The sea gently carried the sand; as the water moved upward, it would crumble and drift with it, and when it receded, the sand followed it back, letting out a soft, rustling sound.
The weather was pleasant—the sun stood high in the sky, and a cold breeze slowly pushed the clouds along. Kjaran and Waeskian were soaked, exhausted, and bewildered. How had they ended up here, and where exactly were they? Both of them wondered, but that wasn't the only question on their minds.
"Is he going to kill me?" Waeskian wondered.
"Should I kill him?" Kjaran had a similar thought.
The shore they found themselves on was covered in sand, but around them mostly stood stone rocks of all shapes and sizes. Both fell silent for several minutes, weighing the situation carefully in their minds.
"Do you know where we are?" Kjaran asked as he squeezed the water from his long black hair. Droplets fell like rain sliding from leaves after a storm. With a swift motion he tied it into a messy bun, a few strands falling across his temples. Waeskian sighed deeply.
"Does the answer to my question lie at the end of my answer?"
Kjaran stared sharply at the water—calm, barely rippling. The scent of salt hung faintly in the air, and tiny crabs crawled out of their shells, moving across the silvery sand. Even without confirmation, Waeskian knew Kjaran could kill him right now. And he wouldn't blame him—after all, they were the ones who had attacked with the intent to destroy them. It was expected Kjaran wouldn't wish him well.
But Waeskian also knew the captain of the First Division would need help navigating; clearly, he didn't recognize the coastline. This was his chance to press a bargain.
"I'll help you, Kjaran." Waeskian rose and stretched, his foot sinking into the wet sand beneath his weight. "But once I show you the way, you let me go."
Kjaran remained calm and collected. He knew Waeskian wasn't stupid—and that he didn't have many options besides relying on him. He could attempt to reach Ganalor's capital on his own, but where would he even start? He didn't know what shore they were on, whether any village was nearby, and he didn't want to think about the capital yet.
He stood up as well. Both of their clothes were torn and incomplete. Kjaran's right arm was completely exposed to the shoulder, fresh scars visible, and his shirt was ripped down the middle—his chainmail must have been lost in the waters. Waeskian was missing fabric from several spots; his left pant leg and right sleeve were practically gone, and the linen shirt he wore exposed a strip of stomach between his hips and ribs. They looked exactly like what had happened to them—the sea had thrown them onto shore through the storm and the tide.
Waeskian extended his hand to the captain of the First Division with a satisfied look. Kjaran accepted with a scowl and shook it.
"Well," Kjaran asked, turning toward the rocks behind them. They formed a stony pathway between them. He glanced around again, squinting at the sun. "Which way to Arcridge?"
The former pirate captain blinked in surprise at the name.
"You're not going to like this, but…" Waeskian began reluctantly as he headed toward the path. "We're on the southern coast of Ganalor, which means we're about seven hundred kilometers from the royal capital."
Kjaran followed him, calculating quickly in his mind. When he reached the result, he wasn't pleased.
"That's more than twenty days on foot." he growled under his breath. "Fucking pirates."
They set off toward Ganalor's capital—where Kjaran assumed the enemy was—but the captain paused, placing a hand over the left side of his chest.
"I feel… worried?" he thought.
Waeskian turned and noticed the confusion on his face—his expression betraying his emotion.
"Your companions," the former admiral said in a calm, almost soothing voice as he turned back toward the rocky path. "I'm sure they're fine."
"You know," said a man with short black hair while sitting on the motionless body of a bandit, his sword driven through the man's back, blood pooling faintly on both sides, "when we finish this job, we could head to the Southern Valleys… somewhere warmer." His voice was rough and sharp. He pulled the sword free and tore a strip of the dead man's clothing to wipe the blade clean.
Two men stood nearby. One younger, in his twenties, with slightly long brown hair, had his back turned, a dark gray cloak covering him down to his calves. The other was bulkier and at least half a head taller than both, meaning half a head taller than most people. He too had his back turned, though it seemed more like he was facing the surrounding forest rather than ignoring his companion.
"Did you say something?" the younger man asked, turning. His light-gray eyes caught the sunlight; his face was pale, round, clean, reflecting youth. He wore dark gray trousers tucked into black leather boots and a matching shirt beneath a taut chainmail collar.
"Sometimes it feels like I'm talking to myself," the older one muttered, sighing deeply before sheathing his sword and scratching his black beard, which framed his square face and emphasized his tired dark eyes.
"Some of us are actually working," the younger one said with a smirk, half teasing. His senior only clicked his tongue and tossed the bloody cloth aside.
"That's what work looks like." He grinned, pulling out a waterskin to drink. The younger man glared, frustrated.
"All right," the tallest man said in his deep voice, clapping his hands once. "We've taken care of most of them. We could head to the shore and freshen up." He looked up at the sky, wiping sweat from his round, bald head. "The sun hit pretty hard today."
The black-bearded man turned left and headed toward the water.
"That's the best idea I've heard today, Stighard."
"You're right," the youngest agreed, following them. It was noon, and the sun was high. Clouds occasionally drifted over it, covering it for only a few seconds before its rays returned. It was sunny but not warm; winter was coming soon, and this pleasant weather was unusual for Ganalor's southern coast.
"I agree with you, ser," the young man said.
"Huh? About what?" the black-haired man asked as they walked out of the sparse forest. Most of the leaves had already fallen; only a few evergreens kept their green ornaments. "And I told you not to call me ser. Call me Alder. If you're going to use a name, use that."
"About heading south after this job." Dry leaves crunched under their boots; each word came with a small puff of breath in the cold air.
"A warmer climate would be nice."
When they reached the shore, it was sandy but surrounded by low rocks.
The two behind him stepped toward the water to wash off in the cold, not-so-salty sea, but Stighard blocked their path, pointing ahead—about fifty meters away.
"What is that?" the youngest asked, shielding his eyes from the sun.
"That's a body," Stighard said calmly.
Once they approached, they saw a pale young man in a black uniform. His brown hair was soaked, and so was he; his uniform torn in several places and his skin marked with scars. The youngest poked his face with a stick he had picked up, then poked his stomach.
"Oh… he's bleeding," Alder noted casually, pointing at the blood slowly forming beneath him.
"Ahhh, I didn't do that. Honestly. wasn't me."
Alder smacked the junior on the head, making him yelp. The stick shifted to his other hand. Suddenly, the young man coughed violently, spitting water.
The oldest lifted him into a half-sitting position and patted his back until he coughed again.
"Do you know your name, boy?" Stighard asked in his deep voice.
The young man looked at him for several seconds, then at the other two—the youngest hid the stick behind his back, pretending not to look at him.
"Where am I?" the young man asked with difficulty, coughing again.
"Sring Island, near Ganalor's southern coast."
The boy's eyes opened wide. He tried to stand but pain shot through his back, making him collapse. Stighard held him steady.
"You're bleeding. Let me help you. I'm Stighard. And you?"
"Desimir," he answered. "I need to find my comrades. I don't ha—"
He collapsed mid-sentence.
"Fuck me," Alder muttered. "More trouble."
"As far as I know, it will take us at least twenty days to reach the capital."
Elstan, Ervin, Ujiyoshi, and Gerde walked down a sandy path. In the distance, mountains rose above hills and valleys—green clearings dotted with flowers: bluish, yellowish, and silvery alaria. Flowers that thrived on fertile lowlands loved Ganalor's coastal climate.
"If not more," Gerde added.
They looked just as battered as the rest of their expedition—clothes torn, bodies bruised, spirits tired. Then, on the horizon, something appeared. A settlement?
"Is that…" Ervin pointed. "A village?"
Their eyes widened. Yes, it was a settlement. They quickened their pace—it wasn't far. After about ten minutes, they reached it: five houses, two wells, a few horses in the pasture with cows and sheep. It could hardly be called a village—more like something smaller, something they didn't even have a word for.
An elderly woman was drawing water from a well, the crank squeaking sharply as it lifted an old wooden bucket covered in patches of moss, Ujiyoshi noticed. They approached her from behind.
"Excuse me," Elstan said softly. She continued her work. He repeated himself and tapped her gently on the back so she wouldn't be startled. She turned slowly. Her face was deeply wrinkled, dotted with dark brown moles, one large one standing out just above her left eyebrow.
"She must be at least eighty," Ervin thought. "Did she even hear him?"
Elstan smiled awkwardly and began speaking again. The old woman simply stared—more through him than at him. His attempt at conversation was more of a monologue.
"We're merchants, and bandits attacked us on the road," he lied. "We're headed to Arcridge, where our lord awaits, but as you can see—we've lost our supplies and horses."
A cold wind blew; their clothes, still wet and flimsy, offered little warmth. If they didn't get inside soon, they'd freeze. The old woman kept staring in silence.
Then a door swung open and two children burst into laughter. The men turned in surprise as the kids, wrapped in thick winter coats, rolled around on the threshold. Then—whack, whack—two smacks to the head. The boys cried out and grabbed their skulls.
"That's going to leave a bump," Ujiyoshi thought with a pained grimace.
A man in his early thirties stood in the doorway, wearing brown leather trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt fastened at the chest, and a thick coat lined with wool.
"I'm so sorry," he said with an awkward smile. "Forgive my children. They're still young, and I'm still teaching them manners. Clearly, they haven't learned enough yet." He pushed their heads down in apology.
"It's all right," Elstan said, approaching him in a friendly manner while the others watched coldly—well, partly because they were cold. Each gust of wind cut through them; the sun shone, but it wasn't warm unless you were dry and moving,or dressed in few layers. In their state—torn clothes, wet fabric—it certainly wasn'tpleasant.
"I have a son as well, so I know what it's like to raise one."
"It's never easy, is it?" said the man with a brown beard that reached down to his collarbone, smiling.
"It isn't, but I was always overjoyed whenever I taught him something new," said the captain of the Second Division with a warm smile, which clearly brought the man some relief.
"That's Old Suzi." He pointed at the elderly woman carrying water for the horses.
"She's the oldest one here, but about twenty years ago she stopped speaking and understanding the common tongue. We never found out why, but it happened after her husband was killed by creatures from the mountains, so most believe it has something to do with that."
"It certainly has something to do with it," they all thought.
"Why don't you come inside, I noticed you're not exactly dressed for this weather, and the cold isn't helping.He opened the door, and they stepped inside one by one.
"You can put your things by the fire to dry," the man said while holding the door. "Yopi, Erhe, make some tea for our guests and bring them at least some blankets so they can cover themselves." The boys hurried inside the house, and the man closed the door behind them, leaving the chill outside.
Aias walked around the courtyard, checking on the people preparing the tables and awnings for tonight. Hammers struck nails slowly but steadily in several places, and the large white cover tightened with each pull of the ropes. Before that, Aias had visited the cooks to see how they were doing; he always liked to be certain with his own eyes that everything was in order. He was very meticulous and responsible—after all, he was to become king after his father.
As he walked, he saw a craftsman—a man with a brown beard and muscular build—pulling on a rope. Yet despite all his visible strength, emphasized by his rolled-up sleeves, he looked like he was struggling. He was already well–sweated and had even taken off his outer clothing to cool off,leaving him with a linen shirt.
"Allow me to help," Aias approached him. The man was surprised.
"There's no need, Prince Aias," he said tensely, pulling on the rope to bring it to the stake where it needed to be pinned.
"They just pulled it too tight on the other side, let me just..." He tugged again, hopelessly. The prince crouched and grabbed the rope just ahead of his hands.
"Let's try together." The man looked at him breathlessly, then both clenched their fists firmly around the hemp rope. The man prepared to pull—but hardly needed to. When they pulled together, the rope reached the stake without trouble, and the craftsman hammered it in with two strikes. The prince smiled.
"You see? It's easier when there are two of us."
"I'm quite certain you could've done it yourself, my prince," the craftsman said confidently—and he was right. Aias was one of the best wielders of natural energy in the kingdom, one of the most talented since King Selanar Reyfinea, also known as the King of Leaves. Selanar had grown up in an unknown little forest surrounded by deciduous trees, but became an exceptional knight at seventeen, winning a tournament and the hand of the daughter of King Taeral Nornal II, which granted him the right to be one of the candidates for the throne of Tolan. He seized that right and rose from a woodland hut surrounded by leaves to the grand halls of the Spring Castle, the royal stronghold in Nilfalion.
From childhood, Aias studied and practiced natural energy and the techniques of controlling it. Some even claimed he was on par with the captains of the Fourth—or perhaps even Third—Royal Division of Tolan, and he had barely passed twenty. Meanwhile, Captain Caerwyn Slanei and Captain Neremyn Elalynn stood in a league of their own above everyone else.
"You flatter me, truly," the prince said modestly, then continued on his way.
"With you as our future king, I'm certain this kingdom will continue to flourish," the craftsman said confidently—his tone sure and without a trace of doubt. The prince bowed in acknowledgment and left.
"This kingdom must continue to flourish," the prince thought to himself. "With or without me. The kingdom and its people are what truly matter."
The trumpets sounded—their bright, piercing, ceremonial tone was also powerful, and even those standing at the riverbank far from the city could hear them.
"Looks like it's finally starting," said the red–bearded man, then poured himself some mulled wine for the road. There wasn't much left; they had nearly emptied the small cauldron. It didn't hit them very hard, but it did redden their faces nicely. The only problem was that they had to be careful not to blurt out something foolish while a bit tipsy. Still, the youngest hadn't drunk much—only two rounds to warm himself up—while the older two couldn't wait to sit in the stands and enjoy the fights.
"Pour me one for the road too," the other man said, handing him his wooden mug.
"There is only enough left for one more anyway..." the red–bearded man grinned.
The young man stood up and headed toward the city, while the other two doused the fire and followed him. People were slowly gathering in the stands. The first two tiers were for common folk and less important guests, while the highest was reserved for lords, ladies, and other high officials attending the event.
The arena itself was over a hundred meters long and at least twenty wide. The ground was dry, hard yellow dirt, and in the center there was a wooden divider set parallel to the walls to prevent the opponents from charging straight at each other. Along that divider the horsemen were supposed to gallop before their lances met at some point.
On one side the stands had three tiers, and on the other only two, where commoners mixed with other guests like knights who came just for the feast. The wind was slowly picking up, blowing a bit stronger; the sun hid more and more behind the clouds, which now filled the sky. But the clouds were pure snow–white, soft and fluffy like pillows you could lie on. Still, the day remained bright—they were not rain clouds—and the sun warmed Nilfalion whenever it found a gap between them.
King Ailred was slowly arriving at the arena, together with Captain Caerwyn Slanei and the Master of Trade. Caerwyn wore his military uniform he loved most; his light green cloak fluttered from his shoulders, and the silver embroidery on his pauldrons gleamed. He was taller than the king by at least half a head, and a little taller than the master—though the master was an older man, he was remarkably tall, and the red attire he wore accentuated his slim build. Just like King Ailred, who had turned fifty these days, the master of trade was slightly older but still carried himself impressively.
"Where is Captain Elalynn?" the king asked the captain of the Second Division. "I thought he enjoyed these events."
And he was right—Captain of the First Division of Tolan loved tournaments and knightly combat, and he usually participated himself, but now he was nowhere to be seen.
"I'm quite sure he'll show up at some point, Your Majesty. I don't believe he would miss this tournament for anything."
The three of them climbed to the highest positions of the stands, to the royal box where several lords and ladies sat in formal attire—cleanly woven suits or elegant dresses. They all stood and bowed to the king, who gave them a slight bow in return before sitting beside the master of trade. Caerwyn stood to the side, taking a calm, composed stance with a sharp gaze fixed on the hard, sandy field.
The trumpets blared again, marking the final ten minutes of preparation. The stands were almost full, with only a few seats left. It was time for the tournament to begin.