The sun rose heavy over the harbor, painting the sea in shades of bronze.
The air carried the smell of salt, oil, and wet wood. Sailors shouted orders, ropes cracked, and gulls fought over scraps of fish scattered across the dock.
Between stacked barrels and scattered luggage, a gray-sailed ship prepared to set out toward Yorknew. The tall mast groaned, the canvas fluttered under the warm breeze, and the air buzzed with the rhythm of departure.
The boarding line moved slowly. Each traveler had a reason to cross the sea — some sought trade, others, change.
Among them stood Aedan Gravem, at the foot of the gangway, a ticket held between his calloused fingers.
His posture was upright, his gaze calm. To look at him, one would never guess that this fifty-year-old man was once among the greatest martial artists of his generation.
His breathing followed a different rhythm — steady, measured, deep. It was the way of a man who had turned body, blood, and aura into a single pulse.
The sailor checked the list in his hand, frowned, and realized one name hadn't answered.
"Last call for Yorknew! Stops at Blue Harbor and Aenaris!" he shouted.
"Passenger with ticket 2689A, please come forward!"
He waited a few moments, but no one responded. The crowd murmured impatiently.
"Anyone holding a ticket for the next ship who wants to board this one?" he asked. "There's one open berth."
Aedan stepped forward. He handed over his ticket, adjusted his shirt, and started up the ramp.
But before he could place his second foot on the wood, a voice rang out behind him:
"Wait!"
The tone was firm but composed — urgent, yet practiced.
A young man in his twenties pushed through the crowd. His stride was quick but far too elegant to look desperate.
He had long, ink-black hair, pale skin, and an unsettling beauty. His bright sky-blue eyes reflected the shimmer of the sea.
Across his back hung a dark violin case streaked with faint red veins, secured with leather straps.
The young man reached the gangway, slightly breathless but wearing a composed smile.
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I'm the passenger with ticket 2689A — Lucian Noir. I know I'm late, but I arrived in time."
He offered the ticket to the quartermaster.
The sailor looked between the two papers and turned to Aedan.
"Sorry, sir. The berth belongs to him."
The captain, watching from the deck, sighed in irritation.
Lucian inclined his head slightly, keeping his gaze lowered.
"Yorknew is my destination," he said softly. "I apologize for the inconvenience."
His voice was calm — but there was a subtle chill in it, a tone that made the air itself feel colder.
Aedan turned toward him. His golden eyes — firm, aged, unshakable — met Lucian's blue ones.
In that instant, the world seemed to slow.
The air around Lucian rippled faintly, as though invisible strings were being drawn tight.
No Nen flared. No aura was released. But Aedan's body reacted.
'...Dangerous.'
A single word, sharp and instinctive.
There was no reason for it — only the awareness of someone whose instincts had survived too many battles.
Lucian caught the look and, for the briefest moment, his smile widened — polite, almost friendly, but utterly devoid of warmth.
"May I?" he asked, looking at the sailor but speaking as if he already knew the answer.
The silence grew heavy. The captain, tired of waiting, finally called down:
"Let him board. The next ship leaves by dusk."
Aedan looked at the young man. The tension faded like a passing breeze, but something remained — a trace beneath the skin.
He folded his ticket and stepped aside.
Lucian gave a graceful bow.
"Much appreciated."
As he climbed the gangway, the sound of his boots echoed in even, rhythmic beats — almost musical.
Aedan watched until he vanished onto the deck.
The ship departed minutes later, cutting across the open sea under a calm wind.
Aedan stood motionless at the pier, eyes fixed on the horizon.
'Aenaris... I hope I won't be too late.'
He drew a slow breath and turned away. He would wait for the next one.
---
Meanwhile, the sun was setting over Aenaris.
The village bloomed with color, laughter, and the rhythm of drums. The circle of shells had been completed; the central fire rose in orange and golden spirals.
Kael watched the bustle around him. Lyra smiled as she handed herbs to two older women. Orion, in her arms, drifted between wakefulness and sleep to the sound of singing.
"The air feels lighter today," Kael said, crossing his arms.
"It's the eastern wind," Lyra replied. "It always blows when the spirits accept the invitation."
The elder stood at the center of the circle, staff raised.
"The tides return. Voices reunite. May the sacred fire bind what was never meant to be divided."
The Aenari answered together, and the music began.
Drums beat in steady rhythm — thum, thum, thum — joined by shells and flutes.
The voices of the women carried the first song, soft and ancient.
Lyra joined the chorus. Her aura shimmered in pale blue, and the air seemed to grow purer around her.
Kael remained silent, his expression a balance of reverence and focus. Orion babbled softly and smiled, as if he could sense the life in the moment.
Night deepened.
The fire danced.
And far beyond the dark sea, a ship drew closer, gliding toward the mist rising at the horizon.
---
On the deck, Lucian Noir sat alone.
The moonlight brushed his pale face, catching the cold gleam in his eyes. The wind stirred his long black hair, and the violin case rested across his lap.
The ship had fallen silent — sailors asleep, passengers slumped against each other in uneasy dreams.
Lucian opened the case carefully, revealing a black, elegant violin.
It was slightly worn, yet would still be prized by any collector. Its body was dark, streaked with crimson veins that seemed to breathe.
He ran a fingertip along the strings and felt Nen hum beneath them, alive and patient.
'They sleep... and dream,' he thought.
He lifted the instrument to his shoulder and drew the bow.
The first note rang clean, slicing through the quiet like a razor of sound.
The second followed — soft, enveloping, like a whisper across the skin.
The melody grew, never loud, spiraling through the air in gentle waves, drifting across the deck like a scent spreading through a room.
Those still awake began to relax.
A bearded man leaned against the mast.
A woman dropped her book to the floor.
Even the sails seemed to sway in time with the rhythm.
Lucian kept playing.
Each motion of the bow released invisible threads of Nen — faint resonances that slipped into the ear and wound their way down to the heart.
The Kurosonata fed on emotion — fear, longing, guilt, desire.
The music drained it all, sweetly.
Within minutes, no one spoke.
The entire ship breathed in time with the melody.
Lucian closed his eyes.
He could feel every mind, every faint vibration of the souls around him — small lights flickering within darkness.
'So fragile,' he thought. 'So... beautiful.'
The tune shifted, sliding into a deeper tone — more human, more intimate.
The deck grew still.
A small smile curved his lips.
'Open enough.'
He finished with a single, clean chord.
The strings quivered, and the echo spread across the sea until it dissolved into mist.
Lucian lowered the violin and looked toward the horizon.
The fog had swallowed the path ahead, but he could feel the pull.
The night was waiting.
'Ah... how beautiful life is,' he thought, smiling faintly.
The ship continued on — only the whisper of a violin and the silence of the sea.
The passengers slept with their eyes open, dreaming while awake.
And far away, the island danced beneath its sacred fire, unaware that a new melody was already crossing the sea —
and that the harmony of that night was about to be broken.
---