The scent of salt, iron, and foreign voices permeated Brineford.
Cries from the market echoed down the street. Glistening fish slapped wet boards; temple bells tolled the hour somewhere inland. Pigeons, judges above the noise, watched the crowd's arguments. Aurelian's hood was low, his gaze down. Fayte padded behind him, wings partly closed, head lowered, moving cautiously to seem smaller. Children stopped their play, stared, then vanished into doorways as he passed.
Their visit was not permanent. The sea had beckoned, and Brineford was the last door to the wider world.
Lanterns burned along narrowing alleys, their smoke overtaking the salt. The market shrank to whispers. Sailors, children, and traders all watched him. Each shouted word broke against the air—harsh, guttural, nothing like Noctian's river-song. Gesture became his only language: pointing at fish, tossing coins, hands opening in apology and barter.
He ducked down a narrow lane. A sign swung above a door, painted with a foaming mug and a faded anchor. An inn.
The door opened before he could knock. A woman filled the frame—broad-shouldered, her arms thick with the strength dock work hammers into the body. She barked a string of words at him, sharp as gull cries. He faltered, meaning slipping like sand between his thoughts.
Her eyes flicked to his hood. She made a slow motion with one hand, palm down—lower.
Cautious, he eased it back. Golden eyes met the lantern-light. The faint gleam of the starbriar sigil burned at his brow.
The woman's expression shifted. She switched tongues. The hard gutter of Brineford fell away into careful Noctian, accented but clear.
"Come in, star-child. You'll not find welcome on the street."
Inside, the inn smelled of brine and smoke and something frying in shallow oil. Tables crowded with sailors in rough coats, their boots leaving salt prints on the floorboards. Aurelian's stomach knotted, hollow from days of hardtack and rainwater. Rana's last gifts had carried them this far, but now the baskets were empty.
She guided him through the crowd, unbound hair cascading down her back. Her hands were coarse from work, but her movements suggested experience beyond the town. She glanced over her shoulder. "I'm Viviana. I'm Viatorini. Your kind would call us human." Her gaze lingered on the faint gleam at his brow, then softened. "Eat first. Then we talk."
Aurelian brushed a coin from his belt pouch. Fayte's eyes followed the platters.
"Sit," she said, nodding toward a table. "You look like you've walked too far on too little." She hurried off toward the door and ushered in her next patron.
A short, lean man entered, a little gangly, his steps measured. He slipped off his gray cloak, folded it with care, and laid it on the table beside him.
Viviana returned with a platter of white fish seared with clove and fennel, rye bread split and dripping butter, and bacon curling in its own glaze. Fayte nipped delicately, one talon anchoring his share. Aurelian's hunger stirred, but he pulled Eden's folded letter from his pouch before eating.
The ink bled a little from the rain, but the words held.
If you are reading this, I feel we have parted ways. I don't know if someone is shadowing you, whether you are traveling, or lost. These are places where you will be safe. They will not fear the Umbraborn. They will remember your Noctian blood and treat you kindly. Remember our love, even in shadow. With the kindness of the grove, Eden.
Beneath the words, Eden inked a map in fine strokes—outlining the curl of a coast, the teeth of mountains, and a scatter of marked enclaves.
The parchment shivered. Ash flaked from the corners, drifting upward. The system shimmered in his vision.
[System] World Map updated. Safe Havens unlocked.
He blinked, and the image overlaid itself across his interface—burning into memory before the last scrap of paper crumbled away.
The tavern's noise pressed close: the scrape of mugs, the hiss of a hearth drowning in its own smoke. He broke the bread into pieces, setting a crust between Fayte's talons. For the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosened.
A voice rose above the din, guttural and slurred with drink. A hand jabbed toward Fayte, miming a crossbow shot. Laughter followed—rough, unkind. Chairs scraped. Another man rolled his sleeves and pantomimed tearing meat from a bone.
Fayte stilled. His head lowered, feathers dulling in the firelight. He sang a low, broken note, then folded himself beneath the table—feathers trembling.
Aurelian froze. He didn't need the words—the meaning carried in the jeers, the clink of wagers, the heavy swagger of boots closing in. He stood tall and threw back his hood. Darkness thrummed under his skin; the fine hairs of his body stood on end. Threaten Fayte? His fingers flexed, cords of air begging to be breathed into life.
The old man rose, skin wrinkled like sun-dried parchment. His sea-colored tunic shifted between Aurelian and the sailors as he pulled thoughtfully at his full white beard. Aurelian couldn't follow the words he spoke, but the drunkards flinched, glancing at one another. Firelight caught the sheen of his crown as he turned and gave Aurelian a small, patient nod—sit.
Aurelian glanced at Vivianna. She gave a single nod, and he sat.
The old man returned to his table, carved off several thick strips of bacon, and came back. He knelt beside the bench and offered the food to Fayte, who still hid beneath it. A soft laugh rumbled from his chest as Fayte inched forward, took the offering, and peeked out from under the table.
A drunkard with a chest broad as a redwood lurched forward.
A sharp thap cut the air, and he dropped like a felled tree. The old man stepped up, cane extended, its carved head hooking beneath the sailor's chin to lift it. Aurelian caught none of the words, yet the meaning hit him all the same.
Before Aurelian could rise, Vivianna was there. She planted herself in the man's path, shoulders squared, voice sharp enough to cut the air. He blustered, tried for a laugh, but her stare burned it to ash.
"Not in my house," she said in that careful Noctian meant for Aurelian's ears. Then, lower still, "Eat. You and your boy are safe here."
After they cleared the plates and the room grew loud with drink, she leaned close across the table. Her voice carried no further than to him.
"You're like me. I know it. I know what you are." Her dark eyes weighed on him, not unkindly. The tone was low, a whisper between conspirators. "You don't need to say it aloud."
He stiffened. She gave a small shake of her head with the ghost of a smile. "Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you'll need to know who won't cut your throat for a coin. There's a bakery near the wharf. A spice-merchant with one good eye—he deals in dry meats and seasonings. And a woman who sells candles beneath the temple bell. They'll serve you fair. The rest will cheat you blind."
Her hand tapped once on the table, as though sealing a pact. "Keep your hood up. What you are protects you. Let the ardentis' shadow do the talking."
The System stirred—letters shimmered faintly across his vision, unseen by anyone else.
[System] Potential ally detected: Viviana, Viatorini Innkeeper. Mark as [Trusted Ally]?
He blinked, the taste of salt and spice still on his tongue. For a moment he thought of Udred, of the way the System had branded him Teacher without question. He clicked yes.
[Ally added.]
He drew up his hood before stepping into Brineford's noise and light. Near the wharf, a baker sold him hard bread that would keep for weeks. A one-eyed spice merchant weighed out strips of dried meat, dusted with fennel and clove. At the temple bell, a candle-seller pressed a taper into his hand without a word, her smile quick and knowing.
He bought more than food—a bedroll, a small iron pot, a pouch of flint and oiled canvas. The coin slipped from his hand into theirs, but each parcel vanished into the Shadow Gate before it weighed on his shoulders.
When the errands were done, he stood in the square. Eden's map shimmered faintly in his vision. One place glowed brighter than all others.
Aera Dawna. The safest haven marked.
He turned his face toward the coast road. Fayte shifted his wings.
The journey was not over. It was only just beginning.
Twice, wardens in sea-blue cloaks passed, sunburst pins at their throats. Aurelian turned a shoulder and let their wake wash over him. Fayte matched him beat for cautious beat, tail-tip tucked, pupils narrow and hard.
The western gate shimmered like a rumor of daylight at the alley's end. Almost there.
A murmur snagged him. Not words—refusals, turning aside. He looked.
A beggar sat where the awnings pooled in shadow, bowl at his knees, eyes milk-white and blind. People walked around him the way you walk around inconvenient weather—step, step, look away. A boy tossed a chip of bread, missed the bowl, but didn't stop.
Aurelian's hand moved without asking it. He knelt. "For you," he whispered in his own tongue, laying fish and bread where searching fingers could find them.
The old man's hand closed over his, startlingly strong. Words Aurelian didn't know, but could feel the shape of: blessing.
Light flared—moon-gold and silver, running from his palm to the old man's wrists, climbing like thaw. The crowd gasped. The wardens shouted. A child screamed. Aurelian tried to let go, but the grip was iron, and the choice was gone.
When the light dimmed, the man crumpled. Then he lifted his head, eyes clear, gray flecked with brown, seeing sky for the first time in years. His howl of joy broke Brineford's market square in half.
The healed man's cry echoed off the awnings. Wardens pushed through the crowd, their cloaks clinking, sunburst pins catching the light. Aurelian's pulse hammered. He still felt the drain of the Mend, the weight of eyes all around.
A cane struck stone—a single, deliberate crack. The crowd hushed, as if the silence carried an authority all its own.
He spoke then, low and firm, in the guttural tongue of Brineford—harsh syllables carrying an unmistakable command. The wardens froze, exchanged a glance, then eased back, not cowed but unwilling to contest him. The mutter of the crowd broke into softer ripples, a tide pulling away from a dangerous shore.
Aurelian didn't know who spoke the words. Only that they worked.
The old man in sea green turned back to him, the severity fading to a whisper meant only for him. "Aurelian… I'm a friend of your mother. Let's go back to the inn for the night, and talk."