The airship docked in what looked like the middle of nowhere.

It settled onto a stretch of plain grass, just big enough to hold the full size of the airship without touching or crashing into any nearby trees.

As soon as Ryn stepped off the plank and onto the grass, the smell immediately hit him. Salt laced the air, making his hair stick—something the nobles, including himself and the ladies, absolutely hated.

Even the grass felt different underfoot, tougher and shorter, as if the ground had grown used to being trampled.

The coast wasn't visible from here, but he could tell how close it was anyway.

Taylor dropped down behind him, already focused on the ship. She crouched near the hull, fingers brushing along the etched panels set into the metal.

"This spot's fine," she said. "We won't draw attention."

Ryn glanced back at the vessel. "Why not land closer?"

Taylor didn't look up. "Because we won't be leaving from here."

That made him pause.

She tapped one of the indicators, the faint glow flickering before dimming again.

"We need to resupply."

"Food?" Ryn asked.

"Fuel."

He frowned slightly. He'd never questioned it before. The airship had always worked. That was usually enough.

"…What does it run on?" he asked, even though he already had a suspicion.

Taylor straightened, brushing dirt from her gloves.

"Manalite," she said.

Of course.

Ryn let out a slow breath.

"How much do we have left?"

"Enough to land," Taylor replied. "Not enough to take off again."

Silence followed that.

Ryn looked past the grassland, toward where the land dipped and the wind shifted. He couldn't see the city yet, but he knew there was one there.

He searched his memory, digging around until he found a city of the same location and feel.

Pearlreach.

With a wave of his hand, everyone understood already.

"We move on foot from here," he said. "Don't reveal ourselves. We're just travelers."

Fritz nodded immediately. Amelia followed without comment, already adjusting her cloak. Taylor lingered just long enough to secure the ship, helping lock down what little fuel remained before joining them.

The path dipped as they walked, the grass thinning into packed earth and stone. With every step, the air grew thicker, both with salts and various minerals.

The sound reached them next: voices layered atop one another, the clatter of docks, the low creak of wood bridges under constant weight.

The city revealed itself all at once, spread along the water, all centered around the one simple thing that kept the city alive:

The ocean.

Stone buildings crowded the shoreline, their upper floors leaning inward as if bracing against the sea. Boats were tied off wherever there was room rather than where they should have been.

People walked around, all either carrying something or talking to someone.

The city was alive—yet strained.

Ryn took it in quietly.

In his first life, Pearlreach had felt like a wall. Something solid you leaned against and trusted to hold. Though it seemed very different to his memories.

His party crossed the first bridge, planks creaking beneath the crowd. The water below shimmered dully. Ryn noticed carvings—serpentine grooves worked into the stone railings, worn smooth through time.

They looked less like decorations and more like markers, symbols of some sort. He'd even go as far to say they might've been some sort of religious motive.

They didn't get far before something happened.

The crowd ahead of them slowed, not because of congestion, but because people were stopping. Voices rose, loud enough to cut through the constant dock noise.

Ryn caught the words before he saw the source.

"You can't just reassign it!"

"I'm not reassigning anything. There's nothing left to assign."

"That's a lie and you know it—"

The bridge widened into a small square. Crates were stacked along one side, tarps pulled back just enough to show stamped seals burned into the wood.

A ring of people had already formed, watching the argument.

At the center stood three figures.

Two dwarves, dressed in layered work-coats, screaming in some kind of Dwarvish that Ryn couldn't understand.

Between them, a human clerk in grey robes clutched a ledger to his chest like a shield.

"You think we don't notice?" one of the dwarves snapped. "Every week it's the same answer!"

The clerk's jaw tightened. "Watch your tone."

"Or what?" the other dwarf shot back. "You'll write our name down and make the problem disappear?"

A murmur rippled through the onlookers.

Ryn slowed his pace, his party doing the same without being told.

This wasn't the typical drunk fights. There was a real problem at hand.

"I have contracts," the first dwarf said, jabbing a finger toward the crates. "Signed ones. My furnaces are cold, and my people are idling—and you're telling me the city can't spare even a single shard?"

The clerk swallowed.

"I'm telling you that if I approve this, the whole city will be powered down by tomorrow."

"That's not my concern."

"And it is mine," the clerk snapped back, temper finally slipping. "You think you're the only one hurting?"

For a moment, it looked like that might be the spark.

Then a new voice cut in, one that was laced with authority.

"That's enough."

The crowd parted slightly as a fourth figure stepped forward. Another dwarf, older than the others, beard braided with iron clasps. He wore no guild colors, just a heavy coat reinforced at the shoulders.

"This isn't helping," he said evenly. "You're blocking traffic."

One of the arguing dwarves bristled. "Stay out of it, Harbor—"

The older dwarf raised a hand.

"Go," he said. "We'll settle this later."

Reluctantly, the two guild dwarves backed off, muttering under their breath as they shouldered past the crowd. The clerk exhaled shakily and retreated with them, clutching his ledger like a lifeline.

The square loosened. People drifted back to their routes, conversations resuming in lower tones.

The older dwarf stayed.

Only then did he notice Ryn and the others.

His eyes lingered—on their posture, their weapons, and their expressions.

"Seems like a bad time for travel, dontcha' think?"

Ryn didn't answer.

Before he could, Taylor stepped forward half a pace, voice cutting cleanly through the lingering tension.

"We're looking to resupply," she said. "Manalite for an airship."

"Well, ain't that just the worst luck," he replied, looking at them straight in the face.

"There ain't no more to sell."

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