Ezreal stood up first, brushing salt off his sleeves like it had been bothering him for hours, but only now got irritating enough to deal with. "We'll catch the coast before night," he muttered, eyes flicking toward the door. "Ipswich by morning."
Verek rose slower. His joints protested, every movement dragging like wet cloth over stone. He stared out the porthole for too long, like maybe the sea would change its mind and roll the other way. It didn't. Just kept sprawling, lazy and wide, like it had all the time in the world. "And after we dock, do we even know what we're dealing with?"
Ezreal didn't turn. His jaw shifted like he was working something bitter between his teeth. "North. Into the woods." It landed like a stone dropped into a dry well. He paused in the doorway, hand on the frame, fingers pressed in like he could hold the ship still. "Rest while you can. I've got a feeling it'll be a non-stop fight." Then he stepped out. No drama, no cloak flutter, just a gap where he used to be.
Verek stayed behind a little longer. The cabin felt tight. Like the walls had opinions. The wood grain along the wall swelled and curled, warped from years of salt air and bad luck. He stared, waiting for it to say something useful. It didn't.
The ship groaned underfoot, a tired old breath. Gulls screamed once outside, then went quiet. That quiet stretched too long. It felt like a dare.
Sleep didn't come easy. The sea up north carried a different kind of weight. Older. Thicker. Like it had a memory you'd rather it forget.
When morning showed up, it barely tried. Just a pale smear behind clouds, cold and tired. The wind clawed down past the sails, sharp enough to make bones flinch. Even the sun hesitated.
Land crawled into view slow. First a smudge, then jagged rooftops tangled in fog. Ipswich didn't rise from the mist. It crouched in it. Like it knew better than to be noticed.
The smell hit first. Salt, yeah, but under it was something sour—fish left too long, mold that had roots in the walls, rust that never left your clothes. A smell that stuck to your tongue.
They stood at the rail in silence.
Caylen muttered low, mostly to himself, "No bells. Not even gulls, No dogs. Is there anything living or cute left here?"
Ezreal, voice thin and dry, replied, "There are dogs. There's one over there under a busted cart by the tannery. Starving."
Caylen side-eyed him. "You ever say anything like a normal person? One sentence without sounding like a haunted statue?"
Ezreal blinked, slow as dusk. "Not everything needs an emotional story behind it."
The ship bumped the dock with a lazy thud. No one came. No guards. No Mayor or welcoming committee. Just dockhands with eyes that drifted like smoke.
Dax disembarked first, cloak catching wind like it was ready to leave him behind. Ezreal followed, careful and quiet. Verek stepped down after, boots finding damp wood that didn't welcome them. Caylen came last, fingers tapping the hilt at his side like he was trying to remember a tune.
Dax didn't look back. "A town this quiet is either digging a grave or pretending it doesn't need to."
"Or still deciding where to bury them," Caylen added. His smile was all edge, no warmth.
Verek pointed toward the slope. "Find the inn. Get our footing, and a homebase. Then ask questions."
The Gentle Giant Inn waited halfway up the hill, squatting like it'd dropped there and no one dared move it since. The sign creaked overhead—an ogre hugging a mug, looking like it regretted most of its choices.
Inside, the warmth hit first. Firelight, stew, and pipe smoke tangled together. Shadows clung to the walls like they were hoping to be forgotten.
Locals sat low, muttering in Common. Not one head turned.
Behind the bar stood an orc with arms like stone columns. His apron had a copper plate that read: SILENT KILLER. Looked like it had been hammered on during another life.
Dax tilted his head. "Well, that's subtle and inviting."
The orc grunted. "Name's from the war. Doesn't mean I bite."
Verek stepped forward. "Uh, rooms?"
"One crown a night for singles, two for doubles. Up on the top floor. Foods included." The orc paused, squinting. "One rule. Stay inside after dark. Lock the doors. If you're smart, you won't go near the chapel or the docks."
Caylen leaned on the counter. "What's down at the docks?"
"Not a what. But a who."
Ezreal's shoulders tightened. "Who?"
The orc didn't stop wiping the mug. "Not sure, but they listen; and they remember."
No one said anything for a few seconds. The silence had weight.
A woman pushed through the kitchen doors. Red braid, rolled sleeves. Moved like someone who didn't have time to repeat herself. She dropped off four bowls.
"Stew's hot. Beer's bitter. Don't ask questions you're better off not knowing."
Verek nodded with a raised brow. "Wouldn't dream of it."
They sat in the corner. The stew had a color not found in nature. Somewhere between regret and old stone.
Caylen poked it. "Smells like someone boiled guilt and served with a sigh."
Dax shrugged. "Still better than mum's. Hers talked back."
Ezreal stirred his slowly. "My spoon just tried to leave with the baby potatoes."
A few chuckles slipped out. Not loud, but real.
Verek stayed quiet. He was listening.
Behind them, a voice murmured, "...my Hara vanished. Two nights back. Came back barefoot. Wouldn't speak."
Another voice. "...woke up in the cellar. Doesn't remember going down there."
A third. "...cloaked shapes. Standing near the chapel. Watching."
Verek leaned in. "They're calling it a cult."
Dax nodded toward the fire. "Three by the hearth. Haven't moved. No drinks. Faces covered."
Verek turned. The figures sat still. Didn't shift. Didn't blink.
Ezreal murmured, "Too obvious. Real cultists stay boring."
The barkeep returned with mugs.
Verek asked, "The chapel?"
The orc's mouth thinned. "North side. Bell rings on its own. Priest left. Said his dreams were wrong, like not his own."
Then the front door slammed open. Every wall in the place shook.
A scream broke the fog.
They were already moving.
Outside, the square was thick with mist. A woman stood by the well, clutching a shawl.
Her voice cracked. "She was right there! Filling the bucket! Then gone!"
Ezreal scanned the rim. "Not in the well."
Caylen's hand hovered at his sword.
Verek stopped.
A child. Barefoot; A tiny hand held in a robed one walking toward the woods.
No sound. No trail. Just motion. Each step stirred something in the dirt. Like it called Verek's name.
Then they vanished.
He blinked. "Did anyone else see...?"
Dax turned fast. "What?" Nothing just fog.
Verek stared into the trees.
His chest tightened.
Something was out there.
And it had already taken one.