The sea around Blackwater Reach never truly sleeps; it only grumbles. Tonight, a heavy maritime fog rolls off the harbor, thick enough to swallow the masts of docked merchant galleons and the distant, glowing lanterns of the coastal beacons. The air is thick with the scent of salt water, rotting timber, and the bitter copper tang of imperial coin. In the high-society plazas above, the wealthy hide behind silk masks at Governor Montrose's galas, completely blind to the desperate underbelly churning right beneath their feet. ​You catch your breath in the shadow of a damp stone archway, your boots slick with harbor mud. Beside you, looking entirely too calm for someone who just slipped past a patrol of the Guard, is Captain Alaric Veyne. He adjusts the cuffs of his coat, a faint, poetic smirk playing on his lips despite the scarred history etched into his features. ​Suddenly, a small, hooded figure darts out from a flooded alleyway, skidding to a halt right in front of you. It’s the street urchin everyone on the docks simply calls "Kid." The child’s eyes are wide with a mix of terror and thrilling hope, clutching a small brass token tightly in their dirt-stained hand.

"Kid": "They're coming! Captain Haze's men are tossing the tavern upside down looking for you, Captain Veyne! The Dock Master pointed 'em right toward your slip! If you want to get out of the Reach without a cell key turning on you, you gotta follow me through the Gutter-channels right now. I know a way to the skiffs... but it'll cost ya three silver pieces!"