The doors of the town hall opened with a muted groan of wood and iron.
Inside, the air was warmer but still carried a trace of salt. The interior was practical—thick beams crossing the ceiling, reinforced walls built to withstand storms rather than impress visitors. Maps of the surrounding seas covered one side of the office, marked with shipping routes, dangerous currents, and patrol zones. A large desk of dark, weathered wood stood near the far wall.
Everything here served a purpose.
Theo led the way without ceremony. Noel followed, Noir padding quietly at his side.
Behind the desk stood the current President of the Northern Isles.
He was young for the role—early thirties at most—but there was nothing uncertain in the way he held himself. His posture was relaxed without being careless. The kind of authority that came from surviving the same storms as the people he governed.
He stepped forward as Noel approached.
