I think the sea genuinely hates me.
Not metaphorically.
Personally.
According to Uncle Kael, the western route I used years ago is no longer considered safe after the leyline instability caused by the Treasure Vault near the Giant Crossing.
Apparently the surrounding currents changed afterward.
Several smaller routes collapsed entirely.
A few coastal settlements disappeared beneath sinkwater during the last season.
Uncle Kael explained all this while standing perfectly stable on the deck as I attempted not to die beside him.
I still hate the color blue.
By the time we finally reached Greyharbor, I was no longer emotionally capable of appreciating the scenery.
Which was unfortunate because the place itself looked strangely beautiful at first.
Not grand.
Not impressive.
Just…
quiet.
The Hollow Anchorage.
That is what the locals call it.
Though I still do not know whether that is the real name or merely the one people continue using after forgetting the original.
The harbor sat between pale stone and reddish sand where the outer edge of Dunskar’s desert eventually reaches the sea.
The heat felt wrong beside the water.
Dry wind moved across the docks while fishing boats drifted silently beneath faded cloth banners.
Everything should have felt lively.
Instead the entire harbor seemed muted somehow.
The smell reached me first.
Sharp salt.
Wet rope.
Old wood.
Then something beneath it.
Something faintly metallic.
Not strong enough to identify properly.
Only enough to remain unpleasant.
“Too quiet,” Ryn said beside me while adjusting her gloves.
“For a harbor this size.”
After she mentioned it, I could not stop noticing.
No shouting sailors.
No arguments over cargo.
No drunken singing.
Even the dockworkers spoke softly.
Most people avoided looking directly at us while we passed.
Especially after noticing Uncle Kael.
Which honestly felt reasonable.
The people here dress strangely.
Loose pale cloth wrapped around the arms, shoulders, neck, and sometimes part of the face despite the heat.
At first I assumed it protected against desert wind.
Then I realized even those indoors wore it.
Occasionally fabric shifted while someone moved.
I glimpsed dark markings beneath skin several times.
Tattoos perhaps.
Though unlike ordinary sailor tattoos.
I only noticed because they looked unexpectedly beautiful.
Ryn stepped on my foot shortly afterward.
Uncle Kael brought us to a small inn overlooking the inner harbor before departing back toward the fleet.
Apparently he knows the innkeeper personally.
This continues happening everywhere somehow.
At this point I am beginning to suspect Uncle Kael secretly knows everyone in existence.
The inn itself is small.
Warm lanterns.
Old wood darkened by salt air.
A single dining hall beside the lower level.
Four workers moved quietly between tables carrying bowls of soup and grilled fish while pretending not to observe newcomers.
They were kind.
Genuinely kind.
But their eyes lingered strangely.
Not hostile.
Not suspicious.
Just…
attentive.
As though they noticed far more than they allowed themselves to say aloud.
Three children played near the far corner of the dining hall tonight.
Small carved boats floating across the wooden floor between them.
One kept laughing loudly whenever the boats crashed together.
The sound startled me slightly because it was the loudest thing I had heard since arriving.
The innkeeper himself is enormous.
Grey beard.
Old sailor posture.
His arms carried dark markings almost entirely uncovered beneath rolled sleeves.
Unlike the others, he did not seem interested in hiding them.
I may have stared too long again.
“First time seeing Inked folk?” he asked while placing food on the table.
I nodded.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
“We’re still people.”
I do not think he meant it as a joke.
Spathian remained unusually quiet during dinner.
That frightened me more than the harbor.
Usually he would already be discussing ship balance or attempting to redesign furniture using spoons.
Instead he mostly watched people.
Once I noticed him staring toward one of the workers whose sleeve had slipped slightly near the wrist.
Then he looked away immediately.
Even now the harbor outside remains strangely still.
Ryn and I are sharing the upper room overlooking the water.
The window is open because the air inside feels too warm otherwise.
From here I can see only a few lanterns near the docks.
No large trade ships.
No late unloading crews.
Nothing.
A little earlier, while removing her coat, Ryn suddenly stopped near the window.
Then she said quietly:
“Miss DeLuna… this place should be far busier than this.”
I asked why.
She remained silent for several seconds before answering.
“Ports don’t become quiet unless something is wrong with the routes.”
For some reason that unsettled me more than the smell.
The wind outside keeps carrying strange sounds across the water tonight.
Not often.
Only occasionally.
Something distant.
Difficult to identify properly.
Once or twice I thought it sounded almost like screaming.
But faint enough that I may simply be tired.
I hope tomorrow feels less strange.
Though honestly…
I do not think this place wants to feel normal.
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