Chapter 12 - The Whispers of the DocksThe Lower Docks of Oakhaven were loud, dirty, and alive.
Steam cranes hissed as they hoisted crates of iron ore from river barges, sailors shouted in three different dialects, and street vendors pushed carts loaded with fried river fish and hot meat pies.
Arthur Vance parked the wagon near the harbormaster’s office, hiring two dock guards to stand watch over the horses. Though he walked three paces behind the children to give them space, his tall frame and sharp eyes ensured no pickpocket or dock thug dared step within ten feet of them.
Evangeline walked through the bustling crowd, her eyes wide with unbridled fascination. She had lived her entire life behind velvet curtains and stained glass; to her, the smell of coal smoke, sea salt, and fresh bread was intoxicating.
"Look at the fish, Julian!" she gasped, stopping near a wooden stall where an old fisherman was scaling a massive silver pike. "I've never seen a fish that big!"
Julian laughed softly, but as they walked deeper toward the central market square, he felt a strange, cold prickle at the base of his neck—the old street instinct warning him that they were being watched.
He slowed his pace, his eyes subtly scanning the crowded alleyways.
Near the corner of a tobacco shop stood three men wearing greasy leather coats and battered felt caps. They weren't sailors, and they weren't buying fish. They were standing perfectly still, their dark eyes fixed not on Lord Vance's wealthy clothes, but on Julian's face.
One of the men—a tall, skeletal figure with a jagged scar stretching from his left ear down to his collar—pulled a short clay pipe from his mouth and spat onto the cobblestones.
"Well, well, well," the scarred man muttered in a low, gravelly rasp. "Look who got himself washed and fed."
Julian stopped dead in his tracks. His hand instinctively reached out, pulling Evangeline slightly behind his shoulder.
"Who are they?" Evangeline whispered, her voice dropping into fear as she felt Julian’s muscles go rigid beside her.
Arthur Vance noticed the tension instantly. He stepped forward, placing his broad shoulder between the children and the three men, his hand resting casually on his silver-headed walking stick.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Arthur asked, his voice ringing with quiet, deadly authority.
The scarred man didn't look at Arthur. He kept his yellowed eyes fixed entirely on Julian, a cruel, mocking smile stretching across his disfigured face.
"No problem, big sir," the scarred man said, taking a slow step forward. "We're just surprised to see little Julian alive. When old Mother Agnes died in the shanty town three winters back, we thought her little magician died right along with her."
Julian’s breath hitched in his throat.
Mother Agnes. It was the name the street dwellers had called his grandmother.
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"What do you want, Scrape?" Julian asked, his voice cold and flat, holding his ground.
The man named Scrape grinned, revealing a mouthful of crooked, blackened teeth. "What do I want? I want to know why a boy who can fix broken bones with a touch of his hand is riding around in a lord's wagon while his own blood is starving in the South Ward slums."
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