Not the polite chill of a Gildermere morning, but a raw, salt-laced wind that cuts through wool and leather like a blade. It howls off Stormhollow Coast, rattling the frost-caked shutters of the Watchtower Inn.

I'm wedged in a corner booth, my back to the wall—habit, not paranoia. The inn's common room is half-full at this hour: a pair of rough collies in patched greatcoats nursing tankards by the hearth, a lone poodle in a merchant's velvet coat scribbling in a ledger, and a hulking Labrador dockhand asleep face-down on the bar, his tail twitching.

A fire crackles in the massive stone fireplace, casting long shadows across the smoke-stained rafters. Somewhere above, floorboards creak—another guest stirring.

The innkeep, a barrel-chested husky with one ear notched and a stained apron, wipes a tin mug with a rag that's seen better days. He catches my eye.