Nero adjusted the coarse fabric of his borrowed cloak as he stepped into the dim, smoke-filled tavern. The scent of roasted fish and spiced ale filled the air, mingling with the murmur of hushed conversations. The place was called The Drunken Kraken, a fitting name for a dockside haunt where sailors, mercenaries, and drifters gathered to drown their sorrows.
He slid onto a stool at the bar, tossing a few copper coins—his last—onto the worn wooden counter. The barkeep, a burly woman with a scar running down her cheek, eyed him before sliding a bowl of fish stew and a mug of something that smelled more like turpentine than ale his way.
Not exactly five-star dining, Nero mused, but his stomach growled in agreement anyway.
As he ate, flashes of memories—not his own—flickered at the edges of his mind.
The former owner of this body had been a noble.
A disgraced noble.
The name Rylan Vaelith lingered like a ghost, whispering in the recesses of Nero's thoughts. A young lordling, cast out from his house after some unnamed betrayal. Exiled to these storm-battered isles, left to rot.
And then he died.
Drowned, perhaps. Or killed. Nero wasn't sure. All he knew was that when he woke up in this world, Rylan's body was his now, along with the man's fractured past.
A drunken sailor at the next table slammed his tankard down, laughing too loudly. "Aye, the Stormguard's been prowlin' the eastern docks," he slurred. "Lookin' for deserters, they say. Or maybe worse."
Nero kept his head down but listened. The Stormguard—Myertys' brutal enforcers, sworn to the ruling Tempest Lords. If they were searching for someone, it never ended well.
Did Rylan have enemies among them?
He frowned, stirring his stew absently. How had he ended up here? One moment, he was a scientist on a sinking ship, the next, reborn in a world where the ocean itself seemed alive with malice.
Was it fate? A curse? Or something else entirely?
A sudden hush fell over the tavern. Nero glanced up—and froze.
In the doorway stood a woman.
Tall, clad in dark leathers, her hair the color of storm clouds. A jagged scar ran from her temple to her jaw, and her eyes—pale as lightning—locked onto him with terrifying intensity.
She knew Rylan.
And from the way her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger, she wasn't here for a friendly reunion.
Nero's pulse spiked. The strange energy inside him—the storm he'd felt upon waking—stirred again, humming beneath his skin like a gathering squall.
Time to go.
He dropped another coin on the counter, stood, and made for the back door.
But the woman moved faster.
"Rylan Vaelith," she called, her voice cutting through the tavern's noise like a blade. "Did you really think you could hide forever?"