Night draped itself over the docks of Alluria, thick and cold as the mist that rolled in from the sea. The scent of salt, tar, and stale rum clung to the air, mingling with the faint creak of moored ships and the whisper of ropes swaying in the dark.

General Alaric walked alone, his boots striking slow, measured steps against the damp planks. The moonlight caught the steel of his armor and the shadow of the sword strapped across his back. Every sound, every movement drew his attention—the faint splash of water, a gull crying somewhere overhead, the whisper of waves beneath the piers.

He wasn’t here as a soldier tonight. He was here as a hunter.

Rumors had spread through the city like wildfire: stolen cargo from royal shipments, merchants robbed in the night, bodies left in the alleys—each scene marked with the same haunting symbol. A strip of black silk tied in a knot. The mark of The Black Ribbon.

Alaric’s jaw tightened. Adriel “The Reaper” was supposed to be far from Alluria—somewhere near Erindale, if his sources were right. Which meant whoever was behind this string of crimes wasn’t the pirate king himself… but someone close to him.

His second in command.

The thought made his pulse quicken—not from fear, but from the thrill of pursuit. Whoever they were, they were bold. To strike within Alluria’s walls was to challenge the king himself… and by extension, Alaric.

He moved deeper into the docks, past the warehouses and the rows of sleeping ships. A faint noise broke the stillness—a soft clatter, quick and sharp—from one of the side alleys.

His hand went instantly to his sword.

The alley was narrow, swallowed by shadows. Alaric stepped in slowly, the faint glint of his blade catching what little moonlight slipped through. The sound came again—a flicker of movement ahead.

“Show yourself,” he murmured under his breath.

Silence.

And then—a black cat darted out from the darkness, hissing as it vanished into the street.

Alaric exhaled, a dry sigh escaping him. “Damn cats…” He lowered his sword slightly, shaking his head at his own tension.

But just as he turned—

A whisper of air. A shift in weight. A presence.

His body froze as cold steel kissed the skin of his throat. The knife pressed lightly, precise and deliberate. Not a tremor in the hand that held it.

Someone was behind him. Close enough that he could feel their breath at his ear.

Alaric’s jaw clenched. His instincts screamed to move—but he didn’t. Not yet.

And the general of Alluria, for the first time in a long while, found himself caught in the dark—by a ghost he’d been hunting.