine — they have… principles.”

  The older man took a single step forward — but as he did, the marines behind Alaric moved in perfect unison, one synchronized stomp that struck the cobblestone like a drumbeat. For an instant, the air itself seemed to tremble.

  Pavlov froze mid-step. Alaric lifted a gloved hand slightly, and the marines halted as one.

  “You think I’m afraid of your fancy guard?” Pavlov spat.

  “Judging by how you stopped on your path,” Alaric replied, voice quiet but razor-sharp, “I’d say you do.”

  Pavlov’s glare hardened. “Boys, on me!” he shouted.

  The command rippled through the fog, and within moments, dozens of sailors began to rally behind him — rough, broad-shouldered men, others wiry and quick, all wearing the same defiant stare. Nearly fifty stood arrayed against Alaric’s small escort.

  “I’d say you’re outnumbered,” Pavlov sneered.

  Alaric chuckled softly. “So?”

  The sound carried strangely in the fog — not loud, but clear enough for every man to hear.

  Katerina watched from behind him, her pulse quickening. The mist swirled between the two sides like smoke caught between sparks, waiting for a wind to turn it into fire. And as she looked at Alaric’s calm smile, something cold and heavy settled in her chest.

  She realized then that this was no longer about debts or ships — it was about dominance, about who would command the fear of men.

  And for the first time, she wondered if siding with Alaric Van Aerden meant inheriting something far more dangerous than her husband’s fortune.