Page 20 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
AERON
T he town council chamber reeks of mildew and old ink, and the buzz of the overhead lights grates on my last nerve.
There’s a stack of maps on the table near the window—weathered parchment edges curling like the town itself, fraying at every seam but still standing.
Councilor Dimmitt gestures toward the newest one, jabbing his pen so hard it nearly tears through.
“So, Harbor Master Thalen, are we clear on what’s at stake if you delay this Eastern Reach contract again?”
The man’s voice cuts through the still air like a cracked buoy bell—persistent and aggravating. I keep my stance steady, arms crossed, boots planted. Behind me, Drokhaz leans in the doorway, silent and watchful, the only one in this damn room who still knows how to listen without posturing.
“We’re not delaying. We’re evaluating,” I say, voice flat. “That contract opens our ports to syndicate control. You think the profits outweigh the price. I don’t.”
There’s a hush, heavy and tight.
Dimmitt adjusts his spectacles like the weight of my words is inconvenient. “You’re letting old wounds blind you to progress.”
“No. I remember what happened the last time we handed off our docks. Half our seaweed fields turned toxic from unregulated dredging. The council apologized with a commemorative plaque.”
Across the table, Rowan offers the faintest nod. Her support isn’t loud, but it never has to be.
Dimmitt huffs. “We’ll revisit the vote next session. But Harbor Master—Lowtide can’t afford sentimentality.”
I don’t bother responding. I’ve learned not to waste breath in rooms that mistake control for leadership.
Outside, the coastal wind hits like a balm. Briny and real. It carries gull cries and the faint whistle of a crab skiff returning from a pre-dawn haul. Drokhaz follows me toward the trucks parked along the edge of the bluff, the gravel crunching beneath our boots.
“You want me to trip him next time he says ‘sustainable freight’ like a threat?” Drokhaz offers, voice dry as low tide.
“Only if you want to give the council a heart attack.”
“They’d call it a strategic disruption.” He hands me a thermos—coffee, still hot. “You look like a man who wants to throw that council table into the sea.”
“I want a dock that doesn’t answer to men who’ve never hauled a net,” I mutter.
Drokhaz claps me on the back, then peels off toward the shipyard offices. I head for the south pier.
The sky is still low and silvered with morning mist, the sun only beginning to burn through. The scent of diesel, salt, and sun-baked wood wraps around me like memory. A skiff hums in the distance. Gull feathers drift in the air like soft falling ash.
And then I see her.
Evie.
Kneeling at Dock 3, camera up, eyes squinting through the lens. The morning light catches in her hair, making it a shade brighter than it ever looks indoors. Her boots are braced against the warped wood of the dock, and her whole body moves with intention—focused, certain.
She’s photographing Marley and Goff, who are hauling their nets onto the pier. The shrimps glisten under the early light, and their laughter rises like something ancient and free.
Evie says something I can’t hear, and Goff chuckles, throwing an exaggerated pose with a fish clutched in both hands. She clicks the shutter. The sound of it somehow louder than the lapping tide.
I walk closer. Can’t help myself.
“Didn’t peg you for a morning person,” I say.
She doesn’t startle. Just lowers the camera and smirks without looking at me.
“Didn’t peg you for a poetic lurker, but here we are.”
My mouth twitches. “You’re out early.”
She shrugs, brushing windblown hair out of her face. “Old men with nets make better models than brunch crowds.”
“Fair. They smell better too.”
Marley gives us a cheeky wink before dragging his cooler toward his battered truck. Goff nods at me, still beaming from the attention.
Evie stands, slinging the camera over her shoulder. The tide’s shifted enough to leave a ribbon of seaweed along the dock’s edge, and the air tastes like salt and rust.
“You always walk the docks when you’re stressed?” she asks.
“Only when I can’t punch someone,” I reply.
Her laugh is soft, a sound I want to hear again.
“Council still trying to sell the town to the highest bidder?”
“Dimmitt thinks modernization means importing greed.”
“And you?”
I scan the harbor—the working boats, the knotted ropes, the gulls riding the wind like they own it. “I think this town has scars it hasn’t earned. I’m not adding more.”
She looks at me, and it’s the kind of look that holds weight. “That’s a hell of a thing to fight for.”
“I’m not letting them strip this place bare.”
“Maybe it doesn’t want to be saved.”
“Then it’ll have to fight me too.”
We fall into step, walking the curved path toward the jetty. Driftwood lines the beach in sculptural twists, and tidepools glitter with trapped stars—anemones and tiny darting crabs and bits of sea glass.
“You believe in curses?” she asks suddenly.
I glance at her. “Depends. You planning to curse me?”
She shakes her head. “Old places like this… they feel haunted. Not by ghosts. By choices.”
I nod. “This town remembers every mistake. That’s its magic.”
She stops walking, turns toward the sea. The sun’s breaking free of the mist now, turning the water to hammered gold. Her silhouette is sharp against the horizon—camera dangling at her hip, wind teasing the hem of her jacket.
“I think I like it here,” she says.
I don’t breathe for a second too long.
“I hope you stay,” I say quietly.
Her eyes meet mine.
“I might,” she says.
And just like that, the weight in my chest shifts.
Not gone, but lighter.
Hope doesn’t announce itself. It just lingers.
And waits.