Elowen guided her market cart along Brineglass Quay with one hand on the rail and one eye on the lane ahead. The cart’s wheels clicked over the stone, and the air smelled of salt and pear skins. To her left were stacked crates. To her right stood a weathered post with an iron ring set into it, the kind used for tying boats fast.
Then the long harbor rope moved.
It was not supposed to move. It came from the water, thick and damp, a plain working rope used for hauling nets and tying down loads. But now it was sliding by itself across the wharf, slow as a snake in a dream. It brushed the crates, looped around the post, and gave a sharp tug. The post shuddered. The rope pulled again, stretching across the lane right in front of Elowen’s cart.
Down the quay, a dock worker called out, and another stumbled back as the rope swept toward their ankles. Elowen pulled her cart to a stop so suddenly the harness creaked. The rope slipped loose from the post and stretched farther along the quay, angling toward the harbor as if it had made up its mind.
Elowen tightened her grip. She could see three ways this might go now: follow the wandering rope toward the sea, try to stop it right here on the wharf, or call for help before it pulled someone into the water.
What happens next?
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