Rum Lung counted the coins in his palm and grinned wide. Forty silver pieces—enough to bribe a dock master or buy silence from a nosy harbor guard. He stuffed them into his coat and glanced at his empty ship, the *Frost Claw*, creaking at anchor. Someday he'd have a crew he could trust, loyal smugglers who wouldn't sell him out for double what he paid them. North Peak was the perfect place to start—cold enough that most folks minded their own business, and the mountains hid a dozen secret routes. He just needed the right people and the right cargo. Then his operation would be unstoppable. But a ship alone wouldn't build an empire. Rum Lung needed a base on land, somewhere hidden where he could store goods and meet with contacts. The docks were too exposed, crawling with guards and informants. He wandered the harbor district until he spotted it—a squat building made from old ship planks and weathered timber. The Whale & Fork Bar sat wedged between two warehouses, its sign barely readable through the salt stains. Inside, the place smelled like spilled rum and smoke. Perfect. The owner was desperate, drowning in debt, and Rum Lung bought him out with twenty silver pieces. He kept the bar running to avoid suspicion, but the back room became his real office. Now he had a place to stash contraband, plan routes, and recruit the crew that would make his smuggling fleet real. The next morning, Rum Lung stood at the harbor watching a pack of ornery Pengu birds drag a supply sled across the ice-crusted dock. The creatures were mean, snapping at handlers and each other, their feathers disheveled and wild. But they were strong enough to haul twice their weight, and nobody asked questions about what they carried. Rum Lung bought the whole pack with his remaining silver. He needed muscle to move cargo from ship to shore, and these birds would do the job without talking. He watched them screech and bite at their handler, then grinned. His operation was taking shape—a hidden bar, a working ship, and now the means to move heavy goods without attracting attention. North Peak would make him rich, and soon every smuggler on the coast would know his name. That afternoon, Rum Lung walked through Wurm's Fish Market looking for information. The grimy stalls reeked of old fish guts and brine. Chum Gnomes ran most of the stands, their tiny hands gutting catches and shouting prices. Blood and scales covered the wooden tables. This was exactly what Rum Lung needed—a busy public spot where conversations disappeared into the noise. He bought a sack of frozen mackerel and listened to the gossip. Harbor patrols changed shifts at midnight. A merchant ship from the southern ports would arrive in three days carrying silk and spices. Rum Lung nodded and moved between the stalls, learning which vendors owed money and which ones hated the harbor master. By the time he left, he had six names of people who might work for him. His smuggling operation had everything now—a secret base, strong workers, and a place to meet contacts without drawing eyes. The pieces were coming together, and Rum Lung's dream of a loyal crew and a fleet that ruled these waters felt closer than ever.