The Western seas were unusually calm, their placid surface belying the weariness within Aufhocker's heart. His journey had been a long one, harrowing ordeal after another, leaving him physically impaired and mentally agonized. The ambush at the start of his voyage had left its scars—his face still baring the jagged remnants of the attack despite his daily administering of medicine, his left arm bandaged and filled with a gaping hole, perforated by the serpent's fang during its attack, was a constant reminder of his vulnerability. And the wraith encounter had bereft him entirely of sleep the last night. Exhaustion hung over him like a shroud, and his eyes, once sharp and determined, now reflected a soul worn down by relentless suffering.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a muted glow over the waters, Aufhocker finally sighted his destination after a long journey. This small cove, hidden between tall cliffs, was controlled by some wildlands legion. The cove's serene appearance—calm waters and towering cliffs—offered a deceptive sense of safety.

Approaching the secluded inlet, Aufhocker guided the StormFisker carefully into the cove. The place seemed eerily deserted, with only the gentle lapping of waves and the distant cries of seabirds breaking the silence. He docked the boat, his movements slow and labored, every step a struggle against the overwhelming fatigue that threatened to consume him.

As he set foot on the sandy shore, the silence was shattered. Legionaries emerged from the shadows, their armor clinking softly as they formed a semicircle around him. Their leader, a large knight clad in chain mail, stepped forward. He held a radiant golden shield, his other hand resting on the pommel of his strapped short sword. His presence was commanding, exuding an air of cold, unyielding authority.

The knight's voice called out, "You must be the shipper the syndicate hired."

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Aufhocker, weary and broken, could barely muster the strength to respond, instead giving a simple nod.

"Good, your skills are commendable."

Aufhocker’s shoulders sagged with a mix of relief and resignation. He turned around back to his ship, but before he could take a step, a sharp, burning pain stung in the side of his neck. A crossbow bolt had found its mark. He staggered, his body convulsing as he fell to his knees, the world around him spinning in a dizzying blur. Blood seeped into the sand, staining the ground beneath him.

"But your services are no longer required," The knight remarked coldly.

As he lay there, his life slipping away, he managed a final, defiant whisper. "...the syndicate will hunt you... to the end of the world."

The knight laughed heartily, his voice a cruel mockery that echoed off the cliffs. Then, getting down on one knee next to the dying Skjultekr, he declared, "When I'm done arming my legion, there won't be a Velvet Syndicate left," his words filled with arrogant confidence.

Aufhocker's vision darkened, the world around him fading into an oppressive void. His thoughts drifted to the Velvet Syndicate and the vengeance that would surely come. Who did this fool think he was? He had fought so hard, endured so much, only to be betrayed at the end. It enraged him; it made no sense either. The tranquil waters of the cove seemed to mock his fate, a silent witness to the tragic end of this arduous journey.

As his consciousness slipped away, a profound sense of sorrow enveloped him. He had survived the perils of the sea, the terror that was the kraken, and the haunting wraith, only to fall at the hands of those he had hoped might offer even just a bit of respite. His story, meant to be one of resilience and defiance, was ending not in triumph but in a slow sinking into despair and death.

Aufhocker's spirit looked at his mangled, lifeless body laying down on the cold, unforgiving ground, his journey at an end. Some legionaries checked his pockets for things to steal, whilst most took the crates out of his boat. The lantern's fire on the boat flickered one last time before extinguishing, casting the cove into darkness. The wind whispered through the cliffs, carrying with it the echoes of a tragic demise.