“It’s often the quietest whispers that carry the loudest messages.”

  – Ilgast of Limrod, Conversations with Silence

  The shadows of Limrod’s damp alleys clung to them as they fled the city, shrouding Irthal and his companions in a veil of darkness that shielded them from prying eyes. The moon was just a faint crescent in the sky, its feeble glow drowned out by the distant city lights. They moved in silence, the whispering breeze and the distant rhythm of the sea their sole companions.

  Nobody moved to stop them. They weaved through the still deserted streets of Grimward, past Miregate, and into the cool embrace of the open land beyond. Soon, the vibrant nightlife from Limrod’s inner districts became a distant hum, like a lullaby accompanying their escape.

  “I still can’t believe we’re leaving the ship behind,” Lurgon grumbled, barely audible above the rustling of the wind, “We’ve worked our asses off for this. For years.”

  “Speak for yourself, Lurgon,” Mythas countered playfully, “I’ve still got mine.” Lurgon shot her a glare over his shoulder.

  “Some things are worth leaving behind for survival, Lurgon,” Sam chimed in.

  “Yeah, like the tab at the Anchor you never paid,” Mythas quipped. Lurgon said nothing. That was usually a bad sign.

  Irthal did not join the banter as his eyes scanned their surroundings, always watchful. Always worried. Embrez’ men could still be hiding somewhere, waiting for the opportunity to ambush them.

  “It’s been a difficult choice,” Sevastian answered instead, adjusting the straps of his satchel as he caught up to them. “We all know that. But it’s better than leading Embrez straight to us. We’ve all heard the stories. Nobody wants that.”

  “You mean like we led him to us before,” Mythas shot back in a steely voice, her gaze as sharp as the daggers she carried in her belt. A gaze that was, perhaps not entirely coincidentally, directed at Irthal. “To the pendant.”

  Silence met her words. Irthal sighed inwardly. Yes, the pendant. The reason they were on the run in the first place, one could say. Irthal could see that they did not like it. So what? He did not like it either. Yet, outside of his mind, the silence stretched, becoming an increasingly uncomfortable shroud around them.

  Sam, ever the peacemaker, finally pierced it. “We’re doing what we have to do, Mythas,” she said soothingly. “We had to leave Limrod. That way, Embrez won’t find us. Not before we reach the Glimmering Shores or Sevastha.” An obviously skeptical look on her face, Mythas strode ahead of them.

  Sevastha. It was almost funny to Irthal how this name had evolved in such a short time. From a trove of potential to a beacon of hope, to something approaching a sick grandfather. Very important, but nobody really liked to talk about him. The name of the Alabaster City had always carried weight. Now it almost felt like a burden. A shell of its former self, which somehow still brought a flicker of hope to him, amidst all their desperation. For now.

  In silence, they continued their trek. Dawn broke over the horizon as they moved along the rugged coast, watching the waves break on Lycar’s shores.

  After a while, Limrod’s spires were nothing more than a distant blur on the horizon. Nobody came after them. They had gotten out. Incredible. With every step north, weight slowly dripped from Irthal’s shoulders.

  Just when the sun kissed the high point of the sky, they arrived at a fishing hamlet on the Galesong coast. It was a small place, hardly more than a scattering of thatched huts by the water, fishing nets draped like intricate webs between wooden poles.

  “Look at that,” Lurgon pointed out as a crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Fishermen. Think they might fancy a trip north?”

  Mythas shot him a wry look. “Sure, maybe they always wanted to see what the Tailfin Mountains looked like up close. Tell me, why again would they want to help us, Lurgon? Purely out of the kindness of their hearts?”

  “Maybe,” Lurgon replied as his squinted eyes scanned the area. “Or maybe they’d like to feel the jingle of coins in their pockets. There’s always a price, Mythas.”

  “Why can’t we just take a boat ourselves?” Sevastian asked, brows furrowed. “We captained a whole damn ship across the open sea.”

  Irthal shook his head. “No experience in these waters. And those boats are the entire livelihood of people like these, small chance that they sell one to us.”

  They approached the collection of huts, huddled against the shore and brimming with activity. Fishermen mending their nets, women drying fish under the sun, and children playing loudly around the huts. The scent of the sea was strong here, as it intermingled with the musk of fish and the stinging bite of salt.

  “This feels very different from Limrod,” Sam observed as she observed the villagers. “Even compared to Olban. It feels... humble. Honest, somehow.”

  “It does,” Irthal nodded. “Couldn’t even tell you whether this village has a proper name on any map. But remember, we’re still fugitives. No way of knowing how far outside of Limrod Embrez’ influence reaches. Let’s keep a low profile. Just in case.”

  They ambled through the hamlet, trying to judge which of the fishermen seemed open to negotiation. Subtly, Sevastian pointed to a middle-aged man filleting some fish. Mythas shook her head. They continued exchanging nudges, followed by doubtful glances or whispered warnings amongst each other. Finally, just when Irthal feared they would cycle through all of the few inhabitants of the hamlet, his eyes settled on a weathered man repairing his fishing net by the shore. No immediate complaints from his friends. Awkwardly, they gathered around the man in a semi-circle until he briefly looked up from his work.

  Lurgon took the lead and approached the man, a coin discreetly palmed in his hand. “Good afternoon,” he greeted with a wave, flashing the coin. The man looked up again, this time a fraction longer, before he turned his gaze away again, a nonchalant grunt his only reply.

  “We’re looking for a lift up the coast,” Lurgon continued, not missing a beat, despite the rough reception. “To Dormil.”

  The fisherman finally laid down his net and lifted his head. His eyes narrowed as they moved from Lurgon to the rest of the group. “Why do city folks like you need a boat?” he asked in a raspy voice. Probably from years of yelling against the wind and waves. Irthal wondered whether his voice would sound like that at the man’s age.

  Mythas stepped forward. “We’ve got business there,” she simply stated, calm but firm.

  The man squinted at them. Were those creases just part of his face or would he turn them down? Silence settled for a brief, yet eternal-seeming, moment before he nodded curtly. “Aye, I’ll take you. But it won’t be free. Won’t catch any fish if I take you lot.”

  “We didn’t expect it to be free,” Irthal intervened hastily and gestured for Lurgon to step forward. The big man placed the gleaming coin into the fisherman’s worn palm. “We can pay.”

  Holding the coin up against the setting sun, the fisherman grunted his satisfaction and pocketed the coin. “We sail at dawn,” he declared and returned to his nets.

  “Actually,” Irthal began and shifted from one foot to another, “we were hoping to leave immediately. We’re kind of in a hurry.”

  This time, the fisherman did not even look up from his nets, “I sail at dawn. That’s when the tides are right.”

  Irthal glanced sidelong at his companions. They were all visibly tired but their eyes held the same urgency he felt. They were not that far away from Limrod yet. If they could get here on foot in a few hours, they were not safe from danger in this place. “No really, we’re in a bit of a rush, friend,” he tried again. “We can pay extra.”

  The fisherman, still focused on his net, merely shook his head, “Money doesn’t command the tides, son.”

  Mythas edged closer, “Please, it’s important.”

  The old man finally looked up again and fixed his weathered eyes on Mythas. He studied her for a moment before he sighed. “I can understand being in a hurry, lass, but a good sailor respects the sea and her tides. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” He turned his gaze down to his net again. “We leave at dawn.”

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  Lurgon muttered something under his breath. Irthal was of a mind to join him but nodded reluctantly instead. “Fine. We’ll be ready.”

  Slowly, they retreated from the shore, steps heavy and hearts filled with impatience. As the night settled around them, Irthal spotted what looked like a small inn, nestled among the other huts. Outside the inn, the village’s lone prayer guard scowled at them over his mug as they acknowledged him with a nod. As the huge man returned to his drink, they entered and paid for the night with the innkeeper. The rooms were bare, the beds hard. But it was a place to rest.

  “No use fretting,” Sam declared from the room she shared with Mythas, obviously trying to lift their spirits, “We got this far. A few more hours won’t hurt. Tomorrow morning we’ll be outside the reach of Limrod.”

  “She’s right,” Sevastian nodded, stepping out into the doorway from their room. “Let’s just get some food and rest for now. I could eat a whole shark!”

  They stored their meager belongings in their two shared rooms and gathered in the inn’s humble dining area. The fare was simple—mostly seafood and crusty bread—and they ate in relative silence, each lost in thoughts. Once the meal was over, they retreated to their rooms, exhaustion from their journey along the coast finally catching up to them.

  Except for Irthal and Mythas, who found themselves sitting outside the inn, under the fading twilight sky. The prayer guard had finished his drink and stumbled back toward the village shrine, so they were alone now. The air was salty and cool, the distant crash of waves a soothing backdrop, momentarily alleviating any uncertainty.

  Mythas, intently examining her nails until now, glanced over at Irthal with an unreadable expression. “Funny, isn’t it, Irthal?” she said, voice light but somehow laced with a chilling undertone.

  The lullaby of the sea suddenly seemed to lose its soothing effect. Irthal shifted uncomfortably, feeling like he was balanced on the edge of a precipice. “What’s that, Mythas?” he asked cautiously, already dreading her answer.

  “Oh, just thinking about how one... brief encounter,” she paused, the corner of her mouth curling into a slight smirk, “can cause such... ripples.”

  “Look,” he admitted, staring her directly in the eye, “I made a mistake. I get that and I’m sorry. Don’t know what else you want me to do, really.”

  Mythas’ face seemed to soften for a moment. Then, just as quickly, the mask was back. “Oh, save it,” she dismissed, waving a hand flippantly. “Fact is, you put us all at risk of a gruesome death. But hey, as long as you had a good time.” She patted him none too gently on the shoulder.

  “Just remember, Irthal,” she said and her voice took on an almost singsong quality. “Actions have consequences.”

  With that, she sauntered away, leaving a brooding Irthal in her wake. The crashing waves—sounding so playful just moments ago—now seemed harsh, the cool breeze bitingly cold. Irthal sat, staring out to the graying sea. The beautiful twilight of a once-comforting sunset now darkened, casting long, foreboding shadows. Irthal’s gaze lingered on the restless sea and his mind replayed that reckless moment on a crowded square in Limrod’s theatre district. Over and over.

  What was wrong with him?

  That night, he barely slept. Alternating between staring at the weathered beams above him and trying to force his eyes shut, Irthal listened to the gentle snores of his friends. Sometimes the others seemed so free of worries, of burdens, to him.

  As dawn finally broke, he greeted the morning with heavy eyes and an even heavier heart.

  They gathered in the courtyard where they had dined the evening before. Barring the occasional yawn or grunt, they made their way to the shore mostly in silence. Up ahead, the old fisherman was already waiting for them, his small boat rocking gently with the rhythm of the sea.

  With one last look at the hamlet, Irthal boarded the boat. The sun was just beginning its rise, casting a soft glow on the tranquil sea. As the fisherman began to steer the boat out of the harbor in a series of practiced motions, they left the collection of huts behind, growing smaller and smaller, until Irthal could blot them out with a fingernail.

  The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the boat provided a backdrop to their journey, the quietude only occasionally disrupted by the creaking of the boat or the call of a distant seabird. They had not really spoken since they stepped on the boat, the old man seeming the silent type. He had simply acknowledged their boarding with a curt nod, before he had turned toward the jetty to prepare for cast-off.

  Sam finally broke the silence, turning her attention from the shoreline toward their guide. “I’ve heard a lot about the fishing villages up the Galesong coast, but little of what lies beyond them,” Sam asked. Seemingly casual, though her eyes never left the fisherman. “What can you tell us about Dormil?”

  “Quiet place,” the fisherman began without turning away from steering the boat. “Folk there are hardworking. Spend their days fishing, just like me. A good place to live, if you don’t mind the wind. And the smell. And maybe some of the people.” He spat into the water.

  “What about beyond Dormil?” Sam pressed and let her gaze subtly shift toward Irthal, who was in turn surreptitiously watching Mythas, sitting in silence, gaze lost in the vast expanse of the sea.

  “Beyond Dormil?” The fisherman repeated and turned toward Sam, a touch of bemusement in his voice. “What should there be? Desert, mountains?”

  Sam squirmed under the man’s gaze but did not waver. “We’re heading to the Tailfin Mountains from there. Maybe you’ve heard anything about what we might encounter there?”

  “Now why in all the seas would you lot want to travel to that forsaken place?” Brows furrowed, he seemed to consider for a moment, stealing glances at them in between steering the boat. A group of youngsters, obviously not from around here, traveling to the far north. Then his brows shot up, as his face distorted. “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me you’re hunting ghosts. Do you know how many kids end up dead or enslaved each year, wanting to play explorer? There is nothing good in the north.” Looking at their stony faces, he sighed heavily. “Well, I guess it’s none of my business where you go to kill yourself. So, I take it you’re interested in legends? Let’s see. Have you heard the one about Sevastha?”

  At the mention of Sevastha, Irthal’s attention was finally pulled from Mythas and the hypnotic sway of the ocean. He looked at the fisherman, interest piqued.

  “The Alabaster City, eh?” the fisherman mused as he picked up on their reaction. “Now that’s a place shrouded in tales and legends. They say it’s a city like no other, untouched by time, hidden away by the gods themselves a long time ago.”

  Irthal’s posture shifted, drawn in by the fisherman’s words. Detachment washed away by the tantalizing promise of the unknown. There were some things he held back, some things he did not tell his friends yet. But even his knowledge of the ancient city was embarrassingly limited. “What kind of tales are you talking about?” he asked.

  The fisherman looked at him for a moment, as if measuring Irthal’s curiosity. Then he began, his eyes gaining a distant gleam, gazing into the past. “A long, long time ago, they say, Sevastha was a place where the old gods themselves dwelled. They lived alongside the people. Teaching them, guiding them, even sharing their divine powers.”

  Irthal listened attentively as the wind carried the fisherman’s voice over the constant hum of the sea. For a moment, he wondered what the prayer guard back at the village would have had to say about all this talk of old gods. The very air around him seemed to pulse with their anticipation as the man continued his story.

  “But the people grew arrogant,” the fisherman continued in a solemn tone. “They began to abuse the knowledge and power given to them. They disrespected the gods and their sacred laws.”

  The old man paused, letting the silence sink in. Throughout the tale, his gaze remained focused on the horizon, as if hoping to catch a glance of what he described. “In their wrath, the gods expelled them from Sevastha, banishing them to wander the waves of the world. Their city, once a beacon of divine knowledge, was hidden away, lost to time and memory. Nobody was to find it ever again.”

  The echo of his last words lingered in the air, intertwining with the ocean breeze for a salty, bitter taste in Irthal’s mouth.

  Mythas, who had been listening silently so far, suddenly piped up, voice cutting through the heavy silence. “So, what remains there now?”

  The fisherman looked at her, sunken eyes twinkling. “Only shadows, lass,” he said gravely as his gaze returned to the sea. “Only shadows of the greatness that once was, they say.”

  Around them, the wind quieted down, as if in respect to the fallen city. Mythas looked like she wanted to reply, but decided to remain silent. Irthal returned his gaze to the gently rolling waves. Faintly, he registered some banter between Sevastian and Lurgon, some fragments of conversation between Sam and the old man. Right, Sam’s father also had been a fisherman. Yet Irthal’s focus was directed northwards. Somewhere up there. Not too far now.

  As the day grew older, the distant outlines of Dormil started to emerge on the horizon, buildings gleaming in the setting sun.

  When they drew closer to the city in the gathering darkness, Irthal noticed the contrast. Where Limrod had been a city of culture—elegant structures touched by sophistication and wealth—Dormil was pure function. Practical and plain buildings, devoid of the decorative excesses, yet also of the grandeur, of Limrod. Buildings were made of rough-hewn stone and wood, sturdy and purpose-built. Streets were narrow and winding, conforming to the rugged terrain. Certainly closer to Olban than Limrod. Though Irthal liked to think that Olban was at least charming.

  Dormil was nestled into a natural bay, its shoreline being a mix of rocky outcrops and sandy stretches. The sea was a restless companion here, lapping at Dormil’s shores, a provider but also a taker. In their approach, Irthal saw that the docks ahead of them were buzzing with activity. Fishermen unloading their catch and shouted bargaining filling the air in an energetic cacophony. Seagulls and black birds squawked overhead, circling the fishermen, drawn by the irresistible scent of fish.

  As they docked, the fisherman turned to them. “So. Here we are. Welcome to Dormil.” His voice was flat, devoid of any of his earlier warmth. “Good luck finding your way to wherever it is you’re headed. I’d wager you’ll need it.”

  With a last nod, he let them get off the deck and returned his attention to his boat.

  After he stepped onto the docks, Irthal huddled together with the others, letting his eyes scan the foreign city. “Well, what now?” Sevastian asked, looking at Irthal.

  “We need to find another ship to go further north,” Irthal responded while we was looking at a nearby ship, its sails billowing in the wind.

  “And who’s going to captain it?” Mythas interjected before he could continue, her tone rife with sarcasm. “You, Irthal? Because that went so well last time.”

  “I don’t care who’s the captain,” Irthal shot back, irritation creeping into his voice. “But we still need a ship, first of all.”

  “And who’s going to pay for it?” Lurgon added, gaze fixed on Irthal. There was a slight smile on his face. “You? With what?”

  Before Irthal could respond, Sam stepped in, “Hey, let’s not argue. We—”

  “Oh, shut up, Sam,” Mythas snapped and turned her glare to the other woman. “We’ve had enough of your platitudes.” Their voices had been rising throughout the exchange. Irthal noticed the curious glances from the passing sailors and dockworkers.

  Suddenly, a figure stepped forward, quickly silencing them with his sheer presence. A man with a heavily lined face, standing on the slightly swaying pier with the authority of a seasoned sailor, hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass. “Seems like you lot could use a ship,” he said in a gravelly rumble. “And someone to helm it.” His gaze swept over them, cool and assessing, one brow cocked. “Question is, what’s in it for me?”