Chapter 78 The Last Alliance

• The docks reeked of diesel and rotting fish, the morning sun glinting off oil-slicked puddles. A vendor in a grease-stained apron hawked churros from a cart nearby, the smell of cinnamon clashing with brine.
• Dockworkers shouted over the groan of cranes, their laughter sharp as they unloaded crates stamped with Carlisle Shipping logos. Normalcy. A mask.
• Adam pressed against the rusted hull of a cargo ship, his breath fogging in the chill. “They’re herding us.”