Dockworkers hauled crates along the quay. Merchants threw open their shutters. The smell of salt and fresh bread and tar curled through the narrow streets like a living thing.

On a corner where the market was just setting up—tables groaning under apples, bolts of wool, cured fish, and cheap brass trinkets—a young Border Collie leaned against a lamppost, watching the crowd with the easy patience of someone who had nowhere to be.

He wore a fitted red coat, unbuttoned at the collar, with a dark leather baldric crossing his chest. A sword hung at his hip, worn but well-kept. His boots were tall and scuffed at the toes.