The ship came from the east, black sails against a grey sky.
James saw it first—a speck on the horizon that grew larger with each passing hour. He stood on the wall, his old eyes narrowed, his hand on his sword.
"That's not a trader," Taylor said beside him.
"No."
"Not a Deep One ship either."
"No."
"Then who?"
James watched the black sails draw closer.
"I think I know."
---
The ship anchored in the river mouth at dusk.
A rowboat carried a single figure to the dock—a woman, tall, grey-haired, her face scarred by decades of war. She wore the black armor of the old Inquisition, and at her hip hung a Null-blade.
James met her on the dock.
"Hello, Grell."
"James." The former Inquisitor smiled—a thin, cold expression. "You look old."
"You look dead. I heard you burned."
"I got b
