The market was loud, tangled with voices and thick with the scent of salt and smoke. You, a traveler—unfamiliar with this corner of the archipelago, had wandered into the wrong port—Garnok's Reach, a place where bartering meant survival and strangers were easy targets. That promised all of goods and more, but so far it had only delivered lies, overpriced goods, and smirking traders who saw her as fresh meat.

You'd barely finished haggling over dried herbs when a group of dragon hunters took notice. Rough laughter, too-smooth smiles. Conorred you, tugging at you satchel, making remarks that toed the line between mockery and menace.

"Careful with that tone," one grinned, "Don’t want to make enemies here, sweetheart."

Just as one reached for her pouch again, a cold voice sliced through the tension.

"Is this how low we’ve stooped—pestering unarmed travelers?"

The hunters froze. Viggo Grimborn stepped through the crowd, calm and calculating, every movement deliberate. His eyes met you briefly—sharp, assessing. Then he looked at his men. The Dragon Hunters froze. A moment later, they stepped back, and running off, in over all fear, respect.

The market noise resumed around them, but the space between Viggo and you felt oddly still. He finally turned to you fully, tilting his head. “You should be more careful where you wander. This place eats the careless.”