The rowboat cut through the calm, glimmering waters as Jophiel’s flying vessel loomed above them like a drifting colossus of bronze and steel. Gears turned lazily along its hull, sails flared outward like wings, and chimneys puffed faint plumes of scented smoke—lavender and oil, a signature of its creator.

  As they neared, a rope ladder unfurled from the deck with perfect timing, followed by a cheerful voice calling down: “About time! Thought I’d have to drop anchor in the clouds just to get your attention!”

  They climbed up one by one. Godric’s boots hit the polished deck just as Jophiel extended his hand with theatrical flair. “Welcome aboard The Skyloom! What do you think? She’s still a work in progress, but then again—aren’t we all?”

  Michael crossed his arms, nodding once. “It’s… impressive. No doubt about that.” His tone then sharpened. “But what I want to know is—why are you here, Jophiel?”

  Jophiel’s expression sobered just slightly, though the grin never fully left. He leaned on the railing, gaze cast toward the horizon.

  “Because Primera’s falling.”

  He turned back to them. “When I left, monsters were crawling out of the earth. Something’s leading them—we just don’t know what.”

  The group fell silent.

  “I haven’t heard a word from Uriel in the North,” Jophiel added. “And Gabby… well, she was the only one I told I was leaving. She’ll get word to me if anything changes.” His smile faltered for the first time. “Until then, I do what I can.”

  Godric’s jaw clenched. Thoughts of Wyatt, Anarór?, and the friends he'd left behind swirled in his chest like stormwater. The weight of distance pressed against his ribs.

  Xhiamas placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Do not fret, Godric. Primerans are hardy. They’ll hold.”

  His amber eyes glinted as he stepped back.“You must remember Byronard’s task. If we complete it, we tip the scale. The fate of the continent may well lie in this path.”

  Jophiel turned suddenly, eyes twinkling as they fell on Godric.

  “Ah, yes… you.” He strode forward in an exaggerated arc, hands tucked behind his back as he circled Godric like a curious hawk. “Godric of Rosetown. The black sheep. The secret piece in the bigger game. We’ve never had the pleasure of a proper introduction.” He stopped in front of him, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

  “Now that I see you—hmm—yes, I see a dash of potential.” He leaned in closer, examining Godric’s eyes. “A blank canvas… with a rather intriguing frame. Sir Byronard made the right decision.”

  Godric blinked. “You’re… not what I expected.”

  Jophiel laughed. “I rarely am.”

  His attention shifted suddenly—like a clock spring recoiling—as his eyes caught the twin blades strapped across Godric’s back. He gasped as if beholding a masterpiece in a museum and stepped around to examine them.

  “Ohhh... now these—these are something else entirely.”

  Godric, surprised by his shift, unsheathed Death’s Lament. The blade gave off its soft, pulsing green hue. Jophiel's fingers hovered just above the edge, never touching—only feeling.

  “Elvish forge work,” Jophiel said immediately. “But not made for elves. The balance, the curvature—too aggressive. Elves favor elegance. These were made for... raw adaptability.” He leaned closer, inspecting the etchings on the blade’s fuller. “And these runes… curious. No known language from the upper or lower realms. Certainly not from Primera.”

  Godric’s brows furrowed. “How do you know all that just by looking?”

  Michael chuckled from nearby. “It’s in his nature.”

  Xhiamas crossed his arms, tilting his head. “He’s a peculiar fellow.”

  Jophiel smiled broadly, arms outstretched. “Aren’t we all?” Then he gave a playful wink. “Some of us are just more entertaining about it.”

  Jophiel led them through the intricately carved archways of the Skyloom, the ship gently humming beneath their feet, as if alive with invention and energy. “Welcome to my humble gallery of madness,” he said with a dramatic flourish, waving his hand as they entered the workshop.

  The room was a whirlwind of organized chaos—blueprints hung from the rafters, brass mechanisms clicked in idle motion, and half-finished contraptions spun on their own as though begging for attention. Godric paused near a hovering orb that mirrored his reflection in ripples.

  Jophiel chuckled. “Careful, that one’s still learning what a face is.”

  The kitchen was next—oddly pristine. A metallic stovetop steamed with warmth, and hanging herbs from different regions gave the room a strangely homely scent.

  "Wait," Godric said, "you built a functioning kitchen on an airship?"

  "Of course I did!" Jophiel beamed. “War or no war, a man must eat like a king.”

  But it was the weapons quarter that truly took their breath away. Row after row of weaponry lined the walls—bows fashioned with reinforced lightwood, blades with cores of glowing blue steel, and even firearms of a design none of them had ever seen before.

  Michael rested a hand on one of the greatswords. “You were preparing for more than just a visit.”

  “I always prepare,” Jophiel said with a twinkle in his eye. “Even if I don’t always plan.”

  He turned to face them, more serious now. “Before I left the Capital, Sir Byronard split the Seven. Chamuel and Azrael went with King Ithilien, Uriel headed north to the dwarves. Gabriel and Raphael stayed behind to defend Primera. But no one—no one—was sent to the Abussonians. That struck me as... deliberate or, perhaps, an oversight.”

  Michael frowned. “But Byronard doesn’t miss details.”

  “Exactly,” Jophiel said. “Which is why I built this. I left without asking. Took to the skies on instinct. And now, having seen what you faced… I’m glad I did.”

  The Abussonian captain, who had remained respectfully quiet throughout the tour, stepped forward. “Then consider this your second home, Skyborn. Your presence honors our kind.”

  Jophiel gave a theatrical bow. “Then let’s make sure it wasn’t in vain.”

  Outside, the sun had begun its climb, casting golden rays over the endless ocean. The crew bustled as the Skyloom hovered gently above the resupply cove, ready to embark.

  Michael turned to the others. “Then it’s settled. We push forward to Azane.”

  The Skyloom hovered steadily above the resupply cove, the soft hum of its thrusters replaced by the salt-kissed wind and creaking of nearby masts. Below, the trading post had begun to settle from the chaos of the night before—smoke trails rising gently, boats rocking lazily in the harbor.

  Michael, Godric, Xhiamas, and Ziyad descended once more to the pier, where the Dragoon captain awaited them.

  “Captain,” Michael greeted with a nod.

  The man straightened and saluted crisply. “Good timing, ser. We just received clearance from the Azanean port authorities. We’re cleared to set sail immediately.”

  “Excellent,” Michael said, looking back to where the Skyloom hovered like a silent guardian. “We’ll depart at once.”

  As the rest of the group began preparations, Michael turned to Jophiel, who had landed beside them with a soft glide of his boots—gravity-repelling enchantments shimmering faintly.

  “And what will you do now that you’ve come all this way?” Michael asked, arms crossed.

  Jophiel’s expression turned playful, but his eyes gleamed with intention. “I’ll be entering the Abussonian kingdom personally.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Michael blinked. “You’re going to the kingdom? Underwater?”

  “You heard me correctly.” Jophiel gave a shrug. “I’ve been developing a rune that allows me to breathe underwater. It’s... still a work in progress, but it’s the best I’ve got. I’ll also shield myself using my own mana reserves to deal with the pressure.”

  “Madness,” Xhiamas muttered under his breath.

  But before anyone could argue, Kaerthas—the Abussonian captain—stepped forward with a smile. “Your courage is matched only by your ambition. I’ll have my armorers craft a suit to help you adjust to the deep. Something to counter the pressure. And... I will send one of our Watercasters to assist you with the rune. Perhaps witnessing Abussonian spellcasting in its natural environment will help you refine it.”

  Jophiel’s eyes lit up. “You would do that?”

  Kaerthas nodded. “You fight for us, Skyborn. You believe in the alliance. That is enough.”

  The Artist grinned, offering a rare moment of humility. “Then, thank you. Truly.”

  The ocean glistened with the rising sun as the group began their final checks. The wind shifted. A new journey beckoned.

  “Time to see what lies in the dunes,” Godric said, fastening his cloak.

  “To Azane,” Michael replied.

  They set off once more—toward sun-scorched sands, warring kingdoms, and the unknown tide of forgotten gods.

  ***

  The dunes rolled like waves of gold, and from the edge of the sea, the sandstone spires of Nakarrah stretched skyward—sharp, elegant, sun-worn. The Port of Nakarrah, once built around a fertile oasis before the land was swallowed by sand, now served as the eastern gateway into Azane. Massive canvas sails hung between towered buildings to catch the wind and shade the bazaar, while great bronze bells rang in rhythmic intervals—signaling arrivals, departures, and shifts in tide.

  The Skyloom drifted above like a winged colossus, casting a long shadow over the bustling port as the group descended once more—boots pressing into hot stone.

  Below, the trading district teemed with locals draped in layered desert garb and colorful silks. The architecture bore a distinct Azanean flair: sun-kissed terraces, high archways, and intricate mosaic carvings telling stories of ancient kings, dueling beasts, and celestial signs.

  As the Dragoons began formalities with local officials, Godric found himself walking a bit slower, his gaze trailing toward the distant shores where Jophiel and Kaerthas prepared for their descent into the deep.

  He hesitated for a moment before voicing his concern.

  “Will Jophiel be alright?”

  Michael, standing beside him with arms folded, didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the distant figure—watching as Jophiel animatedly spoke to the Abussonian armorers, sketching something mid-air with glowing ink and smiling as Kaerthas laughed.

  “Jophiel,” Michael said at last, “has always been... the black sheep of the Seven.”

  Godric raised a brow. “Odd one out?”

  Michael nodded. “Exactly. Unorthodox. Wildly unpredictable. While the rest of us trained with blades or bows, he built things—strange, beautiful things that didn’t always make sense. He used to create illusions that painted dreams in the sky. The court thought him eccentric. Some thought him mad. But that unpredictability is also his greatest strength.”

  Godric looked back. “How so?”

  Michael’s expression softened. “His moniker—The Artist—isn’t just about paintings or inventions. It’s his power. Jophiel wields the mana foundation of Creation. He can weave almost anything into existence... limited only by the mana it requires and the boundaries of his imagination.”

  Ziyad, who had been trailing just behind, interjected with narrowed eyes. “That sounds like power bordering on divinity. Closer to the old gods than to man.”

  Michael didn’t disagree. “It is. That’s what makes it dangerous—and rare. But it also explains why he’s always felt... apart. Creation magic isn’t like Flame or Earth. It’s volatile. Expansive. And lonely.”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “When he was young, he had no peers. No one understood him. They feared him. Mocked him. He was a boy who could build cities from sand if he had the time and strength. But Sir Byronard saw him for what he was—a miracle—and took him in.”

  Godric nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of that story.

  “So... he was an outcast. And now?”

  Michael gave a small, proud smile. “Now he’s one of the most revered artists of the Capital. Nobles line up for his portraits. Artisans copy his blueprints. His name carries weight even in the outer provinces. But deep down?” His gaze returned to Jophiel. “He’s still just that boy, searching for something beautiful in the chaos.”

  A pause fell between them as the wind rolled in from the dunes, carrying the scent of sand and distant myrrh.

  Godric looked out over the land. “Then let’s make sure this mission means something.”

  Michael placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “It already does.”

  ***

  The four of them gathered on the quieter end of the Azanean port, seated around a low table shaded by a woven canopy. The scent of roasted spicebark meat and freshly baked flatbread mingled in the warm air. Ziyad returned with their food, placing the parcels down before sitting and unrolling a worn map across the table.

  “We should avoid the Dune Maw,” he said, tapping a jagged path drawn in red across the southern wastes. “It’s riddled with bandits and sand-wurms. Even the Shahr Zulm?n don't dare wander there without full warbands.”

  Godric’s eyes scanned the parchment, trying to piece together the sweeping terrain of Azane. “So where do we start?”

  Ziyad hesitated. “With ours. The Dhilāl al-Qadar.”

  Xhiamas gave his brother a sideways look, exhaling through his nose. “Blind zealots,” he muttered. “Still convinced the Stranger will return to lead them into paradise. If they find out you’re the Uhrihim, Godric…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Michael leaned forward, voice calm. “Then we prepare. We tread carefully. What about the orcs?”

  “The Shahr Zulm?n?” Xhiamas nodded. “They should be second. They value strength, not prophecy. If we stand united with our kin, it may impress them enough to negotiate. But don’t expect civility. They will test us. Especially you, Michael.”

  “Why me?” Michael asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Your reputation,” Xhiamas said simply. “The Seven are not unknown here. The orcs admire warriors—if they respect you, it will go a long way.”

  Godric leaned back, still digesting all this. “So even here… people know of the Seven?”

  Ziyad chuckled. “In Azane, your names carry weight like gold. Especially yours, Ironbrand.”

  Michael blinked. “I always knew Primera’s tales spread... but I didn’t realize how far.”

  Xhiamas gave a half-smile. “Expect a ‘test of mettle.’ That’s how they judge character. Fail it, and they’ll never see you as worth their time.”

  Michael nodded slowly. “Then we won’t fail.”

  The sun loomed high above the golden dunes, casting shimmering heat waves across the cracked stone paths and shifting sands. Their cloaks clung to their backs, soaked with sweat as they moved through the blistering heat.

  Ziyad led the group with the certainty of one who knew the land intimately. His strides were confident, measured. Every few steps, he adjusted his scarf and motioned for the others to follow his path exactly—through rocks, over ridges, and occasionally beneath carved sandstone arches worn down by centuries of wind.

  Xhiamas walked near the rear, silent more often than not. He paused from time to time, his gaze trailing over the horizon or settling on ruins half-buried in sand. A flicker of something passed his expression each time—faint recognition, or perhaps regret.

  Michael wiped his brow with the back of his armored hand, his breath slightly ragged. “This place... makes training in steel plate seem like a vacation.”

  Godric grunted in agreement, his fingers loosening the collar of his shirt. “My throat feels like sandpaper. I didn’t think the air could weigh this much.”

  Xhiamas glanced back, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “Give it time. The air here is thicker—heavier than in Primera. It’s why Azaneans are... built different.”

  Ziyad chuckled from ahead. “You’ll notice it soon enough. Your bodies will adjust. Especially you two—awakened beings adapt quickly. Consider this your forge.”

  Godric tilted his head. “Forge?”

  “The body is tempered through struggle,” Xhiamas answered, wiping dust from the corner of his eye. “Here, we are born to endure. You’ll learn how, soon.”

  They pressed on, the terrain slowly shifting from open dunes to ridged canyons, with wind howling between jagged rocks. Occasionally, the distant cries of desert birds echoed, or the haunting rumble of something large moving far below the sands.

  Each step deeper into Azane pulled them further from the world they knew—and closer to a land older than myth, shaped by gods long forgotten and held together by honor, blood, and fire.

  The midday sun bore down like a furnace, but it was the distant smoke that drew their attention.

  Ziyad raised a hand, halting the group. His sharp eyes scanned the horizon beyond the next ridge—where black plumes twisted skyward like dying cries.

  Michael stepped forward. “Is that a caravan?”

  Before an answer could come, the sound hit them—screams. Horses. War cries. The clash of weapons.

  They crept to the edge of the rise, and what they saw rooted them in place.

  Below, a merchant caravan was under siege. Wild centaurs—barbaric and frenzied—charged through the scattering wagons. They bore crude, vicious weapons, their bodies painted with chalk-white sigils and blood. They were not just raiding. They were slaughtering.

  Godric’s fists clenched. “We have to—”

  Michael was already stepping forward beside him, eyes narrowing as he reached for Fortitude.

  But strong hands grabbed their shoulders. Xhiamas and Ziyad held them both back.

  “No,” Ziyad hissed. “You’ll die. That’s a raiding party, but not the whole herd.”

  Xhiamas’s eyes were grim. “Where there are scouts, the horde follows. If you charge now, they’ll swarm you. That’s suicide.”

  “But—” Godric started.

  Then he saw her. A girl, no older than ten, crawling from beneath a burning wagon. Blood on her arm. Crying for help.

  And something inside him snapped.

  He shoved off Ziyad’s grip. “Then I’ll risk it.”

  He leapt from the ridge, sliding down the slope like an arrow loosed from a bow. Michael cursed and followed without hesitation, and after a beat of disbelief, so did the brothers.

  They struck like lightning. Godric’s blade, Death’s Lament, shimmered and shifted mid-swing—from one blade to two—dancing through centaur flesh like poetry made violent. Michael’s greatsword carved massive swaths through the chaos, his mastery over metal making the edge ripple with deadly precision.

  Ziyad moved like a shadow, slipping between beasts and plunging his blade into the exposed necks of centaurs with swift finality. Xhiamas darted and weaved, daggers flashing like desert fangs.

  Despite being outnumbered, the group’s ferocity turned the tide.

  But then, the ground trembled.

  A centaur larger than the rest—his mane braided with bones, his chest carved with crude iron—let out a roar that sent shivers through the battlefield. A chieftain.

  Godric turned just in time to see the beast charging him. He raised his blade, but the blow came too fast, too heavy.

  The world spun.

  The ground gave way.

  He tumbled backward over the edge of a ravine behind the caravan road, falling down—down—into rushing, unseen waters below. The sound of steel and screaming voices echoed above.

  He caught only fragments.

  “Godric!”

  And then the sound of other voices, foreign, Azanean, calling out from somewhere unseen—

  “Foul beasts! Off with you!”

  Before everything faded into cold, surging black.

  Nakarrah, the Gateway to Azane - Built atop sandstone terraces and coral-fortified outcroppings, its architecture blends function with grandeur, with towering minarets, open-air markets, and aqueducts weaving through sun-bleached streets. Despite being ruled in name by House Orynthel, Nakarrah remains largely autonomous, maintained by a neutral council of merchants, warriors, and sea-faring clans. It's the unofficial heart of commerce in Azane—and now a crucial staging ground for those wishing to understand or intervene in the growing unrest throughout the continent.