In Lys's inner harbor, the damp night air mingled with the briny smell of the sea.
On the stone quays, the guards on night watch gathered in twos and threes, leaning against stacked cargo crates or mooring posts and chatting listlessly.
Their talk revolved around women, wine, and last night's indulgences in the pleasure gardens.
"...That little minx's waist, damn, she knew how to move. Nearly left my soul there."
"Oh, spare us. On your wages, you could barely afford to touch her hand."
"I spent three silver coins, I'll have you know. Got myself a proper taste of the Western Continent..."
"Keep bragging. Who was it whose legs were so weak he could barely get out of bed this morning?"
A burst of knowing laughter rippled through the darkness, heavy with exhaustion and a reckless willingness to drift through life.
Lys had enjoyed peace for so long that the Mercenary Company handled all the real fighting at the borders. The inner harbor's defenses were more a matter of appearances than anything else.
No one thought anything would happen.
Then fire stained the sky above the warehouse district to the northeast an ominous orange-red, and thick smoke twisted upward like enormous black vines.
"What's...going on over there?" a soldier asked blankly, pointing at the smoke.
The commotion soon spread from the warehouse district.
Panic-stricken dockworkers, sailors, and even half-dressed civilians fled toward the harbor like headless chickens, their cries and screams shattering its torpor.
"Stop them! Stop them!" The officer commanding the guards, a bleary-eyed young man in fairly ornate armor, led a handful of men to intercept a few of the fastest runners. "What's all this panic? What happened?"
"F-fighting! They're killing people!" The man they caught babbled incoherently, his face covered in soot and terror.
"Who's fighting? Speak