Lord of the realm

Jaenor lay there on the bed, still tasting her lips, his chest rising and falling slowly.

The silence of the room seemed strange after her presence, thick with the memory of their heat.

He sighed, feeling content at the moment. Odessa was such a beautiful woman that she made him forget all about his life. His family and friends—what they were doing—he had forgotten about them.

In the past few months, he did think of them, wondering what they were doing. A thought crossed his mind that they might be thinking he was already dead and moved on with their lives.

He thought of Rena and his mother too.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under, and he drifted into sleep with her scent still clinging to him.

He slept for a long time.

When he awoke, dusk had already draped its cloak over the city.

He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and after a long moment of thought, dressed himself.

The bed felt empty without her, but there was business to attend to.

He ignored her warning about not leaving the house.

Aldran's voice, that flustered shout from earlier, echoed faintly in his mind: Meet me at the docks tomorrow.

He made his way out into the streets.

The harbor district bore the scars of what had happened not long ago—the incident.

Splintered planks, broken beams, and scorched fragments of ships were stacked in piles, while laborers sweated under torchlight to repair the worst of the damages.

The air smelled of salt, tar, and burnt wood, all mixed together in a bitter reminder of chaos.

And yet, nobody truly knew who had caused it.

Only a handful of those close to the scene had seen enough to suspect Jaenor—and even they kept their mouths shut, whether from fear or loyalty.

It was a matter related to the sirens, so they chose to remain silent.

To the rest of the city, it was a mystery, a whispered tale of calamity at sea.

He found Aldran where he expected—leaning against a crate on the deck of a half-repaired pier, boots propped on another box, chewing idly on a strip of dried fish.

The young halfling's messy red hair was tied back, though it still fell into his sharp eyes. He looked like he had been waiting a while, his expression shifting as he spotted Jaenor approaching.

Aldran nearly leapt off the crate the moment Jaenor came into view.

His face lit up with a mix of excitement and disbelief, and then—like a dam breaking—he exploded.

"By the black teeth of the sea, Jaenor! Do you even realize what I walked in on yesterday?!"

"YOU!! You are one lucky bastard."

His hands flailed as he paced back and forth in front of him, eyes wide as if recounting a holy vision.

"Her—her! Odessa. The harbor's goddess, the untouchable jewel of the waves. Men here talk about her in whispers, like she's some siren that would drown them with a glance, and you—you—were tearing her apart like a wolf in a chicken pen!"

He grabbed his own hair in frustration, groaning like a man struck by fate.

"Do you know how long I've prayed to see even the curve of her ankle? And you, bastard—you were in the heavens themselves!"

Jaenor only smiled faintly at the storm of words, saying nothing, his silence mocking and amused all at once.

The young man Aldran, Jaenor's closest companion and a halfling of restless spirit.

Their friendship had sparked five months ago, when Jaenor stumbled upon him in the alleys of the lower harbor, cornered and beaten by thugs who mocked his small stature.

Jaenor, without hesitation, had intervened, scattering the cowards and pulling Aldran back to his feet.

From that day, Aldran had pledged himself to Jaenor's side in whatever way fate allowed.

Though small in frame, Aldran carried the rugged charm of the sea in his bones.

A pirate by trade, he spent most of his days upon the open waters, chasing storms, treasure, and trouble in equal measure. His laughter was as loud as a crashing wave, and his mischief was boundless.

Yet, for all his wild ways, whenever his ship found harbor in the city, Aldran always sought out Jaenor first—whether to drink, to boast of his exploits, or simply to sit in silence beside his friend.

Aldran threw his arms wide.

"And the way she moved! Jaenor, I swear, the very gods would envy you! No wonder men around here call her the harbor's moon. And you—hah!—you're lying in her bed like it's nothing."

He shook his head dramatically.

"If you weren't my friend, I'd stab you right now out of spite."

Still, Jaenor didn't bite.

He only smirked, that unreadable calm in his eyes, which drove Aldran half mad.

The halfling jabbed a finger at him.

"Fine. Keep your smug grin. But don't think I'm not going to remind you of this every damned day."

After a moment, Aldran sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Anyway, the captain's docked us here for a while. Repairs, resupplies, and the usual excuses to empty our pockets in taverns. Means I'll be sticking around."

Jaenor gave him a nod, and together they wandered through the harbor until the scent of fish guts and brine thickened.

They stopped at a weather-worn stall: Petrus the fishmonger's shop, though it hardly looked like a shop anymore.

Half its roof was torn away, beams splintered like broken ribs.

Petrus himself stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, his hands and apron covered in salt and scales.

The old man froze when he spotted Jaenor.

His jaw tightened, eyes softening with something between shock and relief.

"Jaenor," he said quietly.

"By the tides… you're alive."

Jaenor tilted his head.

"You sound surprised."

"Surprised? Boy, I was terrified witless. That was serious storm you got yourself into."

Aldran frowned, looking at Jaenor. He wasn't aware of what happened on the harbor. Everybody was saying that it was a storm that hit the harbor, so he didn't pay any attention.

Petrus came around the counter, clapping a heavy hand on Jaenor's shoulder. "I'm glad that you are out of danger. Damn glad."

Without a word, Jaenor stooped to pick up one of the fallen beams, setting it back into place. Aldran followed with a grunt, rolling up his sleeves.

Together the three worked to lift, hammer, and brace what they could of the ruined stall.

The fish stench clung to their skin, but Petrus's thanks were endless, muttered between every swing of the hammer and every nail driven into wood.

By the time dusk deepened to night, the shop looked somewhat whole again—still battered, but standing.

Petrus insisted they take a cut of fresh fish, but Aldran laughed and dragged Jaenor off toward the taverns instead.

The first tavern was chaos: smoke, laughter, and mugs slamming.

Yet as soon as Jaenor stepped inside, the noise dimmed.

Faces turned.

Men elbowed each other.

Women's eyes lingered a second too long.

Whispers circled the room like gulls above a carcass.

"Gods, do you see that?"

"That's him—the boy from the harbor."

"No way he lived through that."

Aldran noticed immediately, scowling.

He grabbed Jaenor's wrist. "Hells. Too many eyes. Let's get out of here."

They slipped out and headed away from the main road, down toward the shoreline.

"What exactly happened at the harbor?" Aldran finally asked as they were walking.

Jaenor sighed and explained what happened, and again Aldran drew in dramatic breaths, telling how lucky he was. To escape from sirens, it wasn't an easy feat for anyone.

"Leave all worries, my friend, for I will take you to the land of heaven," Aldran said with an exaggerated gesture.

Jaenor shook his head, following quietly beside him.

As they were talking, they stepped away from the main road.

Beyond the lantern glow of the harbor, the beach stretched dark and endless, the waves lapping soft and steady.

There, hidden among the dunes, stood a scatter of wooden huts—if they could be called that. Roofs patched with tar, walls full of holes, and not a single door among them.

Light spilled from open windows, shadows moving inside.

The smell hit first: sharp, herbal, intoxicating.

"Seafolk dens," Aldran muttered, grinning.

"Perfect."

Inside one of the huts, the air was thick with smoke.

Men and women lounged on mats, their eyes half-lidded, voices lazy. Pipes of carved bone and clay passed from hand to hand, each puff releasing a sweet, pungent haze that clung to the rafters.

Aldran dropped into a corner with practiced ease, motioning Jaenor down beside him.

Someone shoved a pipe into his hand without asking, and soon enough, Jaenor found himself drawing in a deep lungful of the leaf's heady fumes.

The world seemed to soften, the edges of things blurring.

The roar of the sea grew distant, like a lullaby.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

They simply sat there, smoke curling from their lips, watching the shadows dance across the walls.