Serin quickly refreshed himself, changed his clothes, and had some food before going to one of the meeting chambers in the central wing of the castle.
It was a spacious, nicely furnished room with couches, chairs, and a long table on one side. The evening wind blew softly through the window as Serin sat on the couch, thinking about the nightmare he had an hour ago.
While tapping on the table rhythmically, Serin's gaze held the same sharpness as when he played chess against a top grandmaster. He recalled the entire nightmare in his mind, remembering most of it intact.
Serin did not simply dismiss the nightmare as just that, mainly because of two reasons. One was that it felt too real, too strange—something Serin had never experienced before. The second reason was his Divine Blessing, Precognition.
Even though the blessing was self-explanatory, Serin hadn't been able to figure out how it worked or how to use it. But now, he saw a possibility—one that couldn't be ignored.
Sea, burning shore, destruction, a large tsunami. Serin wrote down all the elements of the nightmare on a piece of paper and fell into contemplation.
If the nightmare was an ill omen, then what did it mean? Was it literal or symbolic? Serin did not know, but somewhere in his heart, there was a nagging feeling of inexplicable unease.
After wrapping his head around the nightmare for some time and still failing to figure it out, Serin slammed the table in frustration and exclaimed, "Damn it! Why do these blessings not have a description or something?!"
Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps and calmed down. Shortly after, there was a knock on the door, and three people entered—the Ascendant Knight Hymund, Steward Bartley, and the slave Finy.
All three bowed first, Finy looking very anxious as he sneaked a glance at Serin, perhaps trying to figure out what was going on. After being healed by the priest, he had been taken to the castle and asked to stay there. He was told it was the prince's command. Not knowing what was wrong or why his master hadn't redeemed him, Finy was anxious and afraid.
"My Prince, as per your wish, we have brought him to you," Steward Bartley stepped forward and said, gesturing toward Finy.
Finy became even more anxious, his eyes darting left and right. Lowering his head in fear, he asked while stuttering, "M-my lord… did I do something wrong?"
Serin's eyes widened in surprise. He couldn't understand why the man seemed so afraid.
Serin smiled amicably. "Worry not, you haven't done anything wrong."
Finy relaxed a little but remained wary and uncertain. Seeing this, Serin decided to cut straight to the chase.
"You were…" Serin began, then paused momentarily. He swallowed, feeling uncomfortable, and continued, "…'working' for Valor Mor?"
Finy nodded. "Yes, that is my master."
"And how long have you been…"
"Ten years, Lord."
Serin was taken aback. Raising his brows, he asked, "That long? Why?"
Finy's gaze turned distant, his eyes growing murky with nostalgia and bitterness as he said, "I sold myself, Lord."
"Why?" Serin blurted out of curiosity, then immediately, seeing Finy's troubled and pained expression, he added, "Forget it. That's not why I asked for you today."
Finy sighed in relief, then looked at Serin evasively—confused as to what the prince would want from a lowly slave like himself.
"First of all, you have our gratitude. Your testimony has been greatly helpful," Serin said with a smile.
Finy's eyes widened. Startled, he said hurriedly, "It's… it's nothing, my Lord."
"Finally, the Hainar Family has bought your contract from the merchant. You will be with us from now on—specifically, you will be following me. Any questions?" Serin asked calmly.
Finy went blank for a few seconds, then instinctively responded hurriedly, "No… no questions… Master."
Serin narrowed his eyes sharply. "Don't call me that," he said tiredly.
Lowering his head, Finy said, "Forgive me… Lord."
Serin nodded. He looked at Hymund and said, "See him out."
Hymund nodded in response and escorted Finy out. The poor slave was still utterly confused.
After the two left, Steward Bartley faced Serin and asked in wonder, "My Prince, why buy that slave?"
Serin stood up from the couch and answered with a smile, "Didn't you notice what the priest said? Finy was corrupted by Akh'Thal's influence and should have died, but he survived. Not only that, he managed to reach the shore. Such resilience must be rare. Besides, he has been sailing with merchants for years now—isn't it a waste of his talents?"
Steward Bartley's expression changed with realization. He slapped his forehead in self-deprecation and said, "Ho! Fortunately, Your Highness is wise; how could I have neglected this? We almost suffered a great loss because of it…"
Serin shook his head. "Don't worry about it. But I trust you know what to do now, right?"
The steward smiled. "Yes, my Prince. I take my leave. I shall make all the arrangements for Finy personally."
As the steward was about to leave, Serin stopped him and said nonchalantly, "I don't want a slave. I want a loyal subordinate. Do you understand, Steward?"
Steward Bartley nodded seriously, once again secretly admiring the prince and raising his evaluation of him in his mind. Then he finally took his leave.
Serin was very satisfied. He couldn't change things like slavery in this world, nor could he pretentiously act like some saint and try to save every slave. But for his own conscience, he could take capable slaves like Finy into his service. At least this way, he could ensure they were treated well. More importantly, this would allow him to acquire loyal subordinates of his own.
Thinking that he had done a good deed, Serin forgot about the nightmare for the moment and left the central wing to continue with his daily routine.
Serin took his twin knights, Hymund and Symund, along with other guards, and went into the city for an outing.
This was one of his favorite things to do. Serin liked observing the people of the city—the way they went about their lives, how things moved and functioned, and especially the taverns.
He liked to eavesdrop on conversations in taverns. He believed it was a good way to understand the world better and gather unofficial news in the form of gossip. At the very least, it was entertaining.
Serin sat near the wall with his hood pulled low, a half-full mug of apple juice resting in his hand. The tavern was loud in the way only dockside places could be—laughter, shouting, the scrape of chairs, and the constant murmur of voices blending together. It made listening easy.
At a table a few steps away, several men were talking over cheap ale, their accents rough and unmistakably coastal.
"Spring Festival's almost here," one of them said. "Whole city'll be drunk by noon, as it is every year!"
"Aye! Aye!" the men cheered and clanked their mugs, some ale spilling out and adding to the tavern's drunken stench, true to its name.
One man lowered his voice and jeered lewdly, "Hehe, I've been saving coin since last year… hehe, which fair lady should I grace my Holy Sword with?!"
"Bah! What holy sword, ya old crook? A shriveled stick is what it is—hahaha!"
"OH?! Broody, ya bastard! How do you know that, huh?!"
The tavern fell silent for a brief moment, then erupted into thunderous laughter. After a while, everyone calmed down and the gossip resumed.
"The festival is good for business," a local shopkeeper said with satisfaction and a grin. "Festival crowds spend more coin than sense. Even the priests loosen their purses."
The conversations revolved around the Spring Festival, now only a week away. It seemed there was nothing more interesting, and Serin began debating whether to leave.
As he took the last sip of his apple drink, Serin was about to leave a coin on the table and go, when his ears suddenly perked up as he shifted idly on the bench. A conversation from a distant table drifted to him through the tavern's cacophony.
"Aye, but have you heard?" a tanned man said, lowering his voice slightly. "Another ship went missing last week. Didn't make it past the outer routes."
Serin's grip on the mug tightened, just a little.
"Again?" someone scoffed. "That's the second this season."
"They say it sank clean," the man continued. "No wreckage drifting back. The crew either drowned or… vanished."
A brief silence followed before someone muttered, "You mean that thing?"
"Don't say it too loud," another warned. "Sea monster, curse, madness—who knows. My cousin swears sailors have been killing each other before the ships even go down."
"That's dock talk," the first man said, though his tone lacked conviction. "Still… Brinescar's been quieter lately. Traders and merchants are nervous and hesitant."
Serin stared into his mug, the voices washing over him.
"Well," someone laughed, forcing cheer back into the conversation, "festival or not, life goes on. Holy Mother's blessings, parades, fireworks—maybe the gods'll keep the seas calm for once."
"Here's hoping," another said, raising his mug. "Wouldn't want bad omens ruining a good festival."
"If the gods don't, the Count and the Empire certainly will! Cheers to the Empire!"
"To the Empire! To the Emperor!"
Hymund and Symund, the two Ascendents accompanying Serin in civilian getup looked at each other, cheering along with the others—their eyes however, held traces of worry and unease. Eventually both settled their gaze silently on the young Prince.
Serin finished his drink and stood shortly after, leaving without drawing attention. As he stepped outside, the night air felt colder than it should have, and the distant sound of waves lingered in his thoughts far longer than the tavern's laughter. Mood now somber and heart wary, he had no appetite for the town.
With a heavy heart, Serin left behind the liveliness of the town preparing for festivities and returned to the lonely, cold and fortified keep parched firmly atop the cliff.