Legacy's Edge

Alaric placed his hands upon the galley’s weather-beaten railing. The wood was rough, the result of extended exposure. He leaned forward slightly, peering out into the horizon as the ship, the Magerie, with her timeworn sails billowing softly overhead, rolled gently as she rode the current and wind. The oarsmen were below decks, rowing and pulling the ship forward. He could hear the muted sound of the drumbeat to which the two hundred slaves worked.

They were in the process of navigating their way out of Hawkani’s natural bay—a majestic, half-oval inlet cradled by towering cliffs, its entrance guarded by a manmade water break that had been built long before Alaric had set foot upon these shores.

The harbor was choked with floating debris, the water murky and heavily polluted. Trash and flotsam jostled for space among the bobbing vessels at anchor, painting a grim picture of neglect. The water itself bore the brunt of the city’s indifference, the surface dark and ugly, the direct result of the daily deluge of waste dumped by the residents into the harbor. Hawkani had no sewers. The air hung heavy with a sour odor bordering upon foul.

Alaric’s gaze was fixed on the open sea, yearning for the moment they would break free from the harbor’s grasp and put the pervasive stench firmly behind them like a bad memory. He imagined the clean, salty breeze of the open waters, a contrast to the fetid air trapped within the confines of the bay and city. The thought of sailing into the vast, unspoiled expanse, where the air was as fresh as a new day dawning and the water sparkled blue under the sun’s embrace, filled him with eager anticipation. He longed for the freedom that waited beyond the bay, where the wind and waves spoke of ancient mysteries and untold adventures.

Alaric’s gaze momentarily shifted from the boundless sea ahead to the gold ring adorning his right hand—a distinguished emblem of his lineage, the signet of his family. The metal, burnished by years of wear, emitted a continual warmth that seeped into his skin, a peculiar trait that had always intrigued him. This ring, oversized and conspicuous, held an inner power that was not merely physical; at times, it seemed to pulse with a hotness that nearly scorched.

The ring was a vessel of his heritage, imbued with enchantments that tethered him to his lineage and it to him. Crafted for his great-great-grandfather and passed down through generations, it was an artifact of power and significance. Like his sword, it was bonded to him.

He seldom removed it, and on the rare occasions when he did, Alaric guarded the talisman with a vigilant eye, never allowing it to stray far from his presence. Like the sword, the ring occasionally spoke to him, just not with words. It served as both a tool and a token of his family’s enduring strength, the power that ran within their blood, along with their history.

Alaric’s contemplation was interrupted by the sharp squawk of a seabird. Searching, he lifted his gaze toward the heavens. There, against the backdrop of a gray cloud-smeared sky, he spotted the flight of a white seabird. The bird’s wings were outstretched, cutting through the air with effortless precision. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to be captivated by the animal’s freedom. However, his attention soon returned to the depressing waters of the bay.

Nearly a decade had passed since Alaric first set foot in this harbor, a naive boy no older than sixteen, with eyes wide and eager to see the strange sights, sounds, and smells of a new land and adventures that lay ahead. Now, as he departed, he found himself a changed man—tempered by the trials of combat and politics he had faced. Those tests and the resulting experiences garnered in this foreign land had molded him into a seasoned veteran, a leader of men, a warrior forged in the crucible of a conflict ultimately rooted in survival of the fittest.

Despite the adversities, Alaric felt an undeniable sense of gratitude toward this land he was leaving. It was here, in this cursed and forsaken place, that he discovered his true self. Turning his gaze back to the city, a complex tapestry of emotions enveloped him.

From his current vantage, Hawkani appeared as a vast jumble of buildings, along with tightly clustered warehouses that ran along the water’s edge. Hundreds of boats and ships littered the bay, some anchored, others moored along the wharf. Though it wasn’t the largest city in the kingdom, Hawkani was walled, with powerful defenses, and home to more than thirty thousand inhabitants.

The keep, which had been his stronghold and home for the past five years, now stood as a silent bystander to his transformation, the change the holy land had wrought in him. A pang of sadness tugged at his heart at the thought of leaving it all behind, a symbol of the life he’d built here.

Divinara, for all her challenges and tribulations, had become a part of his soul. Yet Alaric was torn between the sense of unfinished business that gnawed at his conscience and the understanding that to stay would be tantamount to courting an early death. The city had shaped him, but so too had the land beyond in ways he was not fully sure he would ever understand.

Would he return?

“I hope not,” Alaric breathed aloud as the wind gusted strongly around him, driving away the stench of the bay.

Just prior to their departure, news had arrived that the Cardinal King suffered a crushing defeat and been taken prisoner by Sunara. The messengers had also brought word that the ash men were marching on the capital, Hawkarwa, fifty miles to the east. It seemed, for the moment, Hawkani would be spared. Eventually, he knew, Sunara would turn his gaze this way, and when he did, Alaric would be long gone.

“They won’t give any,” Alaric uttered into the wind. His statement was not just a prediction, but a cold, hard insight into the nature of their enemy.

“Give any what?” a deep, yet unmistakably weary voice inquired from behind him.

“Mercy,” Alaric responded, his voice steady, eyes still fixed on Hawkani. He didn’t need to look back to recognize the speaker; the deep timbre, despite its current hoarseness, belonged to Grayson.

The captain of Alaric’s company, dragging the weight of fatigue with each step, joined him at the railing. He leaned heavily against it, releasing a long, drawn-out breath, his gaze lingering on the receding outline of the city they were leaving behind as the ship worked her way out of the harbor toward the vast expanses of the sea ahead.

“Maybe,” Grayson pondered aloud, the word laced with a mix of skepticism and hard-earned wisdom. “Our side rarely showed any, so why should they?” The older man paused. “Still, Sunara is smart, intelligent. He understands that one can conquer with the sweetness of honey just as through the sword and use of force. With the Cardinal King finished, there is a strong chance the coastal cities will surrender rather than contest the enemy by force. As the victor, he may surprise everyone and prove generous in his terms.”

“I feel like we haven’t done God’s work here,” Alaric confessed, his voice barely rising above the sound of the waves slapping against the ship’s wooden hull and the wind as it gusted lightly. “Not for a long time.”

There was a drawn-out moment where only the sea spoke, her timeless murmur a backdrop to their contemplation. Grayson, his forearms braced against the railing, gazed into the depths below.

“I fear you are correct,” Grayson admitted, tone laden with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. “It is good this venture is finally over for us. I long to return to the land of my birth, my family, my daughters. This cursed land…” His words trailed off, as if memories of what they endured had surfaced, moments when their moral compass had been tested, when the line between right and wrong blurred. “There were times I felt we almost lost who we were and why we had come.”

Turning to face Grayson, Alaric observed the changes time had wrought on the man who had stood by him through countless challenges and been the voice of wisdom and courage in the darkest of nights. The once brown locks now bore the dignified mark of experience, a blend of silver and gray strands. The lines on Grayson’s face, etched by years of campaigning, hard service, and the sun, seemed to deepen in the fading light of the day, marking him as a man who had weathered many storms.

“If I have not said it before, thank you,” Alaric expressed, his voice imbued with genuine respect and a deep-seated fondness for the venerable soldier.

Grayson’s initial response was a scowl, along with a slight furrow of his brow as he looked at Alaric. His expression, usually stoic and unyielding, hinted at a discomfort with the direction of the conversation.

“For what?” Grayson queried after a protracted moment, tone edged with the roughness of a seasoned soldier.

“You know for what. I would be dead and buried were it not for you. You helped make me the man I am today, the leader I have become. For that kindness, I offer my gratitude and thanks.”

The moment stretched between them, charged with an unspoken acknowledgment of what they endured together, the battles fought, and the lessons learned. Grayson’s gaze, usually so piercing and alert, softened as he met Alaric’s eyes, revealing a rare glimpse of vulnerability beneath the mask of command the man normally wore. The older man’s eyes grew watery, a window into the emotions he so fiercely guarded and hid from the world.

“I did nothing more than my duty, my lord,” Grayson said, his voice thick. Turning away, perhaps to hide the emotions that threatened to breach his stoic facade, Grayson cast his gaze toward the horizon, where two ships, their sails billowed by the wind, were gracefully navigating out of the harbor with the outgoing tide and into the open sea. These galleys, already catching the favorable winds, were tacking hard to port.

Those two ships cutting through the water ahead of Alaric’s galley carried more of Dekar’s returning soldiers, battle-weary yet unbroken, alongside their families, embodying the fragile hope of a new beginning, one where the Crusade was a distant thing, nothing more than a memory.

Amongst their number were a handful of civilians from Hawkani, a mix of craftsmen, merchants, and ordinary folk, all believers of the true faith, who held the foresight to see the dark clouds gathering on their horizon, the end of the world they once knew. These were individuals wise enough, or perhaps desperate enough, to abandon their homes and livelihoods to escape the shadow looming over the city.

Notably absent from this exodus were Alaric’s fellow nobles, the highborn men and women, Crusaders all, who chose to place their faith in the ancient stone walls of the city and the valor of her defenders. They had declined Alaric’s offer of a berth, to return home, opting instead to stand firm in the face of adversity, a decision fueled by a blend of pride, duty, and perhaps a hint of denial about the true might of the approaching enemy. Most hadn’t seen what he’d faced, and those who had thought the walls stout enough to hold back the enemy.

As expected, Lord Merrick of Gress had eagerly stepped into the void, seizing the reins of command of the city with a zeal that was characteristic of his ambition. Merrick, a noble whose appetite for glory and recognition was well-known, had always fancied himself a master strategist, a belief that was generously indulged more by his own vanity than by any notable military accomplishment.

To many, including Alaric, Merrick’s tactical prowess was questionable at best, his strategies often teetering on the edge of folly. Describing him as a bumbling amateur might have been a charitable assessment, considering the critical whispers that often followed his plans and maneuvers. Still, for five years Alaric had done his best to keep Hawkani under control. He had passed that baton onward. Now, it was Merrick’s responsibility, his burden to bear, and he was welcome to it.

This transition of power, with Merrick’s eager assumption of control, left Alaric with mixed feelings as he watched his city. As the galleys pushed forward, leaving Hawkani and its new commander behind, Alaric pondered the fate of the last of the coalition that had rallied against the ash men. The Great Crusade had drawn many warriors from distant lands.

How the survivors from the other nations who joined in on the Great Crusade against the ash men would get home, Alaric had no idea. Divinara had consumed many lives in the name of religion, and before Sunara finished, many more would fall.

“It is their choice to remain,” Grayson said, as if he could read Alaric’s thoughts.

“As it is ours to go,” Alaric said.

In a way, with all he’d seen, Alaric did not care, not anymore. It was a wonder, after all he and his men witnessed—the brutality of war, the harshness—that they managed to remain sane.

“The treasure is aboard this ship, our war chests?” Alaric inquired.

“Yes, my lord, it is,” Grayson confirmed, his gaze returning to meet Alaric’s. The hardness in his eyes spoke of the weight of responsibility he carried, ensuring the safeguarding of their material assets, the treasure accumulated over a decade of campaigning, a veritable king’s ransom. “Our boys loaded and stored them in the hold. I have a strong guard standing over the cabin in question.” His assurance was solid, leaving no room for doubt regarding the security measures in place. “The chests are all locked, with the keys upon my person.”

“Good,” Alaric acknowledged.

“There are also twenty men under arms.” Grayson’s gaze swept toward the aft of the ship. His soldiers, sprawled across the deck in various states of rest, bore the marks of their recent exertions. The last two and a half days had drained them—a hard march out, a battle fought and a hurried return, then the preparations for departure, followed by loading the ships—leaving them utterly spent. The limited space on deck, cluttered with the forms of weary soldiers, underscored the scale of their undertaking; so many had been brought aboard that finding an unoccupied spot to stretch out was a challenge. But his people were grateful for whatever they had, for they were going home.

“They are below decks and stand ready for action,” Grayson added, then glanced over at a sailor heading their way. The brief interruption by the sailor, carefully navigating the crowded deck with a full bucket of water and a scrubbing brush, offered a momentary pause in their conversation. His careful steps were designed not to disturb the resting soldiers.

“I assume a similar guard and watch has been set on the other two ships,” Alaric ventured, once the sailor passed out of earshot. “I’d not have any of our own end up slaves. They deserve to go home, all of them.”

“I left orders for that to be done. Our people will remain vigilant and ready for trouble,” Grayson assured. “You think Captain Bramwell would do that? Betray us? I thought you both were friends.”

“We may be friends, but he has to know we are carrying a king’s treasure, especially after what I paid him for this voyage,” Alaric said. “That doesn’t even take into account what he could make for our people on the blocks. The temptation may be too strong to pass up.”

“I know he’s a pirate,” Grayson said, “but over the years, he has been good to us, especially after that incident in Antle.”

“He has,” Alaric admitted, “but I still don’t trust him—well, not fully.”

“I understand he has confined himself to raiding our enemy,” Grayson said.

“That we know of.”

They fell silent for a time, each lost in his own thoughts as the ship continued to slice her way through the dirty waters of the bay. The sun had just come up an hour before and it was painting the eastern sky a brilliant orange.

“I did take one priest,” Grayson admitted. “The rest who wanted to come I turned away.”

“Who?” Alaric inquired, his curiosity piqued.

“Father Ava,” Grayson revealed, a name that brought a visible change to Alaric’s demeanor.

“I like that man,” Alaric responded, his approval evident. A smile touched his lips as he contemplated Father Ava’s character. “He never fit in with the rest of the money grubbers. He went out of his way to minister to the poor, the untouchables. I always felt he was a true believer, one who’d journeyed to the Crusade to do good. Perhaps out of all of us, he managed to do just that.”

“I thought so too,” Grayson said. “It is why I sent men to find him. I explained we were leaving and why. I did not want to leave him behind. Favorable terms or not, Sunara is likely to deal harshly with our clergy for what they did, the purge and all. Besides, he is a good surgeon. He saved more than a few of our boys, Michael included, gave them a second chance.”

“When we return home, I will find a place for that man and make him comfortable.”

“And will you have a place?” Grayson asked.

“As in, will my father welcome me home?” Alaric glanced over. The thought had troubled him more than a little since he’d made his decision.

“We are returning from a failed crusade,” Grayson said.

“I have not gotten a letter from him or my mother in over a year.” Alaric played with the ring on his finger. “Something is wrong.”

“Are you certain?”

“I can feel it in my bones.” Alaric glanced at the ring. It had begun to grow hot. “I am”—he found himself hesitating—“being called home.”

Grayson looked at him sharply.

The ring was almost burning. “We should have left long before now.”

“And when we get there, if everything is fine, what then?”

“With all the gold and treasure we are bringing home? How do you think we will be welcomed?”

“There is that little fact,” Grayson said.

As the white sails fully captured the wind with a resounding whump, the galley seemed to leap forward with newfound vigor, slicing with wind-driven power through the murky waters as she made her way out of the confines of the bay. All the while, the oarsmen continued to row. Alaric, feeling the ship’s acceleration, straightened, a silent acknowledgment of the journey’s next phase beginning in earnest.

His gaze swept the deck, landing on Ezran. Dressed in black, he was the embodiment of readiness and resolve. The wind played with his loose-fitting and comfortable clothes, ruffling the fabric, as one hand rested on the hilt of his scimitar, while the other stroked his clean-shaven chin. Ezran’s sharp eyes missed nothing as he watched the nearest sailors.

“A little over a month traveling along the coast, then a two-day journey over open seas to our island kingdom, and we will be home,” Alaric remarked, a note of eager anticipation in his voice as he envisioned the end of their arduous journey. The ring had begun to cool again.

“Have I mentioned how I hate sea travel?” Grayson grumbled as he stifled a yawn. “I’ve never much enjoyed sailing. There are so many things that could go wrong, an errant storm, running aground, falling overboard, encountering a vengeful sea monster… I don’t swim so well. I’d rather have solid ground under my feet or travel by horseback.”

“You could have remained behind,” Alaric teased with a grin, lightening the mood with the banter that had often eased the tension of their shared trials. “Waited with Merrick for Sunara.”

“Would you have wanted me to?” Grayson countered, a hint of seriousness underlying his question, probing the depth of their bond and Alaric’s reliance on his presence.

“No,” Alaric admitted readily. He then clapped Grayson on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie and concern. “Since we are sharing a cabin, why don’t you turn in for some sleep, my friend? I feel like watching the sea for a time.” His suggestion was an offering of respite, an acknowledgment of the older man’s clear weariness.

“Are you sure, my lord?” Grayson asked, his loyalty and duty prompting him to question the offer and defer.

“I am,” Alaric assured him. “Go on, get some rest. We can take turns remaining awake and watchful of deceit.”

As Grayson acquiesced, moving toward the promise of rest below decks, Alaric turned his gaze back to the vast ocean stretching before them beyond the bay. The sea, with its ever-changing moods and mysteries, offered a moment of solitude for reflection, thought, and prayer. Alaric intended to offer up thanks to his god.

The horizon, a distant line blending ocean and sky, held his gaze. Out there, somewhere, lay Dekar, the land of his birth and the home he longed to see once more. A sigh of longing escaped him, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation at the thought of his return.

His thoughts drifted back to his father, the Earl of Dekar, a man with whom Alaric’s relationship had always been strained by expectations and the heavy weight of duty. The earl, a figure of authority and ambition, had envisioned for his son a path filled with achievement and leadership, pushing Alaric to excel in every task, including the study of warfare.

Yet, despite his efforts, Alaric always felt overshadowed by his father’s towering standards, never quite fulfilling the legacy expected of him. It was this sense of inadequacy, perhaps, that propelled his father to send him off to the Holy HoCrusade. He’d seen it as a chance for Alaric to prove his worth on a grand stage.

“If the king had allowed,” his father had said, “I would have gone in your stead and left you here with your mother. Alas, it is now up to you. Hold the faith and lean on God in times of need. Look after your men and listen to Grayson. Learn all you can, while you can. My son, you represent the honor and future of our house. Do not let your family down.”

Over the years, those parting words had haunted Alaric something fierce. His mother, with tears in her eyes, offered only a hug and a kiss upon the cheek. Alaric had turned from her, more to hide his own tears than anything else, mounted his horse, and ridden away. That had been ten years ago.

Now, as he stood on the deck of the galley, Alaric pondered his imminent return. He was no longer the eager young noble sent off to war with dreams of glory; he had been tempered by the harsh realities of conflict, albeit leading a diminished force back from a campaign marked not by victory, but by survival and loss. The anticipation of facing his father, under these circumstances, stirred a complex whirlwind of emotions within. Would his father see the wisdom and resilience he’d gained, or would he only perceive something else—a man running from a fight?

The journey ahead was not just a physical return to Dekar, but a reckoning with his past and the expectations which shaped his path through life. As the ship carved its way through the waves, Alaric’s resolve hardened. No matter the reception that awaited him, he was determined to confront the challenges of home with the same courage he faced the enemy on the battlefield.

Still, he could not shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right back home. He should have heard some news, and yet, there had been none. The sudden warmth of the ring on his finger, a surge of magic that seemed to resonate with his unease, only deepened Alaric’s sense of foreboding.

“You seem preoccupied.”

Turning, Alaric faced Captain Bramwell, a man whose presence commanded attention, not through imposing stature, but through an air of competence and internal strength. His face was not a kind one, but filled with a hardness that spoke of knowing his place amongst his fellow men. His eyes were perpetually squinted, likely a result of living at sea. Bramwell, of equal height to Alaric, was clad in civilian attire that included pants and a heavy coat over a tunic. His clothing was cut from the finest material and revealed the man’s wealth.

His dark hair and nearly black eyes added to his enigmatic persona, a man whose origins were as obscured as his intentions. He was clearly from a foreign land, but Alaric knew not where and Bramwell had not said. Despite this, his fluency in the common tongue, which he spoke without accent, and his demeanor suggested a worldly man, one well-versed in the nuances of cultures and conflicts far beyond his own. He was also unarmed, or at least appeared so. Alaric suspected the man had a concealed weapon and carried one at all times.

Ezran’s protective stance, a mere step away from the ship’s captain, drew the other’s attention. Ezran’s hand gripped his scimitar, clearly prepared to defend his charge.

“Just thinking of home,” Alaric offered, a simple yet loaded response that acknowledged his preoccupation without delving into the depths of his concerns. Bramwell nodded, then shot another cautious and concerned glance toward Ezran.

At Alaric’s subtle hand signal, Ezran withdrew, loosening his grip on the scimitar and stepping back two paces. This gesture, small yet significant, served to lower the immediate tension, allowing Bramwell to relax marginally.

“Your Shadow Guard are more than intimidating,” Bramwell admitted. “They make me nervous.”

“You, nervous?” Alaric barked a laugh. “I find that surprising.”

“Even I occasionally get uncomfortable, especially around that woman, Kiera,” Bramwell added, then leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “She scares me.”

“Is that because you took her to your bed?” Alaric asked with a grin. “And you’ve since made yourself scarce? Perhaps that is the root of your unease.”

“You heard about that?” Bramwell cocked his head to the side.

“I did,” Alaric said. “She told me.”

“I figured as a Luminary, she’d not be interested in marriage or a relationship.”

“She’s not,” Alaric said.

“But, still—she’s holding a grudge.”

“It was how you left,” Alaric said. “Abrupt-like and without the courtesy of a goodbye. It took her weeks to cool off.”

“I had no choice,” Bramwell said. “The authorities in Antle were onto who I was and, more importantly, what I was doing there. It was either run or face the executioner’s sword. I chose to keep my head attached to my neck.”

“Have you explained that to her?”

“No, I have not. I heard she came aboard, but I’ve not seen her yet.” Bramwell glanced around the deck, his eyes narrowing, searching.

“She’s sleeping below decks,” Alaric said.

“I will have to make amends, then,” Bramwell said, “before she takes it into her head to stick me with a blade.”

“That likely would not be a bad idea.”

“I have heard the rumors about them, your Shadow Guard.” Bramwell glanced at Ezran again.

“You have?” His Shadow Guard had acquired a fearsome reputation, which suited Alaric just fine.

“They are famous in these parts. There are stories about them, especially Ezran, an ash man turned against his people.”

That turned Ezran’s gaze their way again. He raised an eyebrow at the ship’s captain.

Bramwell studied Ezran for a long moment. “May I ask you a question?”

“You may,” Ezran said. “Though I reserve the right not to answer.”

“Fair enough. Is it true he”—Bramwell jerked a thumb at Alaric—“saved your life, and in return, you swore service to him? That he did the same for the others as well with the same result?”

“In my case, it is true,” Ezran said.

“A life for a life, then?” Bramwell asked.

“It is more complicated than that,” Ezran admitted, “but you may think on it in that manner if you so desire.”

It was Bramwell’s turn to raise a curious eyebrow at Alaric, seeking an explanation. It had been at least a year since they’d last seen each other. Alaric had been looking forward to renewing their friendship, sharing a few drinks, but then the Cardinal’s call for aid had come and he’d been forced to take his men and march.

“If Ezran wishes to tell you his tale, I have no issue with him doing so,” Alaric said. “He speaks his mind freely. I do not command him. I never have.”

“And will you?” Bramwell looked over at Ezran.

“No,” Ezran said with a small shake of his head. “I will say no more than has been said already.”

Bramwell gave an amused grunt. “I expected no less.”

“I will tell you something,” Ezran said, “if you will but hear it.”

“Oh?” Bramwell asked curiously, then gave a nod for Ezran to continue.

“If you betray us, I will make sure you die before your men take me down.”

The ship’s captain stiffened, his face hardening, shifting his stance uncomfortably. “I gave my word of safe passage for Alaric and all those who boarded.”

“You did, and now I have given mine,” Ezran said simply with a hard coldness. “I have only ever broken my word once. I shall not do so again, especially not for you.”

Bramwell turned back to Alaric, a hint of uncertainty in his gaze. “If you were anyone else, I might be tempted to betray you. But you are my friend, and in my position—well, there are few I can truly count on.”

“As a pirate?” Alaric asked.

Bramwell held out both hands to his sides. “I am an opportunist, nothing more.” The ship’s captain grew serious. “Besides, with so many trained killers aboard, it would not be the wisest move on my part to act against you, now, would it?”

“I have paid you a fortune,” Alaric said.

“There is that also,” Bramwell admitted. “With your funds, I will be able to buy two more galleys. Within a year, I will be even wealthier than I am now, the fruit of this journey.”

“But with no place to settle down, no place to call your own,” Alaric said. “Once the enemy takes Hawkani, they will not welcome you, for you freely prey upon their shipping. If I recall, there is even a sizable bounty on your head?”

“True—there is,” Bramwell said sadly. “I must keep moving, for the free ports all know what, who I am. Those that still accept me charge exorbitant rates and ask few questions. They are more than eager to receive my goods and bribes, and I pay through the nose.”

“And what of Dekar?” Alaric said. “You’d be welcome there.”

“There are no ports in Dekar—Kevahn, yes, but in your earldom, only fishing villages. My ships need a safe harbor, one that I can trust, where I can rest my men and conduct repairs.”

“And what if I built you one?” Alaric asked.

“Then I might come. Send word if you do.”

“I will,” Alaric said and then glanced out beyond the bay. The galley was almost clear and out to sea. “Shouldn’t you be rather busy at the moment, you know, navigating the ship?”

“My first officer can manage well enough. I came to find you, for I was wondering if you would give me the pleasure of dining with you this evening.”

“You mean drinking?”

“Food goes better with some grog, don’t you think?” Bramwell asked. “At seven bells, come to my cabin. We will drink some, eat, and talk about this port you will build for me. Perhaps you might convince me to make Dekar my home, yes? Eventually, I would like a place to retire, settle down and start a family, own some land, and live out my remaining years in peace.”

“I will join you,” Alaric responded.

A shout from the aft end of the boat by an officer drew Bramwell’s attention. He scowled. “Good. Now, as you rightly reminded me, I must get back to work. There is the Vakeran Reef ahead and the tide is going out. I want to make sure we pass through her channels safely.”

“I will see you tonight,” Alaric said.

“That you will. We will also drink to killing the infidels, something you and I do quite well.” Bramwell, with a purposeful stride, turned on his heel and began to navigate toward the aft of the galley, his eyes set on the bridge and great wheel that lay beyond where the helmsman stood, along with two officers. Alaric had never met anyone who hated the enemy more than Bramwell. With him, it had become a passion.

“I like him,” Ezran remarked, breaking the silence that had settled about them.

“I do too,” Alaric admitted, exuding a mixture of respect and caution.

“But I would not trust him.”

“Oh, I don’t, but, in his own way, he is a friend,” Alaric added, acknowledging the complex nature of their acquaintance. It was a friendship defined not by trust, but by mutual understanding and, perhaps, a shared sense of purpose, drive even, and respect for achievement.

“That he is,” Ezran concurred.

Alaric’s gaze drifted back to the horizon, a vast expanse that held both promise and uncertainty. The ship, having finally left the harbor behind, began to encounter the open sea’s growing swells. Behind them, the coast was already fading, receding into the distance until it would eventually disappear. Alaric was leaving behind a tumultuous past, a tapestry of memories and experiences marred by pain and loss. These were memories that, despite his deepest wishes, he knew would forever linger in the recesses of his mind, shadows of a past that could never be completely erased.

As the ship sailed onward, carving her way through the ever-deepening swells, Alaric couldn’t help but wonder about the future. The days and weeks ahead were shrouded in mystery, a path undefined and fraught with potential peril. Yet amidst the uncertainty, there was a glimmer of hope, a chance for new beginnings far from the ghosts of his past.