Lord of the realm

Jaenor stirred awake to the gentle sound of waves lapping against the harbor pilings and the distant cry of gulls.

The morning sun streamed through the bedroom window, casting golden patterns across the rumpled sheets. He reached automatically for Odessa's warmth, only to find empty space beside him.

The scent of jasmine lingered on her pillow, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He sat up, listening for sounds from elsewhere in the house. The familiar clatter of pottery from the kitchen below eased his worry, and he smiled despite himself. Even after six months, Odessa still rose before dawn, claiming that the early morning hours were the most productive for her mysterious work.

He dressed quickly in his work clothes—simple canvas trousers and a linen shirt that had seen better days—and made his way downstairs. The scent of fresh bread and brewing tea filled the air, a homey comfort that never failed to ground him.

Odessa stood at the kitchen counter, her black hair loose around her shoulders as she prepared his usual breakfast of bread, cheese, and dried fish. She wore a simple green dress that hugged her curves in a way that made his mouth go dry, despite having held her in his arms just hours before.

"Good morning," he murmured, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck.

"Good morning to you, darling," she replied, leaning back against his chest for a moment before turning in his arms. Her eyes searched his face with that familiar concern. "You slept better last night. The nightmares?"

"Quieter," he admitted, accepting the kiss she offered. "Your presence helps."

She smiled, though something flickered behind her eyes—a shadow of worry that she quickly concealed. "Eat quickly. The morning catch will be waiting, and Petrus doesn't like his workers to be late."

Jaenor sat at the table and finished his breakfast quickly while talking to her and left in a hurry.

Petrus had been good to him when he was searching for a job. He had no coin when he came here, and Odessa told him to earn his keep during his initial days, after he had recovered.

-

The walk to the fish market normally took Jaenor along the main thoroughfare, but this morning he chose the longer route that followed the wooden boardwalk extending out over the harbor. The salt breeze felt good against his face, and he enjoyed watching the early fishing boats return with their night's work.

The harbor was alive with noise and motion, a restless beast of wood, salt, and coin.

Waves slapped against the stone docks, their spray carrying the briny tang of the sea into the air, mixing with the sharper scents of fish oil, sweat, tar, and spices. Merchant cries rose above the din, haggling voices battling the shrieks of gulls overhead.

Jaenor stood among it all, shoulders squared, gaze sweeping the endless line of piers and ships rocking gently in their moorings.

He had grown used to the strange gatherings here—the halflings bustling about with quick, nimble fingers as they loaded crates twice their size; sea folk cloaked in the guise of men and women, their eyes always a touch too sharp, too bright, as though the ocean itself lingered behind their gaze.

Their humanoid forms—at first he was quite startled. He had grown used to seeing them daily but still found it odd seeing them on shore.

From what he knows, they like the human liquor and other fascinating things that humans enjoy.

There are a lot of taverns filled with these seafolk who smoke and drink all day.

The harbor stretched like a serpent along the coast, each pier jutting into the sea like the ribs of a drowned leviathan.

Here, everything one could imagine—and many things better left unimagined—could be bought or bartered. Exotic silks from far kingdoms, spices that burned the tongue with a single grain, enchanted trinkets smuggled past wary guards, and relics pried from drowned ruins.

And then there were the pirates.

Their ships carried no banners, yet everyone knew them. Scarred men with shark-tooth smiles strode boldly through the crowd, offering stolen blades and plundered jewels as though they were simple wares.

No one spoke of it openly, but many hands exchanged coin for their goods, heads bowed in quiet eagerness.

The harbor was not a place of law.

As he was thinking while walking, he saw something that caught his attention.

Not humans but the real Seafolk, tribals from the deep waters.

A group of five figures stood clustered at the far end of the upper deck, their forms silhouetted against the morning sky.

At first glance, they appeared human—tall, graceful, with the kind of ethereal beauty that caught and held attention. But Jaenor's enhanced senses, sharpened by months of origin power training, detected something else entirely.

Sirens.

Not the half-blooded descendants who occasionally visited Basmonte's markets, but true-born children of the deep waters. Their human shapes were merely glamour, adopted when they ventured onto land. Beneath the illusion, he could sense something far more ancient and dangerous.

He stared at them for a couple of seconds, thinking of how they could do that.

He sighed and resumed his walk towards the shop.

But as he walked a couple of steps, he could feel something poking his senses.

Then he turned and saw them.

They were staring at him.

Jaenor narrowed his eyes, wondering what they wanted, but he just continued walking, thinking it was not a good idea to mess with them.

Their gazes followed his progress along the boardwalk with malicious intensity, though they made no move to approach.

Jaenor kept his expression neutral and his pace steady.

He reached Petros's fish-cutting station without incident, hanging his coat on its usual peg and taking up his position at the gutting table.

Petrus greeted him with a grunt and a gesture toward the day's first delivery—a particularly large catch of sea bass that would require careful handling.

"Good morning, lad," the old fishmonger said, wiping his hands on his stained apron. "We've got premium stock today. The Earl's kitchen sent word they want the best cuts for tonight's feast."

Jaenor nodded and set to work, his practiced hands moving with the precision that had earned Petrus's respect. The repetitive motions of cleaning and filleting helped calm his nerves, though he remained aware of his surroundings.

"You're quiet today, lad," Petrus observed, his weathered hands working alongside Jaenor's with the efficiency of forty years' experience. "Something troubling you?"

"Just thinking," Jaenor replied, not wanting to worry the old fishmonger. Petros had been kind to him from the beginning, asking no questions about his past and accepting his presence with the easy hospitality of a man who had seen his share of stranded souls wash up on Basmonte's shores.

It was nearly midday when a few figures entered the shop.

He had been working for perhaps an hour when a shadow fell across his station.

"Well, well," a voice like silk over steel purred from behind him. "What have we here?"

Jaenor looked up to find one of the sirens standing at the edge of his workspace.

Up close, the illusion of humanity was even more convincing—she appeared as a woman in her mid-twenties, with platinum blonde hair and eyes the colour of deep ocean water. Her dress was cut from expensive fabric, clearly indicating that she was someone of means.

But Jaenor could see past the glamour.

The faint shimmer around her edges, the way the air seemed to ripple in her presence, and the menacing grace with which she moved—all betrayed her true nature.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely, setting down his filleting knife and wiping his hands.

"Oh, I think you can," she said, her smile revealing teeth that were just slightly too sharp. "You're the newcomer, aren't you? The one who appeared six months ago with no past and no explanations?"

As humans were a rare breed in these parts, it was hard not to notice Jaenor. Among the swarming piers where halflings bustled like ants and sea folk cloaked themselves in human guise, his tall frame and mortal features drew lingering eyes. Whispers followed him like the tug of a shadow—a human here? For though men were known in the city, they were few enough that their presence was always marked, always remembered.

Odessa was different; they treated her as if she were part of them.

From the corner of his eye, Jaenor saw Petrus approaching, his weathered face creased with concern. The old fishmonger had always been protective of his workers, and the tension in the air was palpable.

"Is there a problem here?" Petrus asked, his voice carefully neutral.

The siren's gaze didn't leave Jaenor's face.

"No problem at all, old man. I was just curious about your... employee. You see, we children of the sea take notice when strangers settle in our waters. Especially strangers who carry the mysterious scent with them."