Godric jolted awake, breath shallow and chest tight. The stale air of the ship's cabin clung to his skin, but it wasn’t the cold that had stirred him. Visions lingered like smoke — Primera in ruins. Flames licking the sky. The soundless scream of a land he couldn’t save.

  He sat up slowly, ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, and stepped out into the corridor. The Evergleam night greeted him with a biting wind and the endless rhythm of the ocean. Lanterns swayed gently with the ship’s motion.

  Leaning against the railing was a lone figure cloaked in black — Ziyad. Always composed, always quiet, his dark eyes found Godric before a word was spoken.

  “You’re not sleeping,” Ziyad said, voice low. “It’s been like this since we left Primera.”

  Godric offered no answer, just met his gaze and nodded once.

  Ziyad reached into his cloak and pulled out a small wooden cup. “Found some tea in the storage crates. A gift from Lady Emilie, I think. Might help.”

  Godric accepted it, feeling the warmth seep into his cold fingers.

  Moments passed. Then came the familiar sound of boots on wood. Xhiamas emerged from the shadows, every movement sharp and deliberate. He glanced at the cup in Godric’s hands, then at his brother.

  “Had to make sure he didn’t mess with it,” Xhiamas said curtly.

  Ziyad let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “Even now, you don’t trust me.”

  “I trust you to look out for yourself. That’s about it.”

  The air thickened with tension. Godric said nothing, the steam from the tea curling between them like smoke from a distant fire.

  Xhiamas exhaled slowly, his eyes lingering on the horizon. “This mission isn’t about you and me, Ziyad. I’m here for one reason — to make sure he gets to Azane, and we all return successfully.” He nodded toward Godric. “That’s it.”

  Ziyad didn’t respond. But something in his gaze flickered. A mix of guilt, maybe… or something older.

  The foreigner let the silence hang for a breath before pushing off the railing. “I’ll leave you two,” he said, his tone unreadable. “It’s late.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he vanished down the corridor, the shadows swallowing him like the sea swallows starlight.

  Godric brought the tea to his lips. It was surprisingly warm, slightly bitter, with a faint hint of spice. He let the cup rest in his hands, watching the steam drift lazily toward the dark sky.

  For weeks, he had barely spoken — too many questions and not enough clarity. But now, with the wind quiet and the tension gone, he found his voice.

  “What happened between you two?” he asked softly.

  Xhiamas didn’t answer at first. His gaze was fixed on the open water, jaw tight, the wind tugging at the ends of his dark braid.

  “Come,” he said at last, nodding toward the narrow wooden steps that led down toward the lower deck. “Let’s sit. You should hear it from me.”

  Godric followed, settling beside him. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sounds were the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the distant rush of waves.

  “Ziyad and I… we weren’t always like this,” Xhiamas said quietly, his voice distant, almost reverent. “Back then, we were inseparable. He was wild, I was rigid — but we balanced each other. At least, that’s what I used to think.”

  He paused, jaw tightening.

  “Our family belongs to a clan in Azane — the Dhilāl al-Qadar. It means The Shadow of Fate. We were born into it, raised in it. A bloodline that traces its roots back to the earliest days of the Stranger’s covenant.”

  Godric furrowed his brow. “I've heard your family hails from the three royal clans. Is it true?”

  “In Azane, royalty doesn’t always wear crowns,” Xhiamas replied. “We were meant to lead — not with honor, but with obedience. When the time came for me to begin my transition to leadership, they told me what it would require: I was to journey through Azane and… remove enemies. Assassinations, carried out in silence. Innocents, often. ‘Tools of fate,’ they called them.”

  Godric stiffened. “They wanted you to murder people to prove yourself?”

  “They call it becoming the Stranger’s hand,” Xhiamas said, bitterness curling under his calm words. “It’s an ancient rite. Bloody. Fanatical. I refused. My father disowned me. My name was struck from our records, my title revoked. I left and joined the Wandering Arrows. They took me in without asking questions, and I stayed because, for once, I was judged by my merit — not my blood.”

  Godric stared down at his cup. “And Ziyad?”

  Xhiamas’ eyes narrowed. “He stayed. But not just that — he believed in it. In all of it. The rites, the faith, the blind obedience to the Stranger’s will. When he found out about your… gift, he saw it not as a miracle, but as a divine omen. That’s how the Dhilāl al-Qadar think. Magic is sacred, but only in the ways they understand. To wield many forms is blasphemy unless it's sanctioned. To you, it’s survival. To them, it’s prophecy — or heresy.”

  Godric felt a chill run through him, one that had nothing to do with the sea air. “So he sees me as…”

  “…something he doesn’t understand. Which makes you either blessed or cursed.” Xhiamas looked him in the eye. “That’s why I’m here. I don’t know what you are, Godric. But I know what they are. And I won’t let them decide it for you.”

  For a while, Godric said nothing. He simply nodded, letting the silence speak for him. Somewhere far below, the ocean whispered secrets no man could hold for long.

  They sat in silence for a few more moments, the night wind rustling the ship’s sails above. The waves below had calmed, as if listening.

  Then came the sound of approaching boots — measured, purposeful, but not hurried. A man emerged from the upper deck near the Captain’s cabin, clad in a deep navy cloak marked with silver trim: one of the Nyxsteel Dragoons.

  He paused at the top of the stairs, offering a respectful nod.

  “Pardon the interruption, sirs,” he said, voice low but clear. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Xhiamas stood halfway, always alert. Godric remained seated but turned his gaze toward the man.

  The Dragoon continued, “Just came to inform you — we’re nearing Abussonian waters. Should cross the boundary by sunrise.”

  Godric’s expression lit up in an instant, his earlier weariness forgotten. “Abussonians? Really?” He stood now, the tea forgotten at his feet. “I’ve never seen one — I’ve barely even been on the ocean before this.”

  The Dragoon gave a small smile. “You’re in for a sight then. If the sea’s calm and the winds are good, we might catch them breaching. Scouts, most likely. They don’t show themselves unless they want to be seen.”

  “They’re allies, right?” Godric asked. “I heard stories — that they fought with Primera during the War of Crimson Foam.”

  “They did,” Xhiamas confirmed quietly. “And they still do. But they follow their own rhythms, their own laws. The sea is their kingdom, not ours.”

  “Still,” Godric said, his voice tinged with boyish wonder, “the thought of people who live in the ocean, who breathe and move through it like we do on land… it’s incredible.”

  The Dragoon chuckled. “You’re not wrong. First time I saw one up close, I was your age. Never forgot it. Eyes like pearl-glass, movements smooth as the tide. Just… don’t reach overboard if you see one too close. They’re curious, not tame.”

  Xhiamas nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

  The Dragoon dipped his head again. “Aye, Captain. I’ll let the crew know you’re informed.” He turned and disappeared back toward the upper deck.

  As his footsteps faded, Godric turned to Xhiamas with a rare grin. “I think I needed this.”

  Xhiamas allowed a slight tilt of his lips. “Enjoy the awe while you can. The seas ahead aren’t all wonder.”

  But still, as the two sat beneath the vast starlit sky, the horizon seemed to shimmer with promise — and the whisper of fins beneath the waves carried stories just waiting to surface.

  ***

  The morning light came gently, shimmering through the wooden slats of the ship’s quarters. Godric stirred at the muffled sound of footsteps and voices above — the rhythmic shuffle of boots on deck, the creak of rigging being adjusted, and the occasional clang of metal on wood.

  He sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes, as the scent of crisp sea air mixed with something heartier — food. Roasted fish, maybe. Herbs.

  Outside, the Dragoons were already hard at work adjusting the sails. A few of them shouted instructions as the wind shifted. Godric stepped out, stretching his arms as the sun cast golden hues across the deck.

  Michael stood near the bow, one hand resting on the rail, his cloak rippling behind him. His eyes were fixed on the horizon.

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  Godric followed his gaze — and gasped.

  The waters were different now. Though deep, they were astonishingly clear, shimmering in hues of sapphire and emerald. He leaned over the edge, peering down to see what lay beneath.

  Far below, vibrant coral forests danced in the sway of underwater currents. Schools of brilliant fish darted between the formations — crimson, gold, pale blue — while strange creatures with soft-glowing spines glided through open space. For a moment, the surface of the sea seemed like glass, and the world beneath more alive than anything on land.

  Michael spoke without turning. “It’s breathtaking.”

  Godric nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  A Dragoon approached, nodding in greeting. His armor bore the sigil of the Nyxsteel — a crest shaped like a tide-swept blade.

  “You’re seeing Abussonian waters, lads,” he said with a grin, then took a bite from a piece of dried bread. “Only place on the ocean where the sea wants to show off.”

  Ziyad sat not far off, perched on a crate with a plate beside him, idly chewing a piece of the same bread, eyes flicking between them in silence.

  Michael raised a brow. “So we’ve officially crossed into their territory?”

  “Aye,” the Dragoon replied, swallowing his bite. “Passed the reef-veil just before dawn.”

  Godric leaned further over, eyes wide with wonder. “I thought we’d see one by now.”

  “You’re not wrong,” the Dragoon muttered, his tone shifting slightly. “Feels… odd.”

  Michael turned to him. “Odd how?”

  The Dragoon scratched at his chin. “Usually, by the time you hit this stretch, you see something — a scout tailing us from the depths, an emissary cresting the water, even just shadowed eyes below. But it’s been quiet. Too quiet.”

  Godric frowned. “You think something’s wrong?”

  “Could just be bad luck,” the Dragoon said, trying to wave it off — but his eyes didn’t match the calmness in his voice. “They’ve been known to vanish for a day or two before. Still, it’s strange.”

  He stood straighter, brushing crumbs from his gauntlet. “We’ll know more soon. Azane’s only a few days out, but we’re stopping at a trading cove to resupply. Place is one of Primera’s eastern scouting outposts too — good for news, bad for surprises.”

  Michael gave a curt nod. “Keep your men sharp.”

  The Dragoon nodded and made his way back toward the helm, calling out something to his crew.

  Godric lingered at the railing, watching the coral shimmer beneath the ship. Despite the beauty, a pit had begun to form in his stomach — a whisper in the deep, warning that something beneath all this brilliance had gone silent.

  By late afternoon, the trading cove came into view — and with it, a sight that caught both Godric and Michael off guard.

  It wasn’t a port in the traditional sense, but a sprawling network of shipwrecks — old galleons, broken frigates, even the hulks of warships long since abandoned. Each had been repurposed into something new: makeshift markets, rope bridges connecting masts like walkways, and rusted hulls hollowed out into smithies or inns. Seaweed clung to some of the timbers, and gulls circled overhead, drawn by the bustle below.

  Dozens of vessels were moored nearby, their sails marked with unfamiliar sigils and colors — not of Primera. Some had hulls of strange material, others bore curved, foreign prows. The docks themselves teemed with life: merchants shouting in broken tongues, sailors haggling over crates, cloaked wanderers exchanging tokens instead of coin.

  Godric stepped up beside Michael as they neared the edge of the deck. His eyes were wide, not with fear, but fascination.

  “I didn’t think it’d be this… massive,” he muttered.

  Michael nodded, arms folded across his chest. “Nor did I. It's a city built on ruin.”

  A Dragoon came up behind them, giving a low whistle as he surveyed the chaos. “Still lively as ever,” he said. “Looks like most of the trade’s flowing steady. That’s a good sign. But we’ll be staying here tonight.”

  Michael turned to him. “Why?”

  “Two reasons,” the Dragoon replied. “One — the men need time to gather supplies for the trip home. Won’t be any good to us if they’re starved and low on water. Two — we sent word ahead weeks ago to one of the Azanean ports that agreed to harbor our vessel. Still haven’t heard back. Until we do, we don’t sail blind into those waters.”

  Godric gave a small nod. “Makes sense.”

  The Dragoon grunted and moved off, barking orders to a few men preparing to disembark.

  The group exchanged a glance, then descended the boarding ramp.

  Ziyad, as always, broke away quickly — drawn toward the sound of clanging steel and the glint of unfamiliar weapons. He vanished into a stall built from what looked like the remains of a sunken cruiser, already asking sharp questions to the smith within.

  Xhiamas turned to Michael, eyeing his full plate with faint disapproval. “If I may, Lord Michael — Azanean heat will have you cooked alive in that.”

  Michael arched a brow. “It’s ceremonial.”

  “It’s excessive,” Xhiamas countered, already adjusting the straps on his shoulder. “You’ll want lighter leathers. Mobility over grandeur. The winds out there don’t care for knights.”

  Michael gave a reluctant nod and let him work, trusting Xhiamas’ experience in the terrain they were approaching.

  Godric, meanwhile, wandered through the winding decks and makeshift stalls on his own, hands behind his back, quietly absorbing it all.

  He passed a vendor selling spices in hanging jars that glowed faintly with bioluminescence. Another offered maps etched onto scales of some aquatic beast, while a cloaked woman played a stringed instrument made from polished driftwood and bone. Foreigners moved through the cove with unhurried ease — their skin sun-kissed and sea-worn, their eyes carrying the depth of people born close to the tide. One had hair like silver cords, braided with shells. Another wore a necklace made of carved obsidian fish teeth.

  Night had settled by the time they regrouped aboard the ship.

  The Nyxsteel Dragoons had lit a firepit in a recessed brazier between the masts — more for camaraderie than warmth — and the scent of seasoned meat and flatbread filled the air. Lanterns swung gently from ropes above, their light casting golden ripples across the deck. Around the fire, the four travelers sat cross-legged, sharing a modest but welcome meal.

  Michael tore a piece of bread and spoke with purpose. “We’ll remain here until we get word from the port in Azane. As soon as the signal comes, we dock. No delays.”

  The others nodded, chewing in thoughtful silence.

  Michael continued, “Once there, we separate from the Dragoons. A smaller party moves quieter and draws less attention. Their captain agrees — they’ll hold position at the port and maintain contact with the mainland.”

  “A good plan,” Xhiamas said, his voice steady. “Moving in numbers across Azane is asking for trouble.”

  Godric glanced between them. “What should we expect once we’re in?”

  Ziyad, of all people, answered before anyone else. He set down his half-eaten skewer and leaned forward, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

  “First, the weather,” he said, licking a trace of oil from his thumb. “It will break you if you’re not ready. The sun isn’t your friend here — it scalds the skin and blinds the eyes if you’re not used to it.”

  “Which is why,” Xhiamas added, gesturing to a nearby crate, “I’ve made arrangements. Leathers, linens, desert garb. Lighter, breathable, and meant for mobility. Armor will be dead weight.”

  Godric nodded, trying to imagine himself in such attire. “Alright. What else?”

  “The beasts,” Ziyad said with a half-smile. “If you thought you saw monsters in Primera, prepare to meet their gods. Azane is home to creatures older than the stories about them. Titans in the sand. Wyrms in the canyon. Amphibians that can crack a hull with one lunge.”

  “That’s comforting,” Godric muttered, eyes wide.

  Michael raised an eyebrow. “We’ll manage. We always have.”

  Ziyad gave a quiet chuckle. “You’ll need that confidence.”

  Godric leaned back, hands on the deck behind him. “And the people? The clans?”

  Xhiamas’ expression grew more guarded. “That,” he said, “will be the most delicate part of all.”

  He looked toward the flame.

  “Unifying Azane isn’t just diplomacy. It’s negotiation layered with centuries of blood and betrayal. You’re not just convincing leaders — you’re stepping into rivalries older than most nations. If we manage to bring them together, Primera will have a united continent at its back. But it has to be done right. Carefully. One step out of place, and we could start another civil war.”

  Godric’s voice was quiet. “So who do we speak to first?”

  Xhiamas met his gaze. “You already know what my family, the Dhilal al-Qadar, are capable of. That alone should tell you what we’re up against.”

  “But they’re not the only clan,” Ziyad added. “There are three that matter.”

  He held up fingers, one by one.

  “First, our own — the Dhilal. Faithful, proud… dangerous. You know this by now.”

  “Second,” Xhiamas said, “are the Shahr Zulm?n — the orcish warclan. Isolationist. Stubborn. But they respect strength above all else. If you want their trust, you earn it in blood or in battle. Their domain spans the canyon basin and the starlit forges beneath the southern ridges. Beasts walk beside them, and their chieftains ride desert drakes.”

  Godric let out a low whistle.

  “And the third?”

  Ziyad’s expression shifted. Cooler now. “The Qadarin.”

  Godric sat up straighter. “Weren’t they once part of Primera?”

  “In blood, perhaps,” Michael said. “Their line carries Primeran roots.”

  Ziyad leaned forward. “And they’ve never let the rest of Azane forget it.”

  Xhiamas added, “They consider themselves above the rest — cleaner, more ‘refined.’ In truth, they’re snakes draped in silk. The Qadarin operate behind masks and veils. Their politics are theater, and their smiles are laced with poison.”

  Godric frowned. “Then maybe they’re the ones we should reach first. If they’re closer to Primera, maybe they’ll—”

  Both brothers turned toward him with mirrored glances — not anger, but wary disapproval.

  “No,” Xhiamas said firmly. “If we go to them first, we send the wrong message. The other clans will see it as favoritism — or worse, betrayal.”

  “They already suspect we bring Primeran interests in our pockets,” Ziyad added. “Show up at the Qadarin gates first, and you confirm it.”

  Godric fell silent.

  Michael spoke after a moment. “Then we begin with neutral ground.”

  Xhiamas nodded. “I’ll handle it. I know which border town we can start with — one not sworn to any clan, but where ears are sharp and tongues loose. If word of our arrival spreads right, we’ll be summoned soon enough.”

  Godric gave a small nod, his mind already racing with possibilities.

  The fire crackled between them, casting shadows that danced like old ghosts. Somewhere beyond the cove, the sea sighed against ancient wood, and the stars above shimmered with quiet anticipation.

  Their meal had ended, but none had yet gone to sleep.

  Godric remained near the railing, watching the faint glimmer of stars ripple over the gentle waves. The others lingered nearby, still armed more out of habit than expectation. The Dragoons had spread across the deck, some checking their rations, others in quiet conversation.

  Then came the sound.

  A cry — faint, distant, and indistinct.

  Godric turned first. “Did you hear that?”

  Michael stood. “From where?”

  Another cry. This time louder. Closer. Desperate.

  One by one, they rose to their feet.

  Dragoons froze mid-task. One dropped a lantern. The clatter cut sharply through the night. Their captain stepped out from the helm, eyes narrowed as the cry echoed again — now clearly human… or near enough.

  Godric drew his twin blades from his back, and the moment Death’s Lament cleared its sheath, the air pulsed green. The haunting glow shimmered down the steel, catching in his eyes.

  Michael planted his hand on Fortitude’s hilt and drew the greatsword free, the polished runes along its edge humming with latent power.

  Ziyad’s blade was already out — a curved weapon with etched markings in a language Godric still couldn’t place. Xhiamas flipped his cloak back, drawing a dagger shaped like a jagged fang — curved and stained from years of use.

  Then the water churned.

  The surface near the cove warped, waves trembling unnaturally as something moved beneath. The sea swelled, not with tide — but with force.

  Suddenly, with a loud splash and a gasp, a bloodied figure was hurled from the dark waves and landed hard on the weathered boards of the cove. Several Dragoons rushed forward, blades raised—then froze.

  “It’s—” one whispered, kneeling by the body. “It’s an Abussonian.”

  The figure coughed violently, water and blood splattering the dock. His skin was pale-blue where it wasn’t slashed, and small gills fluttered weakly beneath his jawline. He looked up, dazed — but alive.

  Godric stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “What happened?”

  The Abussonian locked eyes with him.

  “They’re… coming.”

  The deck quaked beneath them — no, everything did.

  The entire cove shuddered violently, as if struck from below. Ropes snapped, sails whipped, and crates toppled. Water surged up and over the lower docks in a burst of froth and seaweed.

  From the depths beyond the broken ships, they came.

  Pale figures with slick, stretched skin and webbed limbs. Their eyes glowed like bioluminescent death — blue, cold, and predatory. Claws scraped over barnacled wood as dozens of them clambered onto the platforms, snarling with mouths that split sideways, inhuman and ancient.

  “Arms! To arms!” the Dragoon captain bellowed.

  Michael raised Fortitude and roared above the chaos, “Form ranks! Prepare to fight!”

  The cove erupted — steel drawn, torches flaring, screams cutting the night.

  And in that final moment, Godric tightened his grip on his blades, the green hue of Death’s Lament flaring brighter.