The moment Zyren stepped onto the ship's deck, he was greeted by a sailor who looked like he'd seen both better days and worse battles. The man was of average height, his sun-creased skin etched with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, as if he had spent a lifetime squinting against the glare of the ocean. His hair was tied back in a loose tail, streaked with grey, and a scar ran jaggedly down the right side of his jaw, disappearing under a neatly trimmed beard. He held out a hand expectantly.

  "Ticket," he said brusquely, his gravelly voice matching the rest of his worn demeanour. His pale blue eyes flicked over Zyren, taking in every detail he could despite the elf's hood shadowing most of his features.

  Zyren handed over the ticket.

  "Room 6, below deck. Last door on the left. Try not to get lost." The sailor gestured toward a narrow staircase that descended into the ship's lower levels.

  As Zyren turned to follow the direction, he couldn't help but glance around. The ship itself was well-maintained but bore the scars of a long life at sea. The wooden deck was polished smooth by countless boots but was riddled with scratches and faint gouges, evidence of cargo or conflicts. The sails were patched in places, and though they billowed proudly now, they seemed weary, like an old warrior who still marched despite the weight of years. The figurehead at the prow—a fierce lion carved from oak—had chips in its mane, and the faint scent of brine and tar lingered in the air.

  Zyren hesitated, curiosity getting the better of him. "Does this ship always travel this route?"

  The sailor gave him a wry grin, his teeth yellowed but intact. "This ship has one purpose and sails all the assigned routes to fulfil it."

  Zyren raised an eyebrow. "What purpose is that?"

  "To serve the King's will," the sailor replied cryptically. His grin widened as if amused by the elf's confusion.

  Zyren waited for elaboration, but the man simply turned and walked off, his boots thudding against the planks with the steady rhythm of someone who had found his sea legs decades ago. With a resigned sigh, Zyren made his way below deck.

  ___

  The room was a stark contrast to the wide-open spaces of the deck. It was cramped, barely lit by a small circular porthole that let in faint, greyish light. Four bunk beds were crammed into the tight space, their frames made of sturdy but scuffed metal. The mattresses looked thin and worn, and the air carried the faint musk of sweat and saltwater. A single wooden chest sat at the foot of each bed for belongings, and a lantern hung from a hook on the ceiling, swaying gently with the ship's motion.

  Three of the bunks were already claimed. A stout halfling sat cross-legged on the lowest bunk, sharpening a blade with meticulous care. Beside him, a lanky human sprawled lazily, chewing on a piece of dried meat. In the top bunk opposite them, a gnomish woman leaned back, reading a small leather-bound book.

  "Guess you're our new neighbour," the halfling said, glancing up. His voice was gruff but not unkind. "Name's Garlen. You look green, stranger. First time at sea?"

  Zyren set his pack down and nodded, feeling the unfamiliar sway of the ship beneath his feet. "Yeah. First time."

  The gnome looked up from her book and smirked. "You'll be puking your guts out by dawn. Happens to everyone." She tapped her book knowingly. "The body wasn't made to float."

  Zyren raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for the encouragement." He claimed the remaining bunk, testing the mattress with a cautious hand.

  The lanky human chuckled. "Don't mind her. Name's Oren, and she's Kess. You from the southlands?"

  "Further than that," Zyren replied vaguely, not ready to divulge too much. He busied himself with arranging his meagre belongings, keeping his back to the others.

  "Suit yourself," Kess said, returning to her book. "Just don't snore."

  ___

  Two days passed uneventfully. Zyren spent much of his time helping the sailors with minor tasks—scrubbing the deck, coiling ropes, and even patching a tear in one of the sails under the watchful eye of the scarred sailor from before. Though the work was menial, it gave him a chance to observe the crew and their routines, to learn the rhythm of life at sea.

  Yet something gnawed at his mind. Occasionally, as he moved about the ship, he heard a low growl echoing through the hull. It was faint, almost like a vibration, and no one else seemed to notice it. He tried following the sound but could never pinpoint its source from the areas he was allowed to be. Each time, it left him on edge, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck that refused to subside.

  ___

  On the third night, as the fog rolled in thick and heavy, Zyren stood at the railing, staring into the void. The sound of the waves was muffled, and the mist seemed to swallow the world. He leaned against the damp wood, his hood pulled low, hoping the solitude would calm his thoughts.

  The captain's voice broke the silence. "I heard you've been helping around." Zyren turned, startled but masking it with a calm expression. The captain's silhouette emerged from the mist, his boots silent on the deck, as if he had materialized from the fog itself. "Thinking about joining the navy?" the captain asked casually, his gaze fixed on the murky horizon.

  "No," Zyren replied after a pause, his voice measured. "Just making time."

  The captain's head turned slightly, his sharp eyes taking in the elf's hooded figure. "How did you know I was an elf?" Zyren asked, trying to deflect the scrutiny, uncomfortable under the man's penetrating gaze.

  The captain's lips curved into a faint smirk. "I saw you at the tavern," he replied. "That's how I know you're a dark elf." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken implications.

  The words hit Zyren like a blow. His pulse quickened, but he forced himself to appear calm. He tightened his grip on the railing, his fingers digging into the wood until splinters threatened to pierce his skin.

  The captain stepped closer. "Did you really face Craglings?"

  Zyren's heart raced, and his breath hitched. The memory of that night surged back—the glowing eyes piercing through the darkness, the chittering sounds that seemed to come from everywhere at once, the smell of blood and burnt wood that clung to his clothes for days afterward. His hands felt clammy, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

  "I…" he hesitated, glancing toward the fog. His voice was quieter when he finally replied. "I did."

  The captain studied him for a moment longer, as if weighing the truth in his words, his eyes searching for something in Zyren's expression. Then he gave a slow nod and turned back to the fog. "The mist won't let you see or do anything now. Get some rest."

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  ___

  Zyren had barely settled into his bunk when the room exploded with noise. Someone banged on the door with such force that the wood seemed to bend inward, and a panicked voice shouted, "Pirates!"

  The word hung in the air for a heartbeat before chaos erupted. Garlen leapt from his bunk, knife in hand, while Kess scrambled to gather her belongings. Oren froze, his face draining of colour.

  One of the patrons bolted to the door, cracked it open, then immediately slammed it shut and stumbled back, his face pale as death. "They're here! They're coming on board!" His voice cracked with terror.

  Heart pounding, Zyren grabbed his weapons. The familiar weight of his daggers against his chest brought a momentary calm, a centre in the storm of panic.

  "What are you doing?" Garlen hissed, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear. "Are you mad?"

  Strapping on his daggers with practiced movements. His hands trembled slightly, but his voice remained steady. "What do you think will happen if they take the ship?" Zyren shot back.

  No one else moved.

  Out on the deck, the screams of the pirates grew louder, blending with the clash of steel and the shouted orders of the captain. The sounds of battle filtered through the wooden walls—the thud of bodies hitting the deck, the crack of splintering wood, the desperate cries of the wounded.

  Zyren slipped into a corner, nocked an arrow, and closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath, trying to centre himself as his father had taught him. "Feel the bow as an extension of your arm," Faelar's voice echoed in his memory. "The arrow is your intent made physical."

  For a moment, the mist was gone, replaced by the burned forest. The smell of ash filled his nostrils, and the cold sweat of fear dripped down his spine. The screams were closer now—too close. His hands shook, and doubt crept in. He wasn't a warrior. He had survived by pure luck and desperation.

  He opened his eyes just in time to see a shadow swing inside the ship, a massive figure silhouetted against the dim light from the corridor. Without thinking, Zyren released the arrow. It flew with a soft whistle, and he watched, time seeming to slow, as it struck the intruder in the chest. The pirate fell, unmoving, a look of surprise frozen on his face.

  Zyren stared, momentarily stunned by what he had done. This wasn't a Cragling—this was a person. But there was no time for reflection.

  ___

  The battle was chaos incarnate. Pirates swarmed the deck, their bodies moving through the thick fog like specters. They shouted orders and curses as they clashed with the crew, their weapons flashing in the dim light—a deadly dance of steel and shadow.

  The transition from ranged to close combat sent a surge of fear through him—now he would have to face his enemies eye to eye, blade to blade. His daggers gleamed briefly in the dim light before disappearing into flesh, and he moved like a shadow through the turmoil, striking and retreating, never staying in one place long enough to become a target. His movements, while quick, lacked the fluid grace of experience. Twice he nearly lost his footing on the blood-slicked deck. Once, he barely parried a blow that would have opened his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat stung his eyes despite the cool mist.

  A struggling sailor caught Zyren's attention—a young man, barely more than a boy, desperately fending off a pirate twice his size. The sudden movement caught the pirate off guard, leaving him overextended and off-balance. The attack left the pirate exposed, and Zyren capitalized, driving upward with both daggers. One sliced a clean line across the man's chest, while the other found the soft spot beneath his ribs. The pirate's eyes widened in shock before the light faded from them.

  Zyren pulled his blades free, his hands now slick with blood—not just his enemy's, but his own from where the pirate's blade had nicked his forearm. The wound stung, but adrenaline dulled the pain to a distant throb.

  The captain's voice bellowed over the din, ordering the sailors to regroup near the mainmast. "Form up! Protect the helm!" His commands cut through the chaos like a beacon, giving structure to the desperate defence. But the pirates kept pressing, their numbers threatening to overwhelm the crew through sheer force. For every one that fell, two more seemed to emerge from the fog, their faces twisted with battle rage.

  Then, through a momentary break in the mist, Zyren saw it—a figure so massive it seemed impossible. An orc, but unlike any he had ever seen or heard described in travellers' tales.

  It was enormous, nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and skin the colour of charred ash. Its eyes glowed crimson, and it carried a massive, double-edged blade that looked almost too heavy for a normal man to wield. The orc's movements, however, were fluid and deliberate, each step placed with purpose, each swing calculated for maximum effect. This was no mindless brute—it was a warrior, a tactician, a leader.

  The captain engaged it first, his strikes quick and precise, but the orc's sheer strength was overwhelming. The human's blade seemed to bounce off the creature's armour, barely leaving a mark. Its counterstrike came in a heavy swing that the captain barely sidestepped, the massive blade embedding itself in the deck where he had stood a heartbeat before.

  Zyren saw the struggle and darted into the fray, trying to flank the beast. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the sounds of battle around him. This was madness—he was no match for such a creature. Yet he couldn't stand by and watch the captain fall.

  He lunged at its side, but the orc shifted, blocking the strike with its arm guard and swinging its blade in a wide arc. Zyren dropped to the ground, his heart hammering against his ribs as the massive weapon whistled just inches above his head, narrowly avoiding decapitation.

  The captain took advantage of the opening, driving his sword toward the orc's exposed ribs. The blade connected, drawing blood, but the orc barely flinched. Where any normal creature would have howled in pain, this beast merely grunted, as though the steel piercing its flesh was nothing more than an irritation. It lashed out with its free hand, catching the captain in the chest and sending him staggering back, the man's boots scraping against the deck as he fought to remain standing.

  Zyren circled around, forcing himself to focus, to remember every lesson his father had taught him about facing larger opponents, his daggers flashing as he feinted and struck. He managed to cut shallow wounds on the orc's arm and thigh, but its sheer strength made every encounter dangerous. Each time his blades connected, it felt like cutting into oak rather than flesh. One missed step could mean death.

  The orc growled, its gaze darting between the captain and Zyren. It swung its massive blade again, forcing the captain to block with both hands. The impact sent a tremor through the captain's arms, and he grit his teeth as he held his ground, his face contorted with the effort of withstanding the orc's inhuman strength.

  Zyren used the distraction to dart in again. His muscles screamed in protest, but adrenaline pushed him forward. He aimed for the orc's exposed back, but the creature spun with surprising speed, moving with a grace that defied its massive frame. It kicked out with one massive leg. The blow caught Zyren in the side, knocking him into the railing, pain exploding through his ribs like fire.

  Before Zyren could recover, the orc advanced, its shadow falling over him like a shroud, raising its blade for a finishing blow. Then its gaze locked onto Zyren's exposed face. "Impossible," it growled, its voice low and full of disbelief. The creature's crimson eyes widened, recognition flashing across its features.

  "Stay alive, elf," the captain grunted, using the distraction to strike. His blade sliced cleanly through the orc's leg, causing the beast to roar in pain. Blood sprayed across the deck in a crimson arc. It lashed out, punching the captain hard enough to send him sprawling, the man's body skidding across the wet planks.

  Zyren pushed himself up, shaking off the dizziness. He could feel his strength waning, but he refused to stop. His vision blurred at the edges, but he forced himself to focus on the massive figure before him.

  "You're on the wrong side!" the orc bellowed, its tone turning to rage. The words seemed to tear from its throat, filled with a desperate fury that made no sense.

  Zyren hesitated, confused by the orc's reaction. The orc swung its blade with calculated ferocity. "Open your eyes!" it roared, its voice echoing in the mist. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning Zyren couldn't grasp.

  This time, it struck Zyren with the dull side of the weapon, the impact crushing into the elf's shoulder and sending him flying across the deck. Pain coursed through him like liquid fire in his veins as he hit the deck, sliding until his back struck the railing. A dagger fell from his grasp, clattering away with a sound that seemed impossibly distant through the ringing in his ears.

  The orc froze, staring at him. Its chest heaved, and its crimson eyes narrowed. "This isn't right," it muttered, more to itself than anyone else, its voice carrying a weight of confusion and revelation.

  "Retreat!" the orc bellowed, its voice carrying over the chaos. The command cut through the sounds of battle like a knife. The remaining pirates began to pull back, leaping overboard and vanishing into the mist, their forms swallowed by the grey void beyond the ship's rails.

  Still in pain but determined, Zyren's hand moved on instinct, his training taking over when conscious thought failed him. Summoning the last of his strength, his fingers tightening around the familiar hilt, he hurled a dagger at the retreating orc. The blade spun through the air, a silver flash in the dim light. He saw the blade pierce the creature's back with a solid thunk before darkness took him, the world fading to black as his consciousness slipped away, and he lost consciousness.

  The Book, I′d be glad to have you along.