The scent of salt, fish, and sun-bleached ropes hung heavy over Mermaid’s Cove’s harbor.
It was the heart of the town’s daily rhythm—where nets were hauled, crates lifted, and voices shouted over gulls and waves.
Boats rocked gently against the piers, fishermen scrubbed decks, and vendors prepared for the evening rush.
But today, the rhythm wavered.
Because four strangers walked among them.
They didn’t shout. They didn’t barter. They didn’t carry gear or tools or crates.
They asked questions.
“Blonde girl. About this tall,” the pale man in the front said, gesturing with a gloved hand. “Healer. Goes by the name Mira.”
He wore a loose hood and a faint, practiced smile—neither of which made him seem more trustworthy.
The dockhand he was questioning—an older man with sun-leathered skin and a thick grey beard—squinted at him. “And who’s askin’?”
“Travelers,” the man replied smoothly. “We heard stories about a saintess living in a quiet southern town. Just chasing rumors, you understand.”
The dockhand scratched his chin with a grease-streaked glove. “Can’t say I’ve heard of anyone like that.” His voice held a note of firm finality.
The silver-haired woman behind the man gave a tight smile. “Of course. Just thought we’d ask. We wouldn’t want to miss anyone… special.”
They moved on.
From stall to stall, sailor to sailor. Always polite. Always calm. And always watched.
But word travels fast on a dock—faster than sails in the wind.
By the time they reached the edge of the main pier, three boats had slowed their unloading to watch. A boy stopped gutting fish halfway. The tavern down the slope shut its window.
Even the pelicans seemed quieter.
The masked one hadn’t spoken a word. He simply stood at the edges, eyes behind fabric, hands never far from the object slung across his back.
The fourth man—the one with the gravel voice—leaned against a piling, muttering, “Whole place smells like it’s hiding something.”
“No,” the leader said under his breath. “It smells like it’s protecting someone.”
Behind them, a pair of fishers exchanged a glance, then disappeared up the road—quiet but quick.
The strangers kept walking. Still asking. Still smiling.
But now, every polite answer was colder.
And every friendly shrug was more forced.
The docks of Mermaid’s Cove were full of sun and salt. But beneath the surface, something had changed.
The town had noticed the strangers.
And it didn’t like them.
The strangers moved away from the docks with slow, measured steps. 10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCIe8A7O8TI
Their questions had netted them little—blank stares, polite denials, and far too many eyes watching them from windows and alley corners.
The pale leader walked ahead, his expression unreadable, though a faint crease had formed between his brows.
“Nothing,” the silver-haired woman muttered, adjusting the strap of her satchel. “Everyone’s lips are sealed. This dock’s tighter than a lockbox.”
The masked one remained silent.
The fourth man spat to the side. “Feels like they know something. They’re just pretending they don’t.”
“Yes,” the leader said quietly, his boots crunching over gravel as they reached the upper lane that overlooked the harbor. “They do know. The boy back at the cliffs called her Mira. And now everyone pretends they’ve never heard the name.”
A silence fell between them.
Just as they were about to turn toward the town square, a figure appeared further down the slope.
A young man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in worker's outfit, boots scuffed from use, a leather-bound bucket tucked beneath one arm.
He moved with an easy stride, humming faintly to himself.
Sunlight caught on his golden-blonde hair, tousled but clean, and his sharp, handsome features. Golden eyes, curious and focused, glanced across the horizon—until they locked onto the approaching strangers.
He slowed.
So did they.
The pale man raised a hand, polite. “Afternoon.”
The blonde man inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Can I help you?”
“Perhaps,” the pale stranger said, his tone pleasant. “We’re looking for someone. A healer. Local. Blonde. Green eyes. Might go by Mira.”
A pause.
The blonde man raised an eyebrow.
Then a subtle, amused tilt touched his lips.
“Very specific description,” he said smoothly.
The masked one took a step forward, sensing something.
The silver-haired woman smiled thinly. “You know her?”
The blonde man’s expression didn’t falter. But his eyes sharpened ever so slightly.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
The leader chuckled under his breath. “That’s fair.”
The blonde man studied the four of them for a moment longer—boots covered in dust from long travel, eyes too alert, weapons too well-hidden.
Definitely not simple travelers.
He glanced past them, back toward the docks, where workers still lingered, pretending not to stare.
“I’ll give you some advice,” the blonde man said casually, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve. “This town doesn’t take well to people who poke around too much. Especially when it comes to certain names.”
The fourth man smirked. “That sounds like a warning.”
“Take it however you want,” The blonde man replied with a half-shrug. “But if you’re smart, you’ll stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”
He stepped past them, heading uphill without waiting for a reply.
The four strangers remained where they stood, watching him go.
Finally, the woman spoke, her voice low. “That man was no fisherman.”
“No,” the leader said, eyes still fixed on the road the blonde man had taken. “That one’s interesting.”
The masked one tilted their head slightly, unreadable.
“And smelled like a noble,” the fourth added with a grin.
The leader smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Let’s find out who he is.”
Meanwhile, when Lucien was halfway up the slope, he glanced back over his shoulder and found those strangers were gone.
He narrowed his eyes and changed course—heading back the docks.
The fishermen were still working—sorting nets, cleaning hulls, and loading barrels of salted fish onto carts. But their eyes tracked him as he approached, cautious and curious.
Lucien stopped beside a boatwright who was sanding the edge of a hull. “Afternoon,” he said. “Quick question.”
The older man glanced up, brow raised. “Aye?”
“Four strangers,” Lucien said. “Two men, one masked. One woman with silver in her hair. Came by earlier asking questions.”
“Mm.” The boatwright’s face darkened slightly. “Aye. I saw ’em.”
Lucien crossed his arms. “What were they doing?”
“Poking around. Real polite-like, but they were sniffing too close. Asking every man and his dog about some ‘Saintess of the South.’” He spat into the sea. “Didn’t like the way they asked. Real calm. Too calm.”
“They say anything else?” Lucien asked, brow furrowed.
“Said they were researchers. Travelers. Claiming they’d heard of some healer girl with golden hair and green eyes.” The man looked Lucien up and down. “Like what you did not long ago, my prince.”
Lucien gave a dry smile. “Why did you tell me back then?”
The boatwright grinned, showing one of his missing front teeth. "At least you were honest about who you were. And I can't exactly lie to a prince, can I?"
A few other dockworkers had gathered nearby, nodding grimly.
“They went from stall to stall,” said one, arms folded. “Didn’t buy anything. Just smiled and kept asking. Most of us pretended not to know anything.”
“Felt wrong,” another added. “Like they were hunting something.”
Lucien gave a slow nod. “Thanks.”
He turned to go, but paused. “If they come back, don’t talk to them. Just point them to the mayor’s office and let us handle it.”
The men exchanged glances, then nodded slowly.
One of them muttered, “We’ll keep our eyes open.”
Lucien gave a curt nod in return and turned away, boots crunching over sun-dried planks as he made his way back up the path.
His own shadow stretched long behind him in the slanting afternoon light, dragging across crates and coiled ropes like a trailing omen.
His thoughts were no longer quiet.
Those four weren’t ordinary travelers. Their eyes were too sharp, their movements too precise, their words too careful.
They were trained.
And they were looking for Mira.
Lucien’s jaw tightened as he climbed higher, past the stack of crab traps, past the hill of stacked sails, until the salty breeze began to give way to the dry scent of earth and pine.
He turned his gaze to the red–roofed cottage on the hill.
He needed to find her. Now.
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