Two days of patience were needed for the army to be given the right to take a step toward Halftide.
As the elegant Glaucus warship approached the Dead Sheep. It bore no flags of war, only the pale insignia of authority and record.
When the vessel docked, three figures stepped across the gangway. At the front strode a mage in deep blue robes, eyes sharp behind rimless lenses. Beside him walked a young noble, polished crest gleaming on his chest, sword pristine and untouched. And behind them, with the ease of someone too seasoned to be questioned, came Admiral Flydart himself.
None of them were familiar, but the presence of the Admiral gave the other two a weight they hadn't earned yet.
Beli met them at the edge of the deck, his voice steady and hollow from the skull. "No further."
The noble frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
