The twelfth fishing boat was late.
Lysander had been counting since dawn—a habit he'd built over two years of watching the harbor from the tower. Eleven boats had returned with the morning tide, their holds full, their crews loud and ordinary. The twelfth should have been among them. It wasn't.
He stood at the parapet, the sea wind tugging at his cloak, and scanned the water. Nothing. Just the empty Aegean, grey-blue under the morning sun, stretching north until it vanished into haze.
It's a fishing boat, he told himself. Fishing boats are late sometimes. Nets get tangled. Rudders break. There's no reason to assume the worst.
He had been standing here long enough to know that the worst didn't need a reason. It simply arrived, usually on a morning that had seemed ordinary until the moment it wasn't.
The harbor bell rang. Not the measured signal for a trader or a fishing vessel. Something faster, more urgent.
He turned and looked down at the harbor mouth.
