Morning broke over the Duskvein, but the sea knew no concept of dawn. The ship drifted forward under a dim, slate-gray sky, clouds rolling slow and thick overhead, tinged with the first hints of pale sunlight. The wind hummed through the rigging, the rhythmic creak of wood and distant rush of waves the only sounds accompanying Erin's gradual return to wakefulness.
He blinked against the soft glow seeping into the cabin, his body still swaying with the ship's constant motion. It was an odd thing—he'd grown used to it, yet it never quite left his awareness. The scent of salt and aged timber filled the small space, familiar now, though not yet comforting.
Erin sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his fingers grazing the edge of the leather-bound journal resting beside him. He had fallen asleep reading it again, his father's words fading into dreams before he could finish the last passage.
Outside, the ship stirred with life. Footsteps thudded above, muted voices carrying through the walls. They were close to Brackton Cay. He exhaled, stretching before standing, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. Today, they'd reach a place unlike any he'd seen before, a place even his father hadn't written about. That thought sent a ripple of excitement through him.
Pulling on his boots, Erin tucked the journal away and made his way up to the deck. The air hit him first—brisk, laced with the lingering chill of night. The scent of the sea was stronger here, mingling with the faint smokiness of burnt oil from the lanterns still flickering in the dim light.
The crew was already about their business.
Narza was perched on a barrel near the prow, rewrapping the bindings around her wrists, pulling them taut with slow, practiced movements. Ariya knelt by a wooden crate, counting through a small stock of supplies, muttering to herself as she checked over a few vials of medicine. She occasionally glanced toward Thalor, who stood near the helm, his arms crossed as he scanned the horizon.
Fenrick was by the mast, balancing on a thick coil of rope while tossing an apple in one hand, catching it effortlessly each time. The way he stood—weight shifting just enough to counteract the ship's movement—made it clear he had spent years on the sea.
He was the first to notice Erin. "Morning, Scrap. Surprised you're up before noon."
Erin rolled his eyes, walking over. "Hard to sleep through all the movement."
"Ship's always moving," Fenrick pointed out, taking a bite of his apple. "You'll get used to it. Probably."
Erin glanced around. "What's everyone up to?"
"Same thing we always do," Fenrick said, gesturing with the apple. "Waiting. Some of us keep busy." He nodded toward Narza, who had finished retying her wraps and was now stretching her arms over her head. "Some of us handle ship stuff." He motioned to Ariya, who had just stood up and was walking away from the crate. "And some of us waste time talking to me."
Erin smirked. "Sounds about right."
His fingers brushed the edge of his pocket where his father's old compass rested. He thought about the journal again, the words he had reread so many times they were practically memorized.
"You ever get tired of reading that thing?" Fenrick asked suddenly, eyeing him.
Erin hesitated. "No. It's… all I have left of him."
Fenrick tilted his head slightly, waiting.
"My father… I never knew him. He left when I was a baby, so I don't even know what he looked like. But I have his journal. His old compass. Reading his words is the closest I'll ever get to knowing him."
Fenrick chewed thoughtfully before replying. "Yeah. I get that."
Erin frowned. "You do?"
"Yeah." Fenrick tossed the apple core overboard, watching it vanish into the waves. "Never knew my father either."
Erin hesitated, then asked, "Do you know anything about him?"
Fenrick exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not a damn thing. My mother—" He stopped, jaw tightening slightly. Erin noticed the shift in his expression, the way his fingers twitched before he forced himself to relax.
"What?" Erin asked, quieter this time.
Fenrick looked out over the sea. "She got around. Enough that even she didn't know who my father was." His voice was flat, but there was an edge to it. "Not that it mattered. Even though she was there, she wasn't really… there. She spent more time drinking or chasing the next thing that'd make her forget she had a kid to take care of."
Erin stayed quiet, watching the way Fenrick's fingers tapped idly against the wooden rail, like a habit he wasn't even aware of.
"I had to figure out a lot of things myself," Fenrick continued after a moment. "How to fight. How to survive. No one was gonna do it for me." He shrugged. "That's just how it is. You can't expect anyone to give a damn about you unless they have a reason to."
Erin frowned. "That's a miserable way to look at things."
Fenrick huffed a small laugh. "Maybe. But it's kept me alive." He finally turned his gaze back to Erin. "You look at life through those pages of yours, yeah? Through your father's words, like they'll help you understand him, maybe even yourself. Me? I look at life for what it is. You don't get extra chances. No grand meaning. You take what you can, while you can."
Erin wasn't sure how to respond to that. Fenrick said it so simply, like he'd long since made peace with it.
"…That sounds lonely," Erin muttered.
Fenrick gave a half-smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Loneliness teaches us to embrace our past, not as a burden, but as a part of our story."
Erin leaned against the railing after Fenrick walked away, watching the waves churn below. The wind had picked up, sharper now, carrying the scent of rain. He turned his father's compass over in his hand, thumb brushing against its worn edges.
Loneliness teaches us to embrace our past, not as a burden, but as a part of our story.
Erin wasn't sure if he believed that. He wasn't even sure what his story was.
His gaze drifted across the deck. Ariya was securing the last of the medical supplies. Narza had moved to the rigging, adjusting the ropes with her usual quiet focus. Cidrin was below deck, likely tuning up whatever scrap of machinery he'd managed to salvage last. And at the helm, standing with arms crossed, scanning the horizon as if he could read the weather itself, was Thalor.
Erin watched him for a moment. The way he stood—steady, unmoving, like no storm could shake him. The way the crew unconsciously gravitated toward him, even without realizing it. They all looked to him, relied on him.
Erin had spent his whole life chasing the shadow of a man he'd never met. But the person who had kept him from drowning these past weeks—the one who'd given him a chance when no one else would—was standing right there.
Maybe he wasn't as lost as he thought.
A gust of wind sent the ship rocking slightly, snapping Erin from his thoughts. He exhaled, rolling the compass over once more before tucking it back into his pocket.
They'd be reaching Brackton Cay in a few hours. Whatever came next, he'd face it.
Just like Thalor would.
* * *
The first sign of Brackton Cay was not its silhouette on the horizon, but the glimmer of light catching on waterlogged beams and salt-worn sails. Erin squinted against the sun, leaning over the railing as the Duskvein approached. From a distance, he expected to see land—a stretch of sand or the dark mass of an island breaking through the tide. Instead, Brackton Cay loomed ahead as something entirely different.
It was not an island at all.
The settlement rose from the sea like a monstrous vessel run aground, an amalgamation of shipwrecks, scavenged planks, and repurposed hulls fused together to create a floating city. The closer they sailed, the more details emerged—a labyrinth of bridges and ropewalks spanning from one structure to the next, masts still standing upright like skeletal trees, flags of all colors rippling in the briny wind. Some buildings were stacked haphazardly, listing at odd angles but held together by thick ropes and iron braces, while others had been stripped of their sails and turned into homes, their portholes now windows, their decks transformed into balconies overlooking the tide.
Erin had heard of places like this, but seeing it was another thing entirely. It was as if the wreckage of a hundred voyages had been gathered and lashed together to form something new, something stubbornly alive despite its unnatural construction.
Brackton Cay was a testament to survival.
As they drifted closer, Erin spotted signs of life amid the wooden sprawl. People moved along the makeshift streets, balancing with practiced ease over walkways that swayed with the movement of the sea. Boats too small to be called ships wove through the waters between structures, ferrying goods and passengers across the floating settlement. Lanterns swung from high beams, their glass fogged with salt, and banners painted with strange insignias draped across the upper levels, displaying the marks of merchants, old crews, and independent traders.
The docks themselves were a chaos of movement. Sailors hauled crates, shipwrights hammered at warped beams, and voices called over the din—some barking orders, others bartering in a slang Erin barely recognized. The air was thick with the scent of brine, oil, and something vaguely metallic, like rusted chains left too long in the surf.
Fenrick let out a low whistle beside him. "Well, Scrap, welcome to Brackton Cay. Ain't much to look at, but she stays afloat."
"She's not even a real island," Erin muttered, still taking it all in. "I thought—" He shook his head. "I don't even know what I thought."
"You thought it'd be normal," Fenrick said with a grin. "That was your mistake."
Thalor, standing at the helm, called out to the crew. "We dock, we resupply, we leave in the morning. Don't cause trouble."
Brackton Cay didn't look like the kind of place that thrived on trouble. It looked like a place that endured it.
As the Duskvein was secured to the docks, Erin took one last glance at the skyline of masts and mismatched buildings. A floating city built from the bones of ships—what kind of life did people carve out here? He intended to find out.
Once they stepped onto the docks, Erin was hit with the full force of Brackton Cay's atmosphere. The wooden planks beneath his feet creaked with the movement of the tide, and the very ground felt unstable, as if the city itself breathed with the sea. People bustled past—sailors, traders, shipwrights, all moving with the efficiency of those who knew exactly where they were going.
Narza had already split off, disappearing into the crowd without a word. Ariya and Fenrick stayed behind to help with supplies, while Thalor was busy speaking with a harbormaster, a broad-shouldered man with a deep accent that turned every word into a rolling wave of consonants.
Erin lingered for a moment before heading into the maze of ships and shacks, drawn into the chaos of Brackton Cay.
He made his way through the narrow walkways leading inland—or what passed for 'inland' here. The buildings were stacked precariously, their walls a patchwork of ship timbers and salvaged iron. Some had signs carved into the wood or painted onto scraps of canvas, advertising taverns, smithies, and trading posts. Others were less obvious in their purpose, their doors left slightly ajar, promising something more illicit within.
He passed a group of fishermen hauling in a net filled with wriggling silver fish, their voices thick with Brackton's particular dialect.
"Got yerself a decent haul today, aye?" one said, slapping a companion on the back.
"Aye, but the deep don't give without takin'," the other replied, shaking saltwater from his sleeves. "Lost a good line t' something big. Somethin' I ain't keen on meetin'."
Erin moved past them, their words lingering in his mind. What kind of creatures lurked beneath Brackton's floating mass?
His curiosity eventually led him to a wide, open stretch of platforms where stalls had been set up in a loose, chaotic arrangement—the Keelmarkets. The scent of tar, brine, and aged wood filled the air, mingling with spices and the sharp tang of metal. Unlike traditional markets, there were no loud calls of prices, no neat rows of goods. Instead, people haggled in low voices, exchanging not just crowns, but information, services, and rare trinkets.
Erin slowed his steps, eyeing the wares. Old navigational charts, rusted sextants, bottles filled with seawater and something that shimmered within. One merchant displayed a dagger with a coral-inlaid hilt, claiming it had been pulled from the wreck of a ship swallowed by the Void Sea. Another had a set of rings supposedly forged from the remains of a lost saint's weapon—though Erin highly doubted that.
He stopped at a table covered in scattered tools and oddities. A compass sat among them, smaller than the one his father had left him, but finely crafted.
He picked it up, turning it in his hand. "How much?"
The merchant, a wiry man with a beard braided into knots, looked him over. "What ye got?"
"…Crowns?" Erin said uncertainly.
The man huffed. "Ain't how things work here, lad. Ye don't just hand over coin. Ye trade somethin' of worth."
Erin hesitated. He didn't have much on him. His father's compass was out of the question. His journal—absolutely not. He patted his pockets and found a small brass spyglass he'd picked up from a previous stop, barely used.
The merchant took it, inspecting the lenses. He squinted at Erin, then at the spyglass again, before finally grunting. "Fair trade."
Erin felt an odd sense of satisfaction as he pocketed the new compass. A small thing, but it felt like he had played by Brackton's rules, just for a moment. Erin lingered in the Keelmarkets, letting himself drift through the ever-shifting maze of traders and travelers. Everywhere he turned, there was something new to catch his eye—things he had never seen before, things that felt like they belonged to another life, another story.
At one stall, a woman with weathered hands and sea-glass earrings was etching names into the shards of a shattered hull. She worked with steady, practiced strokes, murmuring something under her breath as she carved. Erin wasn't sure if it was a prayer or a curse. A sign above her stall read: For the lost and the found. A name upon driftwood, so they are not forgotten.
Further down, a man sold dried sea creatures in glass jars, their preserved bodies curled in eternal stillness. Some were familiar—small fish, crustaceans—but others were unlike anything Erin had ever seen. One looked like a serpent made of translucent ribbons, another like a jellyfish with curled tendrils that seemed to pulse even in death. The vendor noticed Erin's interest and grinned, tapping on one of the jars.
"Caught this'n near the Tanglewaters," he said, his accent thick. "Glows in the dark, it does. Bit like a candle, if ye don't mind it bein' dead."
Erin took a step back. He wasn't sure he liked the way the thing inside twitched slightly, as if it hadn't quite accepted that it was dead.
He pressed deeper into the market, watching as a group of children darted past him, laughing as they wove through the crowd. One of them carried a wooden hoop with dozens of tiny bells strung along its rim, ringing wildly as she spun it over her arm.
There was an energy to Brackton Cay, a pulse of life that ran beneath the rickety planks and salt-worn sails. It was a place made from wreckage, but it was not broken.
As Erin wandered through the Keelmarkets, he kept an eye out for anything that stood out—something strange, something valuable, or maybe just something worth remembering. The shifting nature of Brackton Cay made it feel like the entire settlement could rearrange itself overnight, and if he didn't take in as much as he could now, he might never find it again.
His steps eventually carried him to a section of the market where the walkways widened into a broad, circular platform—a meeting place of sorts, where merchants and wanderers gathered to exchange more than just goods. Here, instead of wares, people peddled stories.
A man with a weathered face and a coat patched with a dozen different flags stood atop a crate, weaving a tale of a ship swallowed whole by a whirlpool that sang like a siren before it dragged them under. Nearby, an older woman sat cross-legged on a thick fishing net, holding a curved knife over a block of wood, carving out shapes that seemed to move even in stillness.
Erin stopped at her stall, watching as she worked. She wasn't carving names into driftwood, nor was she making simple figures. What emerged from the wood under her blade was intricate—ships with curling waves beneath them, beasts with too many limbs, eyes hidden in tangled knots of carved rope. Each piece seemed pulled from a nightmare, or perhaps a dream too vivid to be anything but true. He picked up one of the smaller carvings, turning it over in his palm. It was light, but the detail was so fine he could almost feel the crests of the waves beneath his fingertips. One in particular caught his attention—a grand vessel with a sleek form, its sails shaped like rolling clouds, the bow adorned with a crest he didn't recognize.
"You carve all these yourself?"
"Aye," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I carve what I see, what I know. Every ship here? It's part of Brackton Cay now—broken down, repurposed, or sunken in the bay. Even the grandest ships meet their end somewhere."
Erin's gaze lingered on the ship with the unknown crest. "What about this one?"
The woman let out a low chuckle. "Ah. The Celestine. A name that still carries weight, even if the ship itself is long gone."
He glanced up, intrigued. "Never heard of it."
"Then you've never read a proper history," she said, smirking. "The Celestine was the pride of the Sapphire Fleet—one of the last great warships of the Aurexian Dominion."
Erin frowned. "Aurexian Dominion?"
"The empire that once ruled much of the western Inner Islands," she explained, reaching out to trace the carved sails with a calloused fingertip. "Not just a kingdom, not a loose federation like you see today—an empire. The Aurexians controlled trade, the seas, and the skies. Their fleet was unmatched, their warriors feared. But even the greatest forces crumble, and so did they."
"How?"
The woman shrugged. "Some say it was their own ambition. Others claim they made enemies too great to handle. But if you ask me?" Her voice lowered, taking on a near-reverent tone. "I believe they collapsed because they lost the Celestine."
Erin raised an eyebrow. "One ship?"
"Not just a ship." She tapped the deck beneath them. "The Celestine's crew—they were more than sailors, more than warriors. They were the Twelve Celestine."
The name carried weight in her voice, as if it deserved reverence.
"Twelve?" Erin echoed.
"A dozen individuals, each one a force to be reckoned with. They weren't just masters of a craft, nor were they simple soldiers. Each of them had achieved something near-mythic—champions, visionaries, legends. Some say the Twelve Celestine were the Aurexian Dominion's true strength, not the fleets or armies. They wielded power beyond magic, beyond steel."
Erin narrowed his eyes. "What kind of power?"
The woman leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a near whisper. "They say that some of the Twelve bore Prana."
The word was unfamiliar, yet it felt significant, like a thread in a tapestry he had yet to see in full.
"Prana," he repeated.
"A force deeper than magic, using mana in a different way," she said. "It isn't cast like a spell—it's drawn from within, shaping one's very being, strengthening the body, the mind, the spirit. Those who master it become something greater."
Erin felt a strange pull at her words. "And the Twelve had it?"
"Aye," she confirmed. "Some of them, in different ways. Some say they could shatter buildings with a touch, move faster than the eye could track, and withstand wounds that would kill an ordinary man. But Prana isn't just raw strength—it's willpower made manifest. The Twelve weren't just strong. They were unstoppable."
Erin exhaled, trying to take it all in.
"What happened to them?" he asked.
"Their stories end in different ways. Some died in battle, some vanished, some—" She hesitated. "Some were said to have crossed into a place no one returns from."
The Void Sea.
She must have caught the look in his eye because she nodded slowly. "Aye. The Celestine was lost to the Void's waters. Some say that after the Twelve split, some of them sought something there, others claim they were cast into the abyss. Whatever the truth, the ship was never seen again for a long time before being found drifting by Sailors from Brackton Cay, they brought it back and merged it with the Cay."
Erin felt a chill despite the warmth of the afternoon air. The Void Sea. Again and again, the name surfaced in different stories, different histories. He reached into his coat and pulled out a worn leather journal. The familiar weight of it in his hands grounded him as he flipped past pages filled with sketches, notes, and the remnants of his father's words. He found a blank page and, without a second thought, began writing.
The Twelve Celestine—practitioners of Prana, legends of the Aurexian Dominion. Their ship lost to the Void Sea. Some say they sought something. Others say they were cast into it.
"The Void Sea," he murmured. "What do you know about it?"
The woman studied him, gauging something in his expression before answering. "Many things. More than most, less than some. It is not just the end of the world—it is a veil. A border between what we know and what we are not meant to know."
"Have you heard of Luminark?" she asked.
Erin's mind flickered back to Ivena's words at the safehouse. He hesitated, then nodded. "Not much, but… yes."
She smiled knowingly. "Then you know enough to ask the right questions. Some believe the Void Sea is just that—void, nothingness. But there are secrets within it, remnants of a higher plane. Not all who are lost to it are truly gone."
Erin clenched his jaw. His father had ventured into the Void. Had he found anything? Had he glimpsed something beyond?
The woman continued. "There are rumors—whispers of those who can pass between both planes. They are rare, but they exist."
His pulse quickened. "You mean people who can travel beyond the Void Sea?"
"Not just the Void." She tapped the wood again. "Beyond the veil itself. Between this world and the next."
The weight of her words pressed against him.
"And those people," she continued, "are said to be bound by something stronger than magic, deeper than Prana. A force that shapes them, defines them, guides them."
She met his gaze.
"They call it an Oath."
Erin frowned. "An Oath?"
"A conviction so powerful it shapes one's existence," she explained. "Oaths are not mere promises. They are not idle words spoken into the wind. To take an Oath is to carve your purpose into your very being, to reshape yourself to match it."
Erin's pen hovered over the page, his mind racing. Oaths—convictions that shape reality, defining one's purpose and abilities. To break an Oath is to lose everything. The idea fascinated him, but at the same time, something about it made him uneasy.
"That sounds… unreal" he said, eyes flicking up from his father's journal.
The woman smirked, carving another careful line into the wooden hull of a ship. "You doubt it?"
Erin hesitated, tapping his pen against the paper. "I mean, I've heard a lot of things about the Void Sea, and a bit about Luminark. But no one really knows, right? People claim all kinds of things."
"True enough." She brushed a few wood shavings from her lap. "And yet, there are places in this world where reality bends. Places where people have seen things they cannot explain. There are those who swear they have touched something beyond our plane and lived to tell of it."
Erin scribbled down her words, his curiosity outweighing his skepticism. "What kind of Oaths exist?"
The woman hummed thoughtfully, running her hand over the grooves of the wood she was carving. "Few are known, even fewer are understood. Oaths are personal things. Private. But I've heard of at least three."
She raised a finger. "The Oath of the Vanguard. A vow to protect—to stand between harm and the helpless. Those who take it are said to become living shields, immovable, unyielding."
Erin noted it down, then looked back up expectantly. "And the other?"
She tapped a second finger against the wood. "The Oath of the Unshackled. A defiance of all restraints. They say Oathbearers of this kind can break through bindings, laws, even fate itself."
He hesitated, then asked, "You've only mentioned two. What's the Oath that lets people move between planes?"
The woman paused, her knife stilling in her hand. Then, in a voice almost reverent, she said, "That… is The Oath of the Voidwalkers."
He underlined the name in his journal, staring at it for a long moment.
"The Oath of the Voidwalkers…" he murmured. "And they have the power to cross between… here and whatever's beyond?"
The woman didn't answer right away. She leaned back from her carving, wiping wood dust from her palms with a strip of rough cloth. Her eyes drifted to the horizon, the edge of Brackton Cay where the ocean stretched into haze.
"They don't cross," she said eventually. "They belong to both."
Erin looked up.
"You said you've only heard of three Oaths," he said, "but how many are there?"
The woman gave a slow shake of her head. "No one knows. Some say there are as many as there are stars. Others believe only a handful ever truly mattered."
That answer didn't satisfy him—but it lingered, like smoke in his chest. He tapped the pen against the spine of the journal.
"You believe in it all?" he asked quietly. "Luminark, the Voidwalkers… everything?"
Her hands had returned to her work, knife gliding through wood like it was something softer. "Belief doesn't change the shape of the tide. It just changes what you think you see when it crashes down."
He wasn't sure if that was an answer or a riddle.
They sat in silence for a moment, the murmur of the market stretching around them—calls from the vendors, the creak of timber, the ever-present breath of the sea below. Erin closed the journal and tucked it into his coat.
"I don't think I believe in any of it," he said finally, voice low. "Not yet."
The woman said nothing, only listened.
"But that's why I need to find out. I'm not going to take stories at face value anymore. If there's something beyond the Void Sea—if Luminark is real, if people can move between planes—then I'm going to see it with my own eyes."
His pulse had quickened as he spoke. It wasn't just fascination now—it was hunger. A low, buzzing certainty that whatever the truth was, it was waiting out there, veiled in mist and myth and silence. And he would tear through every last bit of it to find it.
The woman smiled—not kindly, not mockingly, but with something like recognition.
"That's how it starts."
A bell rang somewhere deeper in the Cay—faint, but enough to draw Erin's attention to the fading light. The edges of the sky were beginning to turn amber.
He stood, brushing off his coat. "I should head back."
"Then go," she said, already returning to her carving. "But don't forget what you've written."
Erin nodded, then hesitated. "What's your name?"
She didn't look up. "I've had many."
Another riddle.
But he didn't press.
As he walked away, her voice followed—calm, even, like the tide just before it turned.
"Not all who drift are lost, boy. But the ones who find something… they rarely return the same."
He didn't reply. He just kept walking, the weight of the journal in his coat and the echo of the Void Sea in his chest—no longer just a place of fear, but a question begging to be answered.
The path back through Brackton Cay twisted like a memory—narrow alleys between salt-stained buildings, sharp turns where canvas awnings flapped in the rising wind. Erin moved faster than before, journal clutched close under his arm, thoughts running wild behind his eyes.
He reached the docks as the sun dipped lower, shadows turning long and crooked. He spotted the crew near a low stack of cargo beside the gangplank. Ariya was organizing bandages and jars into a makeshift satchel. Narza leaned against a coil of rope, tossing a stone into the air and catching it lazily. Fenrick squatted by a barrel, sniffing it suspiciously. Thalor stood nearby, arms folded, watching the tide with his usual grim patience.
And Cidrin was the first to notice him.
"Back already?" Cidrin's voice carried as he adjusted a strap on a bulging crate. "Let me guess—you wandered off, talked to ghosts, and came back with absolutely nothing useful."
Erin rolled his eyes. "Not exactly."
"No sacks. No gear. No baskets. Not even a sack of dried crab. So yeah—sounds like nothing useful." Cidrin turned to the others. "Tell me again why we sent him into town and not, I don't know, literally anyone else?"
"I didn't go shopping," Erin said, sliding his journal from under his arm. "I talked to someone. A shipcarver."
Cidrin arched an eyebrow. "You're saying that like it's more useful than food."
"She told me things. About the Void Sea. About Oaths."
Fenrick let out a low whistle. "Oaths, huh? Old tales say those change a person. Bind 'em to something bigger than themselves."
Ariya, mid-wrap of a linen roll, gave a quiet hum. "They find you when you're not looking."
"You believe in them?" Erin asked.
"I don't need to believe." She offered a faint, almost private smile. "Some of us don't get to choose."
Thalor said nothing but glanced toward Erin with a small, unreadable shift in his stance.
Erin opened the journal, his voice gaining momentum. "She called the Void Sea a veil— Not just a border to all of our maps of the charted seas. Said it's not just vast oceans of anomalies, monsters, and madness. It's a boundary between here and… something else. And there are people—rare ones—who can cross it. People bound by something stronger than magic. Oaths."
Narza frowned, the stone in her hand forgotten. "The Voidwalkers," she said softly. "I've heard the name. Mostly in whispers. Supposedly madmen who sail beyond the edge and come back… wrong."
"Or enlightened," Fenrick offered with a grin.
"Or dead," Cidrin muttered, tapping the crate with his knuckles. "Which is what we'll all be if we start chasing fairy tales instead of stocking the ship."
"I'm not chasing fairy tales," Erin said. "But I'm done just hearing stories and letting them stay that. I want to know the truth. If Luminark exists—if there's something beyond the Void—I'm going to find it."
That got everyone quiet.
Even Thalor spoke, seeing the fire once again in Erin's eyes, his voice calm but deliberate. "A conviction like that's heavier than you think, boy."
"I don't care," Erin said.
Ariya smiled faintly. "Sounds like someone caught the drift fever."
He was only half-aware of what he was saying by then. The words tumbled out like they'd been building since the first night he'd stared at the edge of a map and wondered what came after. "I'm tired of wondering. I want to know. About the Void Sea. About Oaths. About Luminark, if that's even real. I want to—"
It lanced upward from a towering structure near the center of Brackton Cay—a pillar of dark wood and shining iron, cobbled together from the keels of countless ancient ships. It rose like a monument to the sea itself, and the beam blazing from its peak stained the air crimson.
Erin flinched and squinted against the glow. "What the hell is that?"
"The Hullspire," Cidrin said, not even looking. "Lighthouse, council hall, and oversized warning bell all in one."
"The red means a storm's coming," Narza added, her voice low now. "A bad one."
"Fast-moving," Cidrin muttered. "When it pulses like that? That's high-severity. The whole port'll be closed by dusk."
Erin stared at the light. "So it just… lights up and the whole island listens?"
"Wouldn't you," Fenrick said, "if it's saved more ships than it's seen built?"
"It's built from legends," Ariya murmured, following Erin's gaze. "Keels from vessels that never sank. Some say it hears the sea before the sea even speaks."
Thalor's eyes lingered on the glowing red beacon for a long moment before he finally exhaled, a slow breath that seemed to settle the rest of the group.
"We'll wait it out. No one's sailing in that." His tone didn't invite argument. "Use the time. Resupply what we can. Check the ship's moorings. We'll move when the sky allows it."
Cidrin sighed. "I knew it. Nothing ever goes smooth."
Narza was already pulling her cloak tighter. "Better to wait than drown."
Erin looked toward the towering Hullspire again. The red beam pulsed a slow rhythm—like a heartbeat echoing over the island. He thought of the shipcarver's words. About voices in the tide. About carving truth from wood and myth.
He could feel it again. That electric itch beneath his skin.
Something was stirring.
Not just in the sky.
"Erin," Thalor added, turning to him, "find the Quartermaster's stall. Make sure we have enough weatherproof cloth. If that rain comes down hard, we'll want every scrap."
"Right."
Just as everyone started moving, a grumble echoed across the group.
Fenrick froze.
Then slowly looked down at his own gut. "That… wasn't on purpose."
There was a beat of silence, then Cidrin smirked.
"Impressive acoustics. Want me to transcribe that in your Oath?"
Ariya chuckled. "I could eat too, to be fair."
"Same," Cidrin said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I skipped breakfast. Too busy fixing that cracked stabilizer pin."
"Then it's settled," Thalor said, gesturing with a nod inland. "We'll eat. There's a place near the upper tiers I've been to before."
The streets of Brackton Cay rose steeply from the harbor, winding up toward the inner ridge where the Hullspire loomed tall against the cloud-darkening sky. As they climbed, the scent of the sea gave way to something more complex—charred peppers, grilled shellfish, and the sweet tang of fruit-glazed meat.
The restaurant stood near a half-walled courtyard with a view of the docks below. Its sign read "The Salten Ember", carved into a blackened plank with curling script. Warm light glowed from within, dancing on polished driftwood walls and iron lanterns that hung like cages of fireflies.
Inside, the air was thick with spice and the low hum of conversation. A wide hearth crackled behind the counter, where a woman with rolled sleeves turned sizzling skewers over open coals. The aroma made Fenrick groan audibly.
They took a booth near the back—curved wood, inlaid with bits of coral. Salt-stained maps had been pressed under the glass tabletop, old trade routes and forgotten islands half-faded by time.
A server approached, a freckled young man in an apron soaked with broth stains. "Welcome to the Ember. We've got fresh catch skewers, stormbread, spiced reef stew, and smoked crab shanks on the fire. Fruit glaze or iron rub?"
"Iron rub," Fenrick said immediately, eyes fixed on the kitchen.
"Fruit glaze," Ariya said at the same time, raising an eyebrow at him. "Too much salt'll kill you."
"Too little'll bore me."
Erin ordered the reef stew, curious about the chunks of deep-blue root floating in other bowls he saw passing by. Cidrin asked for a spiced crab skewer and a stormbread wedge—flat, dense, and studded with sun-dried berries and chunks of smoked cheese.
Thalor, ever the ascetic, just ordered grilled fish and water.
While they waited, the crew relaxed into a rare lull. Fenrick leaned back with a satisfied sigh, drumming his fingers on the table's map. "You know," he said, "if we are stuck here for a while, there's worse places to be."
"Only if we can afford the second round," Cidrin muttered, eyeing the prices on the chalkboard near the bar.
Ariya smiled faintly. "It's worth it for something warm. Better than trail rations and sea biscuits."
When the food came, it came in force. Planks lined with sizzling meat and crackling herbs, thick bowls of broth colored like rusted gold, fresh flatbread still steaming as it hit the table.
Erin stirred his stew, inhaling deeply. The broth smelled of lemongrass and something sharper—sea fennel or ironroot. The chunks of root had turned soft and translucent, soaking up the spice.
He took a bite, then blinked. "Okay. That's really good."
Cidrin grunted in agreement, chewing through his crab skewer. "Tastes like victory."
Thalor gave a low hum, focused entirely on methodically cutting his fish.
Narza arrived a few minutes late, sliding into the seat beside Erin. Her scarf smelled faintly of smoke and salt.
"Ship's tied tight," she reported. "Won't drift unless the sea picks up hard."
"Good," Thalor said, without looking up.
Narza eyed the spread. "I missed the ordering?"
"You missed Fenrick almost declaring war over seasoning," Ariya said dryly, nudging a plate toward her.
"I got you fruit-glazed skewers. Seemed safer than watching you interrogate a waiter."
Narza blinked, then gave a faint grunt of approval. "Fruit glaze it is."
"Thank you," Ariya said, clearly pleased. "I live to serve."
"I know," Narza said, picking up a skewer. "You keep reminding us."
Erin leaned slightly toward Narza as she settled in beside him, their arms brushing for a moment before she shifted. She picked up a skewer anyway, taking a cautious bite. Her eyes widened slightly. Fenrick jabbed a fork toward her plate. "You could've had the iron rub. That's the good stuff. Burns on the way down, like a proper meal should."
"I'm not in the habit of eating fire," Narza said, deadpan.
"That's where you've gone wrong."
Cidrin, chewing a piece of stormbread like it had personally offended him, muttered, "This is less bread and more… edible ballast."
"I warned you," Ariya said sweetly. "It's for soaking up poison. Not taste."
"Then mission accomplished," Cidrin grumbled. "My tongue is soaked."
The table cracked into light laughter, even Thalor allowing a slight shake of his head before returning to his food.
Erin leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting over the group.
Ariya was swiping a chunk of crab off Fenrick's plate while he squawked in protest. Cidrin had abandoned all decorum and was now tearing his stormbread in half with exaggerated effort, as if wrestling it into submission. Thalor, still composed, chewed methodically, his face giving away nothing—but even he hadn't tried to stop the chaos. And beside Erin, Narza sat more relaxed than he'd ever seen her, chewing slowly, eyes scanning the table like she was still half on watch… but there was a calm to her shoulders. A softness at the edge of her silence.
For just a moment, the noise faded behind Erin's thoughts.
There was a word for this.
Bliss.
Not loud, not overwhelming. Just… whole.
Like everything—every worry, every jagged corner of his thoughts—had slipped into a quiet rhythm. A rare stillness where the storm hadn't touched yet.
"You good?"
Narza's voice broke through softly. It didn't startle him. She wasn't looking at him, just plucking a piece of grilled pepper from her plate and popping it into her mouth. Casual. Like she wasn't checking—just… noticing.
Erin blinked. "Yeah," he said, a little slower than usual. "Just… watching everyone. Laughing. Eating. No one's bleeding. Cidrin hasn't blown anything up yet—"
"I resent that implication," Cidrin mumbled, mouth full of what looked like berry-cheese sludge.
"—and Thalor hasn't vanished into the shadows to practice brooding alone."
Thalor didn't respond, but he did raise a brow slightly, which Erin counted as a win.
He turned back to Narza. "It's nice," he said. "Too nice. I think I forgot what this felt like."
"What?" she asked.
"This. Just sitting. Laughing. Eating food that wasn't scraped off the hull or rehydrated in a bucket." He chuckled under his breath. "Feels like the kind of moment you don't know you needed until it's already happening."
Narza finally looked at him. There wasn't judgment in her eyes—just the kind of quiet recognition of someone who understood what it meant to wait too long for peace.
He kept going. "It's like I'm seeing the version of all of us that we'd be, If this is how we act after one hot meal, maybe we should stay docked forever."
Thalor, still methodically cutting his grilled fish with all the ceremony of a temple rite, didn't look up. "No."
That got a few chuckles, even from Narza, who was chewing carefully and watching everyone over the rim of her plate.
Then Erin smirked. "Also? You asking if I'm okay? Not very on-brand."
Narza blinked. "You were staring into your stew like it owed you money. Figured I'd head off the spiral."
"Bold of you to assume it didn't."
"I'm watching you," she said, pointing her skewer at him.
Their arms brushed again—this time, she didn't shift away. Neither did he.
Then Fenrick, groaned dramatically and flopped back in his seat. "Why is chewing so hard now? I think I pulled a jaw muscle."
"You pulled something in your brain," Ariya offered.
"You'd know," Fenrick shot back. "You tried to trade my crab for a fruit salad when I wasn't looking."
"It was for your health," Ariya said sweetly. "I'm looking out for you."
"You're a traitor."
"I'm your healer."
"Those can be the same thing!" Cidrin chimed in. "That's why I sleep with one eye open."
Thalor, without lifting his head, muttered, "Sleep with both open if you don't stop shouting."
"I would," Cidrin said, raising a finger, "but then I'd have to look at Fenrick all night."
Fenrick reached for his crab skewer like it was a weapon. "Square up, grease goblin."
Erin smiled wide, keeping his eyes on Fenrick trying to calculate how much meat he could balance on a single skewer.
Narza didn't smile exactly, but her eyes crinkled at the corner. "You're a weird one, Salore."
He nodded. "And yet, here you are. Sitting next to me."
"I'm armed."
"Andddd there goes the moment," he whispered dramatically, clutching his heart. "It was beautiful while it lasted."
Narza rolled her eyes. "Eat your stew before I weaponize a spoon."
Then she returned to her food like nothing had happened.
Fenrick, meanwhile, was pushing two skewers together like he was assembling a bridge. "If I angle it like this, I can get nine pieces on a double stack."
Cidrin leaned over with mock concern. "You realize you're solving math problems with meat."
"Yeah, and I'm winning," Fenrick said proudly, shoving the overloaded skewer into his mouth.
Ariya gave him a slow clap. "Bravo. Can't wait for you to choke on a shrimp and make me perform emergency healing with a soup spoon."
Fenrick, mouth full, gave her a thumbs up and a wink that somehow managed to be both smug and alarming.
Across the table, Cidrin tapped the glass overlay with a knuckle. "This map under the table's out of date. Look—see that island there?" He pointed. "Sank five years ago."
"You sure?" Erin asked, leaning in.
"I was on it when it started sinking."
Narza quirked an eyebrow. "Did you help it sink?"
"No," Cidrin said indignantly. "That was a different island. And I wasn't charged."
"Mm-hm," Ariya said, sipping from her bowl.
Erin grinned, resting his arm casually on the back of the booth—not behind Narza, not quite, just close enough that he could pretend it was about comfort. She didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just didn't comment.
That somehow made it worse.
Their laughter mingled with the hum of the restaurant around them—the clink of cutlery, the low rumble of voices, the occasional gust of wind slipping past the shuttered windows. Outside, the storm hadn't yet arrived, but the clouds had grown heavier, pressing in from the sea—deep and long, like a slow exhale from the ocean itself.
Thalor finished his last bite, set down his fork, and finally spoke. "Eat while you can. The worst storms don't always come from the sky."
Everyone quieted for a beat, the humor ebbing just slightly, like the tide before a wave.
"…Well now I've lost my appetite," Cidrin muttered.
Fenrick held up another skewer. "More for me."
Erin chuckled softly and shook his head, catching Narza smirking just a little into her plate before she wiped her mouth with the back of her glove and leaned forward like nothing happened. He glanced toward the window. The pulsing red light of the Hullspire was still faintly visible beyond the buildings—like a warning heartbeat against the gloom.
He looked back at the crew. Despite the banter, the weariness showed around their edges—sunburn, bruises, sleepless nights piling behind their eyes.
He didn't say anything. Just watched a moment, committing the picture to memory.
They'd come a long way.
And the storm hadn't even started yet.
By the time they made it back to the Duskvein, the wind had picked up, thick with salt and coming in heavy from the north. The distant night sky churned with slow-moving clouds, deep gray and streaked with blue lightning that never seemed to reach the ground. The crew took their time climbing the gangplank, full from the meal and slightly sluggish. Fenrick was complaining about "crab legs fatigue" and Ariya was already unwrapping a thick shawl to prepare for the cold.
"Storm's gonna hover a while," Thalor noted from the top of the ramp. "Shouldn't hit till tomorrow."
"Good," Cidrin muttered, tugging at the strap of a heavy bag loaded with supplies. "I need tonight to emotionally recover from that bread."
One by one, they filtered below deck to settle in, voices drifting off behind wood and canvas.
Erin stayed behind.
He stood near the bow, arms resting on the railing, wind tugging at the loose strands of his white hair. The sky beyond was vast and ominous, the kind of storm that watched back. Still distant. Still waiting. The air held that strange, electric stillness that came right before a tempest had teeth.
In the lull between gusts, he flipped open his father's journal again. The pages were soft at the edges now, frayed and saltworn, full of scribbled sketches and margins written over three times. He wasn't sure what he was looking for—guidance, maybe. Clues. A sign. Instead, he found a line underlined twice:
"Some lights don't burn bright. Some just refuse to go out."
Erin closed the journal gently, his thumb still on the page. That quiet ache inside him—it wasn't sadness. Not tonight. He wasn't sure what it was this time.
He didn't hear Narza approach, not until her voice cut through the stillness.
"You always brood this loud?"
He glanced over, only a little surprised to see her there. Scarf trailing slightly in the wind, arms crossed, leaning against the railing a few paces away.
"Only on nights ending in Y," he replied.
She huffed. "Unoriginal."
He smiled faintly, eyes returning to the storm. "Thought you'd be sleeping."
"I don't sleep well on calm nights," she said, shifting her weight. "Too much room for thinking."
Erin nodded slowly. "Funny. I think that's why I stay up."
She glanced at the journal still open in his hand. "Your father?"
"Yeah. It helps. Reading his words. Makes me feel like he's… not as gone as he really is."
Narza didn't answer right away. Then: "You talk about him like he's a ghost that never left your shoulder."
"He kind of is."
Another pause.
He turned slightly toward her, watching how the wind moved through her hair, how the faint lamplight caught the edge of her jaw. "Can I ask you something?"
She didn't move. But nodded
Erin hesitated. Not out of fear—out of respect.
"Who are you," he said, "when no one's watching?"
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp, guarded. But she didn't snap. Didn't deflect.
She looked away again, back to the horizon.
"…I don't think I know anymore," she said softly. "You build a version of yourself to survive, and after a while, you forget what came before it."
Erin's brows furrowed. "You don't remember?"
"I remember what it cost," she said, voice flat. "But not who I was before I started paying."
He stayed quiet but studied her expression. She wasn't angry. She just always looked like she was. Like her face had learned to settle into hard edges.
"I know you keep to yourself," he said. "You don't smile much. You bark more than you talk. You've always got this look in your eyes like you're daring someone to come closer just so you can throw them off a cliff."
Her gaze flicked to him, but again—no pushback. Just a patient wait for wherever he was going.
"But you're not angry," he added quietly. "Not really. I see it sometimes. That light. It's in your eyes when you think no one's looking. When you let your guard down for half a second. It's there."
She paused for a second. "You think I'm angry," she said after a moment. "Everyone does. I get it. I look like I'm always ready to kill someone. But, you should've seen me a few years ago," she muttered. "That version would've shoved you off this ship for asking that question."
Erin gave a faint smile, but it didn't last long. "But you didn't."
"No. I didn't."
They stood in the silence that followed—two shapes against the storm.
Erin looked down at the journal again. "Do you remember Rahl, from back in Slum City?"
She nodded her head.
"He told me, 'Keep your light. Hold onto it with everything you've got. Don't let this world take it from you, no matter what voices you hear or what eyes are watching.'"
Narza was very still.
"I think about that a lot, I feel like he meant that for people like us," Erin said. "And I think… sometimes the light doesn't scream. It's just a flicker. A little glow behind someone's eyes. Yours included."
She glanced at him, unreadable. "I don't think I have light."
"You keep it hidden," he continued, "but not gone. Not snuffed out. Not completely."
"…That's kind of you to say," she murmured. "Dangerous, but kind."
"Dangerous?"
"To believe people like me still have something soft left in them."
He looked at her, really looked at her. "I don't believe it. I know it."
That silenced her. Then, she sofly spoke, "When I was a kid, I used to dream about being a painter."
Erin blinked. "Really?"
"I liked the idea of creating something no one else could take from me. Something that made sense only in my head."
"…What happened?"
She gave a thin smile. "The world. Survival. I traded paint for blades."
He didn't press.
"Sometimes," she added, "I still trace shapes with my fingers. When I'm tired. When no one's looking."
Erin stared at her for a long, thoughtful beat.
"I'm glad you told me that," he said quietly.
Narza met his eyes. "Don't go making it a habit."
He chuckled. "I won't. Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"Then pirate's honor."
She rolled her eyes. "Worse."
The moment lightened, just enough to let them breathe again.
Erin stretched his arms out, back cracking faintly. "I think I'll go for a walk. Around the docks. Storm's whispering something, and I want to know what."
Narza's gaze followed him for a second. "Don't get yourself stabbed."
"No promises."
He turned, footsteps soft on the deck, and disappeared down the gangplank into the night.
Narza lingered a little longer, her fingers absently brushing the railing—shaping a line only she could see.
The air off the dock was thick with salt and the hush of sleeping waves. The world had fallen into a deeper quiet, the kind that lived between lantern posts and under warped wooden beams. Brackton Cay's harbor was mostly deserted by this hour—only the occasional creak of a moored ship or the distant call of a nightbird stirred the silence.
Erin walked with his hands tucked in his coat pockets, the collar turned up against the rising wind. Storm clouds still hung far off the horizon, glinting faintly with lightning. They didn't move fast, but they were coming. Their presence clung to the air like an omen.
He passed shuttered shops, barrels sealed and stacked, ropes coiled like sleeping snakes. The lamplight here was thinner, flickering at the edges. A cat darted across his path, then vanished into a gap in the planks.
Stillness. Solitude.
Erin liked it.
This part of the dock felt old. Older than the rest of Brackton Cay. The boards were uneven, and the support beams groaned slightly when the tide shifted beneath them. Half the buildings here looked abandoned—windows clouded, doors askew. Moss and barnacles crept up the stone foundations. Erin walked without any real direction, He passed a shuttered bookshop with warped glass. A crooked sign above it read Caldrin & Sons – Rarities, Charts, Inquiries. It reminded him of somewhere he couldn't quite name.
Further in, the buildings grew denser, more layered with age. Vines crept up stone walls, and the streets narrowed. This was the old part of town, tucked behind the cleaner roads shown to visitors. The kind of place that didn't pretend to be anything but what it was—lived in, a little broken, and honest.
Then, suddenly—
A door flew open ahead of him, and a blur of motion tumbled out onto the ground with a thud.
Someone had been thrown.
Erin blinked, instinctively halting in his tracks. A figure lay sprawled in the middle of the narrow street, groaning as he slowly pushed himself up onto one elbow.
A kid.
No more than eleven. Skinny, A mess of shaggy black hair, bruises blooming across one cheek and dirt smudged across his jacket. His lip was bleeding, but he wiped it off with the back of his sleeve like it was routine.
Erin took a cautious step closer. "Hey. You alright?"
The boy looked up at him, one eye squinting from the swelling.
"The hell are you lookin' at?"
His voice cracked slightly, caught between bravado and blood. There wasn't fear in his eyes. Not even really pain. Just defiance—pure and undiluted.
Erin raised his hands slightly. "Just saw you get tossed into the street. Wanted to make sure you weren't dead."
"I'm not," the kid snapped, staggering to his feet. "So go play hero somewhere else."
Erin paused, watching him brush himself off. His knee shook a little, probably from the landing. "Didn't say I was a hero."
"Then stop talkin' like one."
The boy turned, limping away with all the bravado of someone who had no idea where he was going but refused to let that slow him down.
Erin followed a few steps behind, if only out of curiosity. "What happened in there?"
"None of your business."
"You get kicked out?"
"No," the boy said, without looking back. "I flew out. What do you think?"
Erin frowned. "You've got a name?"
"Don't worry about it."
"Alright, 'Don't worry about it.' I'm Erin."
The kid stopped, just long enough to shoot a look over his shoulder that could've curdled milk. "You always this nosy, or is tonight special?"
Erin didn't answer. He was starting to regret not just walking past.
Then—footsteps. Several. Heavy ones. Three men stepped into the lamplight from the alley behind. Rough-looking. One had a jagged scar down his temple. Another was twirling a short club. The tallest one cracked his knuckles as he spotted the boy.
"There's our rat," one of them muttered, voice gravel-thick. "You've been a hard little shit to catch lately, Silas."
Erin's brow twitched. So that's his name.
Silas tensed. His mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a grin. "Guess I'm quick for someone with little legs."
Another of the men chuckled, dark and humorless. "You're out of legs now. Time to pay up."
Erin instinctively shifted, half-stepping in front of Silas. Not protecting—just... blocking the line of sight.
"I'm guessing you're not here to talk this out," He said carefully.
The tallest one took a step forward, "Who the fuck are you?"
Erin swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry. The weight of the three men's stares settled over him like a net, heavy and tightening by the second.
"I'm no one," he said. His voice came out steadier than he felt, though his fingers were already curling inside his coat pockets. "Just passing through."
The man with the scar spat to the side. "Then pass through somewhere else."
Erin didn't move. His legs had forgotten how.
The biggest man tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You standing between us and the brat?"
Erin hesitated. His thoughts came in flashes—Narza would've already drawn steel. Fenrick would be halfway through breaking one of their noses. Thalor wouldn't have said a word. But Erin—
He was just a kid with a spell that barely warmed the air.
"I don't want trouble," he managed.
Silas scoffed behind him. "Oh, that's rich."
Erin gave him a quick glance. "What?"
"I don't need saving, alright? Get outta the way."
"Could've fooled me," Erin muttered.
And before he could get another word out— Silas leapt onto Erin's back, vaulted off his shoulder, and swung a rusted metal pipe straight into the nearest thug's head.
"Shit!" the man reeled back, stumbling, clutching his skull. Blood seeped through his fingers.
"Are you insane?!" Erin shouted, staggering from the impact behind him.
"Start running your mouth less and your legs more!" Silas barked, already swinging the pipe wildly.
The other two lunged.
Erin barely ducked under the swing of the club. Panic flared up white-hot in his chest. He stumbled back, heart pounding in his ears.
One of the men grabbed his coat, hauling him forward. Erin reacted without thinking.
His hand shot up.
A sputtering, unstable sphere of red light burst to life in his palm—a flicker of plasma, crackling like something half-born. It looked meaner than it really was.
"Back off!" he shouted.
The thug froze, thrown off by the brightness—but only for a moment.
Erin hurled it at his chest.
It struck like a firework, exploding in a quick pop of light and smoke. The man yelped, staggered, swatted at his shirt as it smoked faintly.
"Mother—! That stung, you little—!"
But it hadn't stopped him. Erin's knees scraped hard against the wood as he hit the ground. A fist smashed into the side of his jaw before he could breathe, sending stars bursting across his vision. His ears rang. Blood filled his mouth. He tried to roll away, but a boot slammed down on his shoulder, pinning him.
"You think you're tough?" the tallest thug growled. He grabbed Erin's coat, yanked him upright, and drove a knee into his gut.
Pain lanced through Erin's ribs. He folded, gasping like a fish yanked from water. The man didn't stop. Another fist struck his temple. A boot caught his side. He hit the ground again—hard.
His fingers twitched, he tried to summon another spark, but it fizzled uselessly in his palm.
A scream tore across the alley.
Silas.
The boy was struggling furiously, one eye already swollen shut. He bit the arm of the man holding him, hard enough to draw blood, but it only earned him a backhand that slammed his head against the wall with a sickening crack.
"Still got teeth on you, huh?" the man snarled, dragging Silas up by the collar. "Let's fix that."
He drove his elbow into the kid's mouth—once, twice—until Silas doubled over, wheezing, spit and blood dripping from his mouth. The thug kneed him in the face, and Silas dropped like a sack of stones.
"Leave him alone!" Erin rasped, voice thin and broken.
He tried to stand but he couldn't.
Another boot caught him across the back of the head and dropped him again.
Everything buzzed—like the inside of a cracked bell. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. His shoulder throbbed. Something in his ribs felt wrong—off-center.
"You should've kept walking," one of the men muttered.
"Just a dumb little mage," another added. "Doesn't even know how to use his own fire."
A hand grabbed Erin's hair again, lifting his head just enough for him to see Silas curled on the ground, arms over his face, barely moving.
And then—movement, somewhere further off. A door slamming. A shout.
The men stiffened. One hissed through his teeth. "Shit. Too noisy."
"Take the brat and go."
Hands dragged Silas up, limp but breathing. The kid's eye cracked open just enough to meet Erin's.
Still defiant. Still furious.
Then they were gone—melting into the shadows of the alley, Silas slung over a shoulder like some ruined trophy.
Erin lay there a while. He tried to push himself up again and didn't make it past his elbows. Blood dripped from his nose to the street.
His breath came in stuttering gasps, one hand pressed weakly to his ribs.
The alley was silent again.
And Silas was gone.
Erin wanted to move.
He needed to move
Erin's chest burned with each shallow breath, the pain in his ribs a constant reminder of how helpless he'd just been. The alley around him seemed to close in, shadows stretching like dark fingers, the silence thick and suffocating. He didn't move for a long while—just lay there, feeling the weight of his failure.
His thoughts were a muddled mess. Silas had fought back, that much was clear. But it hadn't been enough. Erin hadn't been enough. The fight had been quick—too quick. He had never stood a chance against those men. His plasma magic, a half-formed flicker of energy, had barely managed to make them pause. It was nothing. Worse than nothing. He knew he wasn't ready. Had known it for a long time. He clenched his fists, and the burn of his tiny plasma spell stung his palm again. That stupid little trick. A ball of light that did nothing but scare people who didn't know better. That was all he had.
Some mage. If he could even call himself that.
He staggered to his feet, his vision blurred for a moment. A single, broken thought spun in his head: I'll find him. I'll find him, and I'll fix this.
But how?
The alley stretched out before him like a dark wound in the city, and Erin stood at its edge, wondering if he was brave enough to chase after them—or if he'd only get himself killed in the process.
His legs were still unsteady, but he forced himself to move forward, his body screaming for rest, for relief, but he couldn't. Not now. Not when a kid, no older than a child really, had been dragged away into the dark.
The distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, but it didn't matter. The storm had already broken. And Erin wasn't sure there was any going back. He turned back toward the docks and began the walk to the Duskvein, each step a quiet confession of defeat. The street lamps flickered and stretched shadows across the stones. His coat dragged at one shoulder—torn, damp with blood. He pulled it tighter out of reflex, like it could hide how broken he felt.
His mind played the scene over again. Silas thrown against the wall. That awful crack. The way he didn't even cry out. The way his eye locked with Erin's, burning with fury and—beneath it—something close to fear.
The Duskvein came into view ahead, its masts dark against the deepening sky. Lanterns burned low on deck, quiet and steady. Safe.
He limped up the gangplank in silence.
No one was on watch. The crew must've assumed he'd only gone for a walk. He was always drifting off on his own. No one would have guessed he'd return bloodied and bruised, stomach twisting with shame.
Erin ducked below deck and slipped into the nearest washroom. He didn't even light a lantern. Just stood there, in the dark, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin.
Split lip. Swollen cheek. One eye bloodshot. His hair clung to his forehead in wet clumps.
He barely recognized himself.
He splashed cold water over his face, wincing at the sting, then gripped the edges of the basin with shaking hands.
"I'm not strong enough," he murmured.
The words echoed, quiet and final.
Not yet.
But he would be. Those thoughts swarmed his head as he limped to his cabin and slumped into his bed, quickly drifting off to sleep.