Apparently Greyharbor is the official name.
Which somehow surprised me.
This morning while walking toward the harbor with Ryn and Spathian, I noticed a massive wooden plank near the outer docks with GREYHARBOR painted across it in faded white lettering.
Until then I genuinely thought everyone simply called the place The Hollow Anchorage.
Apparently both names are used.
Though honestly the second one feels more correct somehow.
The harbor still smells strange.
I noticed it immediately again this morning.
Salt.
Wet rope.
Fish oil.
Then something faintly metallic beneath everything else.
The smell becomes worse near the inner docks where the water barely moves.
Ryn spent most of the morning quietly observing the port.
Not sightseeing.
Analyzing.
I could tell from the expression she uses whenever her brain starts behaving like Roderick Street.
According to her, Greyharbor should be wealthier than this.
Or at least busier.
The location itself is valuable.
Ships traveling between Dunskar routes and western waters should naturally pass nearby.
Yet the harbor remains strangely empty.
No major trade vessels.
Very little cargo movement.
Most stalls sell necessities only.
Fishing tools.
Salt.
Cloth.
Repair materials.
There are almost no luxury goods.
More importantly—
there are almost no snacks.
I miss Port Roderick.
Though admittedly Greyharbor feels calmer.
Not safer exactly.
Just…
smaller.
Human-sized.
The innkeeper joined our table briefly during breakfast today.
He asked how we knew High Admiral Kael Dravenholt.
Actually no.
He specifically asked:
“What kind of people casually arrive beside Kael?”
Before I could answer, Ryn calmly informed him that she and Spathian are his nieces and nephew through their mother, Seraphine Dravenholt.
The innkeeper stared at them for several seconds afterward.
Then suddenly laughed loud enough to shake the table.
“That explains the eyes,” he said.
After that he became noticeably more relaxed around us.
Not fearful.
Almost familiar somehow.
As though hearing the Dravenholt name shifted us slightly away from “outsiders.”
I asked Ryn afterward why she revealed something like that so easily.
Usually she only introduces herself as “Ryn” or occasionally “Roderick.”
Very rarely both.
“It’s strategic,” she answered.
I still do not fully understand what that means.
Though Spathian immediately started grinning afterward, which probably means I should be concerned eventually.
We spent most of the afternoon near the docks.
Several children were swimming beside the lower piers despite the heat.
At first I thought some of them had birthmarks across their shoulders and backs.
Then one of the older boys climbed onto the dock laughing and I realized the marks resembled the same dark patterns worn by the adults.
Only smaller.
Less complete somehow.
I noticed something else afterward.
Older people here carry far more markings.
Not slightly more.
Significantly more.
The innkeeper’s arms alone contain almost more black than skin.
Meanwhile the children only carry fragments.
Small marks near the chest.
Shoulders.
Back.
I asked Spathian whether he thought the tattoos were cultural.
He remained quiet for several moments before answering.
“I don’t think they’re choosing where those appear, Reine.”
Then he immediately changed the subject.
Which somehow unsettled me more.
Several times throughout the afternoon, Spathian abruptly guided us away from certain alleys or side paths whenever groups of rough-looking men appeared nearby.
At first I assumed he simply wanted to avoid trouble.
Then I noticed the men watching people strangely.
Not drunk.
Not aggressive.
Just…
observing.
The same way everyone else here observes.
I am beginning to think the people of Greyharbor notice more than they say aloud.
Tonight the harbor remains quiet again.
Ryn spent nearly an hour staring out the window before dinner while making notes about trade flow inside one of her ledgers.
Finally she closed the book and sighed.
Then she said something that has unfortunately remained inside my head ever since.
“This place isn’t poor because it’s isolated.”
I asked what she meant.
She stayed silent for a while before answering quietly:
“No, Miss DeLuna… I think people avoid this harbor on purpose.”
For some reason…
that felt much worse.
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