The night after the Ra'teluun Festival still lingered in Eryn's mind—music spilling from the upper plazas, laughter threading beneath the veil, the sky painted in arcs of light and bursts of fire. Now, in the pale dawn, it felt as though the city had drawn a deep breath… and let it go.
Garlands sagged over hushed streets. The air held the faint trace of spice and embers. The stalls, once overflowing with color and noise, now stood shuttered, their tables bare.
At the palace gates, Amon, Bolt, and Eryn stood shoulder to shoulder—far too alert for people who had slept so little.
The queen's court had shed the festival's glow. Sunlight streamed through the veil above the throne, breaking into shifting bands of gold across the polished floor. The air was cool and still—the kind of quiet that precedes bad news.
Queen Sefira descended the throne's steps with the unshakable poise of someone who never needed to raise her voice to command obedience.
"You three have done well," she began, her tone measured. "The oases sing again, and the Heart of Haarid rests where it belongs. But peace…" Her gaze sharpened. "…never holds itself."
She paced slowly before them.
"Keystra's eastern trade has been bled these past weeks. Dock City has endured three raids in nine days. Merchants flee. And from the Maelstrom Isles, the Stormmother Figurehead has been stolen—a relic older than our crown. Its loss is not mere theft. It is a challenge."
She halted, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
"You will sail to Dock City. Track those responsible. Recover the Figurehead. And send a message to those who think Keystra's waters are theirs."
Bolt tilted his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "And if they don't like the message?"
Sefira's mouth curved, though her eyes stayed cold. "Then you make them hear it anyway."
They hadn't made it halfway down the palace steps before a flurry of robes, scrolls, and muttered incantations nearly collided with them.
"Ah—perfect! You're alive!" Vaelor panted, clutching a bundle like a lifeline. "Let's keep it that way, yes? For my sake. For yours. For my heart."
He shoved a scroll into Eryn's hands with surprising force.
"Lightning conduction arrays—safe ones. Controlled bursts. Less 'accidentally scorch your allies' and more 'precisely fry your enemies.'" He eyed Eryn. "Given your… emotional style of fighting, study page seven twice."
Before Eryn could respond, Vaelor unrolled a strip of oiled cloth, revealing a short spear with a pale metal core. It thrummed faintly beneath Eryn's fingertips, like distant thunder.
"Conductive alloy. Built for speed over brute force. In the right hands, deadly. In yours…" He hesitated. "…we'll find out."
Bolt leaned over Eryn's shoulder. "Translation: try not to stab yourself."
"Yes! Exactly!" Vaelor's relief was palpable. "And remember—"
"Don't die," Bolt finished.
Vaelor pointed. "Yes. That. Especially that."
By midday, their sand skiff skimmed along the inland waterways, sails taut in a steady eastward wind. The desert's gold gave way to salt flats laced with narrow canals, reeds whispering at the banks. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp in the open air.
Bolt lounged at the stern, one boot propped against the railing. "Dock City," he mused. "I hear their tavern brawls last longer than their drinks."
Amon didn't glance up from the sail lines. "That's because they don't pour during the fights."
Eryn sat cross-legged on the deck, Vaelor's scroll open in his lap, the new spear at his side. Its core hummed in time with the waves striking the hull.
The wind shifted, carrying a faint tang of smoke. Above, the gulls scattered in a sudden, chaotic burst.
Far ahead, the sea shattered against a jagged reef, where a black-hulled ship rode low in the water. Lanterns swayed, casting warped shadows across faces hardened by salt and battle.
Captain Kareth "Reefclaw" Vayne leaned against the railing, his coral gauntlet slick with seawater. "Another haul tonight. The Court thinks we won't risk a fourth strike in ten days."
At his side, Selka "Slick" Marr spun a blade idly, catching it by the tip. "Want me to tell them they're wrong, or carve it into their docks?"
Kareth's smile was small and sharp. "They'll hear us without words."
A deckhand scrambled up from the hold, breathless. "We spotted a skiff inland—flying Keystra's colors."
Selka's grin widened. "Looks like the tide's bringing us new toys."
Kareth drummed his gauntlet on the rail, each knock deliberate, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. "Then we'll be ready when they wash up."
To be continued…