As Mira's sharp gaze scanned the neat procession of ships anchored along the bustling dock, something strange caught her eye.
It wasn't one of the grand vessels—no polished hull or golden trim, no proud banners fluttering in the breeze. No, this ship looked like a tragic relic from a forgotten tale. A mockery of craftsmanship. The mermaid carved on its bow was rusted and cracked, her features long eroded into a sad, unrecognizable blur. The sails were a patchwork of mismatched fabrics, stitched together in desperation rather than pride. The hull bore the scars of time and sea, creaking where it should have stood proud.
And yet… Mira's interest was piqued.
Not by the ship, but by the two foreign men standing beside it.
More specifically, the shorter one—lean, brown-haired, animated to the point of theatrical absurdity. He flailed and barked in heavily-accented frustration, locked in a loud, increasingly one-sided argument with a dock officer who looked like he could break him in half with a sneeze. Mira raised an eyebrow. Most foreigners tried to make a good impression when arriving in a new land, especially under the watchful eyes of local authorities. This one seemed determined to do the opposite.
She studied them more carefully.
That was when she noticed the taller figure—quiet, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a mildly irritated smirk. He had slightly shorter jet-black hair, striking blue eyes, and wore a dark, high-collared coat tailored in a style unmistakably Western. His posture was relaxed, even disinterested—but the aura around him was unmistakable. Subtle, but cold. Dangerous. Mira felt it in her gut: this one was no mere traveler. He was a highblood like her—possibly a noble from one of the ancient houses of the far West. And yet...
That ship? That wreck? It didn't fit. No Western noble would ever set foot on something that looked like sorrow nailed to driftwood.
Something didn't add up.
Which, of course, made her all the more curious.
Without a word, she signaled to Mount with a flick of her hand. Her loyal shadow silently adjusted course to match her steps.
They were going to meet the strangers.
Whoever they were… she had a feeling this encounter would be anything but ordinary.
*********
A few hours ago…
Somewhere along the Sarraphie Expanse, a lone ship drifted.
At least, that's what its dearest owner insisted on calling that floating hunk of wood.
Not that it mattered either way.
Its rather… unique aesthetic, as it turned out, wasn't quite alluring enough to attract pirates—or even sea monsters, for that matter. Whether by luck or sheer lack of value, the Sea Star sailed unbothered through waters known for devouring the unprepared.
A blessing, one would think.
No. Not even close.
Slouched over a barely-held-together railing, Kyle looked half-dead. His guts felt like they'd already made peace with the ocean—and what remained of him wasn't far behind.
That bastard was as useless on land as he was at sea.
What happened to star mapping?
What happened to the great Chosen Heir of Endless Night?
Three days. Three days of being battered by the sea like he owed it a blood debt, all because their navigator was a blade-wielding brick.
He almost laughed. He would have, if laughing didn't require energy he no longer possessed.
On the other side of the hull, a second figure lay sprawled—Emil.
Much like his companion, he looked equally lifeless. Flat on his back, a book on the local dialects of the South—one he was supposed to be memorizing—rested soaked across his face.
Not that he would've read it anyway.
He was dehydrated. Bitter beyond reason.
Of all the supplies in the world that so-called genius mind had thought to secure properly—dried jerky.
Dried. Jerky.
In the middle of the sea.
His teeth ground into the tough strip still clenched in his jaw, the salt only sharpening his irritation—ensuring it stayed dry enough to offend him with every chew.
How had this happened?
Simple. One of them was missing.
Claudia.
Perhaps the only almost sensible one among them.
Sharp-eyed and perpetually exhausted by their antics, she hadn't taken kindly to being stranded in the deserts of Solaria. So when the journey to the South finally came up, she declared—arms crossed, expression flat—"important internal issues back home."
How true that held was… questionable.
But like the 'caring mother' she was, she left her two idiot boys with a very clear warning:
"Do not cause another international incident," she had said, her tone calm in the way one warns a child not to play with knives.
"And for the love of all that's sacred, stay away from women you were never meant to have."
Of course, they laughed.
Of course, they dismissed her like the idiots they were.
Kyle had winked, saying something absurd about southern sunsets and noble daughters. Emil had just grinned—the fool.
Claudia had watched them set sail from the cliffs above the port, arms crossed tight, wind tossing her dark cloak behind her like a banner of storm-born disapproval.
Deep in her heart, she didn't pray for their safety—no.
She prayed for a sea monster.
A real one.
Something large.
Preferably with several heads—just enough to chew some sense into their arrogant skulls.
And with how things were going…
the sea monster might have been the better option.
Emil sighed once—deeply.
He plucked the soaked book off his face with two fingers and tossed it overboard like deadweight.
Mistake.
Not yet.
He spat the jerky into the sea and forced himself upright. Barely.
"Kyle…"
Kyle's eye twitched. He wanted to argue. He had the shape of a retort somewhere in him — but his body had long since stopped cooperating.
"What," he said flatly, to the sea.
"Have I ever told you how much I loathe your voice?"
"No. I assumed you thought it majestic, given how often you make me use it."
Emil sneered.
"It's loud, obnoxious, and entirely lacking in damsel appeal."
That did it.
Strength—precious, fleeting strength—surged back into Kyle's spine.
"YOU BRI—"
"Wait." Emil shot upright.
"Wait?" Kyle snapped. "Wait for what?"
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?!"
"That, you moron—listen."
Kyle staggered toward him, equal parts furious and unsteady.
"Are you mocking me?"
"No. A bird."
Emil grabbed his face and forced it skyward.
There—
small shapes drifted along the horizon.
Kyle squinted.
Right. His senses weren't quite that of a highblood's.
But even he could see them now.
Hope.
Real, tangible hope.
His hands rose, almost reverent, pushing Emil aside.
"Yes…! Finally!"
He stumbled toward the wheel—still miserable, still half-dead—
but now driven by something stronger than spite.
Direction.
Purpose.
And just enough renewed hostility to keep him moving.
****
A few hours later…
Their misery was almost over.
The treacherous blue of the sea gave way to towering limestone cliffs. Spice-scented winds, gulls overhead, and a steady stream of ships all flowed toward the famed Empire of a Thousand Isles.
Was this their intended destination?
Of course not.
They were some five hundred miles—give or take—from where they were actually supposed to be.
But who cared?
Land.
Sweet, merciful land.
They'd dock, restock, explore—maybe even trade—and be gone before the next tide.
Perfect.
What could possibly go wrong…
It was Kyle who spotted it first—an open stretch of dock with ample space, fine visibility, and just enough foot traffic to hint at wealthy clientele nearby. His eyes lit up like a gambler eyeing a loaded dice roll. But just as he was ready to give the signal, a sharp, metallic clang echoed across the water—followed by a port officer's booming voice hailing them down with the expected routine.
They'd barely finished anchoring when Kyle's face soured, eyes flicking back and forth over a ledger the docking officer handed him.
"Two hundred gold!?" he bellowed, nearly dropping the parchment as though it were cursed. "Two hundred bloody gold coins just to dock?! What in the stars—what in the hells—is this extortion?"
Beside him, Emil leaned over, casually scanning the same page with the deadpan grace of a man witnessing yet another Kyle-induced meltdown.
"It's called an import duty," he said coolly, folding his arms. "You know. A basic tax. Like the rest of the civilized world charges."
Kyle whipped around so fast his coat flared like a storm sail. "Import duty?! Do I look like a sack of rice to you?!" he barked, jabbing a finger at the officer now eyeing them suspiciously from the dock.
His face was already contorting with the sheer indignity of it all—eyes twitching, mouth drawn in a bitter snarl, like someone had just told him they were charging rent for breathing.
"How in the hells are they charging us this much just so we can walk in and spend our money on them? This is robbery! State-sponsored thievery!"
Emil didn't even blink. He just watched, entertained as always by Kyle's catastrophic relationship with finances. There was something deeply satisfying about the way his so-called "golden tongue" curled into furious knots the moment coin left his hand.
Kyle kept pacing in small, furious circles. "In fact—in fact—they should be paying me to dock! Do they know who I am? We're practically bringing value to this backwater economy!"
The port officer shifted uneasily on his feet.
Emil gave a slow blink and smirked. "Oh boy," he muttered under his breath. "Here we go again."