Journal Entry — Day 1, Morning Fog, Port of Rortero
I don't remember when the birds stopped singing in my hometown.
Maybe it was after the third raid.
Maybe it was when they burned the mill.
Or maybe they just got tired—like the rest of us.
The village of Thornbarrow still stands, somehow. A cluster of crooked roofs wrapped in black smoke and colder memories. The well leaks iron water. The chapel's bell cracked years ago, during the first quake. Children still play in the mud, not knowing the difference between play and survival. I envy that ignorance. I carry none.
I write this from a creaking dock in Rortero. Salt air sticks to my skin, and the ink smears with each drop of sea spray. Funny… I never thought I'd leave the continent again. And yet, here I am—half-drunk, half-armored, waiting to sail straight into what most men call damnation.
The Dead Maw.
A land they say swallows light. A place where even shadows starve. The maps end at its coast, and the stories… they always end bloody.
I should feel fear. But all I feel is the itch in my bones—the one that says, "Go."
"Oi, captain!"
Damn. That's Korrin. Loud as ever.
"Ship's ready. We shove off before tide's gone. Bring your ass or I'm leaving you to rot with your pen and pity!"
He means well. Or maybe he doesn't. Either way, he's right. This world waits for no one—not even old ghosts writing in old journals.
Closing this now. I'll write again if we survive the crossing.
If not, maybe someone will find this book, soaked in brine and blood, and know that I was here.
That I lived.
That I saw the edge of the world and still chose to walk over it.
– M.