The morning at Frostveil Port was colder than usual. Mist rolled off the sea like ghostly fingers, curling over the dark water and swallowing the wharves in white. Dockworkers huddled near the lantern posts, their breath forming small clouds as they moved crates stamped with the seal of the Southern Continent. The cargo was bound for the Northern capital — mostly spices, silks, and holy artifacts from St. Eldred's Church.
But among them, hidden deep within a reinforced chest, lay something else. Something forbidden.
At dawn, the port came alive with the usual hum of trade — merchants shouting, gulls crying, carts creaking over the frost-covered wood. Yet beneath it all, a strange tension hung in the air, as if the sea itself knew what was coming.
