Portents of Change

Days passed without another sign of Sigurd Gladewind or his mysterious House. Yet the nervous energy he'd left behind lingered over Coral Spit like a pending storm. Whispers circulated through the village that more "envoys" or Name-hunters might arrive soon, poking into every dusty corner for clues to Stormrún's alleged survival.

Kano felt the tension in the subtle ways people behaved: the quick, darting glances when he and his parents passed by; the hushed conversations that broke off whenever they got close. Some villagers seemed eager to keep working with the Sea-Glass family—especially those who'd fought pirates at their side—while others retreated into suspicion and half-hearted politeness. Publicly, the new watchtower neared completion, but behind the scenes, the once-simple fishing village buzzed with silent alarm.

On a cloudless afternoon, Kano found himself fitting the final crossbeams on the watchtower, high above the woven planks. From this vantage, the entire village spread beneath him: a quilt of stilted huts, winding piers, and narrow walkways stitched together by salt air and communal worry. The ocean shimmered in every direction, turquoise fading into deeper blues farther out.

He paused, leaning on a beam, gaze drifting to the far horizon. Valrakan, House Gladewind—possibly more Houses. All these forces might converge here, and we're barely holding Coral Spit together. The thought weighed on him like the midday sun, heavy and relentless.

A voice called from below. "Kano! Can you secure the rope line?" Tima, the lanky youth, stood on the lower level, sweat beading his brow. He'd been a steady ally since the pirate raid, though he still seemed uneasy about their rising local fame—or notoriety.

"On it," Kano replied, pushing aside his worries for the moment. He scrambled across the half-built platform, hooking rope through a carved wooden block. Securing it felt almost routine now. We're building something real here, he thought, recalling how shaky the tower had been only days before. Yet it still amazed him that a tarnished family—once despised—could lead a project so vital to the village's future.

"Looks good," Tima said, straightening. Then his voice lowered. "Any word from your father about those smugglers the council was worried about?"

Kano shook his head. Marro had been tasked with discreetly checking whether any outside dealers or shady traders lurked near the reefs—folks who might feed information to Houses like Gladewind. "Nothing certain," he murmured. "Just rumors. But the council's on edge."

Tima made a face. "We all are, I guess." Then he offered a small smile. "But at least we've got a proper watchtower soon."

Kano nodded, grateful for the flicker of optimism. "Yeah… it's something."

They resumed their tasks, driving nails and tying ropes in the sweltering heat. Waves of dizziness occasionally washed over Kano as he worked, half from the sun beating down, half from the swirl of anxious thoughts regarding Stormrún. He wondered if Brannis had reached any surviving allies by now—or if he'd found only empty ruins and frightened refugees.

By late afternoon, the final plank was nailed into place. With a collective sigh, the volunteers on the tower gathered on the platform, mopping sweat and exchanging weary grins. Nallo (scar-faced and proud) gave a short laugh as he gazed out at the sea. "Never thought I'd be part of something like this. Feels good to stand tall."

A brief ripple of camaraderie passed through the group, a reminder that they were fighting for a home they all shared. Then footsteps sounded below—a messenger from the council. "Sea-Glass!" he yelled upward, voice echoing. "Your father's back—seems urgent."

Kano exchanged a glance with Tima, tension spiking. "Coming!" he called, scrambling to the ladder. Clambering down, he found the messenger panting. "Where is he?"

"The storehouse," the young man replied. "He told me to fetch you. Said it was important but wouldn't say more in front of the watchmen."

A cold knot tightened in Kano's chest. Something big, then. He turned to Nallo. "Keep an eye on the build. I'll be back when I can."

Nallo nodded solemnly. "Good luck."

Within minutes, Kano raced across the swaying boardwalks, heart pounding in tandem with his footsteps. Any development that demanded secrecy from the watchmen had to be tied to the intensifying rumors of Stormrún or to a new threat on the seas. Reina joined him halfway, alerted by the same messenger. Together, they headed to the storehouse—a modest structure near the village's edge, used mostly for stowing fish barrels and trade goods.

Inside, they found Marro pacing beside a stack of crates. Sweat plastered his hair to his brow, and tension lined his face. He waved them closer. "We may have a problem," he said in a hush.

Kano's pulse jumped. "What kind?"

Marro rubbed the back of his neck. "Heard from a trader I trust—she says pirate activity is flaring up again, not just a lone skiff. And… she overheard talk in a dive port that 'something valuable' lingers in Coral Spit. Rumors that might attract cutthroats or worse."

Reina hissed under her breath. "Meaning they suspect treasure? Or Stormrún's essence?"

"Either could be enough bait," Marro said. "Point is, more raiders might come sniffing around soon. The council has to know, but…" He let his voice trail off, implying that once again, trust in the Sea-Glass family might hang by a thread.

Kano clenched his jaw. If pirates return in greater numbers, the new watchtower won't be enough. They needed a plan—fast. "We talk to Hani," he decided, "and propose a strategy. A real one, not just watch posts. If the rumors keep spreading, we have to face the chance that multiple factions could arrive—pirates, mercenaries, even House envoys."

Reina glanced at Marro. "We're risking another standoff with the council. But we can't keep quiet—if the village gets blindsided, everything we've built unravels."

Marro nodded grimly. "Let's hope they trust us enough by now. Because if they don't, we may face more than pirates—we might have the council suspecting we're the ones stirring up trouble again."

The storehouse's dim interior felt abruptly suffocating. Kano made himself stand straighter. Tarnished or not, we're protecting these people. If the outside world came crashing down, they would need leadership—someone who could rally them, the way House Stormrún once did. A flutter of that echo stirred in his chest, half memory, half promise.

"Alright," he said, steeling his nerves. "Let's go to Hani. Better we warn them and risk suspicion than let Coral Spit fall into chaos."

Outside, the wind picked up, rustling palm fronds along the beach. It felt like a warning, a subtle shift that mirrored the churning uncertainty within the village. Exchanging firm nods, Kano and his parents headed off to face the council—again—carrying news that might spark more fear but might also be the key to saving this fragile home from the storms gathering on the horizon.

Elder Hani's cane struck the plank floor three times in quick succession, echoing through the cramped council hall. Kano, Marro, and Reina stood before her, flanked by three watchmen who'd blocked other villagers from entering. The hush in the room was heavy, charged with the tension of too many unknown threats looming just outside.

"You claim pirates may return in force," Hani said, her voice carefully measured. "And that rumors of 'something valuable' here could draw them—along with other undesirables."

Marro inclined his head. "Yes, Elder. My source is reliable. This isn't just idle chatter. We've heard talk of smugglers spreading tales about hidden treasures or…some relic of note." He chose his words diplomatically, avoiding direct references to Stormrún.

One of the councilors—a wiry man with a weathered face—crossed his arms. "You said yourself these rumors might be about false treasure. The smuggling rings often invent such things to stir chaos."

Reina exhaled. "True. But chaos or not, we can't dismiss it. If pirates believe there's fortune here, they'll come. We can't afford to be caught unprepared."

Hani's grip on her cane tightened. "We barely finished building one watchtower. Our store of weapons is scarce, and the council's coffers can't finance a large militia." She paused, eyes flicking between Kano and his parents. "So what do you propose?"

Kano swallowed, stepping forward. He recalled Brannis's advice about illusions and feints—how Stormrún once used cunning to appear more formidable than it was. "We could bolster our defenses through…deception," he began cautiously. "We spread our own rumors—of strong alliances, of formidable protections—that make Coral Spit look like a poor target."

"Words alone might not deter real pirates," the wiry councilor muttered.

"Not alone," Kano conceded. "But if we fortify the watchtower to station archers or spearmen visibly—maybe even some straw mannequins dressed as additional sentries—it gives the impression of a larger guard. At sea, illusions can go a long way. Lanterns spaced out at night, making it look like multiple patrols…"

Marro backed him up. "Our fishing boats can be fitted with makeshift parapets—enough to suggest they're armed. If the pirates scout us, they'll see a village ready to fight."

Hani tapped her cane in thought. "You speak of trickery. It worked once with the skiff, but a larger pirate gang might test us. We must be prepared for an actual attack, not just a bluff."

Reina nodded grimly. "That's where volunteers come in. We've built good rapport after driving off that first skiff. Even if we can't field a true militia, we can train those willing to defend their homes—form small squads, practice basic drills."

A lengthy pause followed as the council weighed these ideas. At last, Hani sighed. "I can't deny Coral Spit has grown more determined under your influence. But illusions and half-trained fighters might not be enough if a true pirate fleet arrives."

The stocky woman councilor who'd been listening quietly finally spoke up. "Maybe we can expand our trading ties. If we convince a nearby port that Coral Spit is stable and worth protecting, they might send a few armed escorts. Even a single large vessel could discourage raiders."

Marro exchanged a quick glance with Kano and Reina. "That could work—if we can prove we're not a liability."

Hani nodded curtly. "Then let's do this: the council will authorize the expansion of your watchtower plan, station visible 'guards,' and encourage fisher patrols. Meanwhile, we'll attempt to negotiate with a neighbor port for mutual protection. In return, they might expect trade concessions—but it's better than facing pirates alone." She pointed her cane at Kano. "You'll help organize the volunteers?"

Kano managed a tight smile. "Of course, Elder. We've already started some basic drills with those who fought pirates by our side."

A faint flicker of approval crossed Hani's face. "Good. See that you coordinate with my watch captains—no more acting in the dark, understand?"

"We understand," Marro said, echoing the sentiment. "We want Coral Spit safe as much as you do."

The wiry councilor still looked uneasy, but he held his tongue. After a moment, Hani dismissed them, instructing the watchmen to begin scheduling more frequent sentry rotations. As Kano and his parents stepped away from the dais, they exchanged relieved glances. This was progress, albeit cautious and fraught with risks.

Outside, the intense midday sun hit them like a wave, the humidity clinging to every breath. A small gathering of curious villagers stood nearby, apparently waiting to see if there'd be another standoff or if the Sea-Glass family would storm away in anger. Instead, they saw Kano, Marro, and Reina stepping out with calm resolution on their faces.

"What's the word?" asked Tima, pushing through the onlookers.

Kano briefly explained the council's directives: more watch stations, potential alliances with a neighboring port, and an expanded volunteer defense group. Nods and hushed talk rippled across the crowd. Some folks looked worried, but others—those who remembered the pirate raid—stood a bit straighter, a glint of pride mingling with their concern.

"So we prepare, show strength, and hope the pirates take the hint?" Tima asked.

"Basically," Kano said. "It's not perfect, but it's better than huddling in fear."

Marro placed a hand on Kano's shoulder. "Get word to Nallo and the other fishers who helped with the raid. We'll need their voices to rally volunteers—starting tonight if possible."

Reina added, "I'll speak to the storehouse keepers and see what spare materials we have for setting up decoys on the pier. Anything to give the illusion we're well-fortified."

With that, they scattered, each heading to a different corner of Coral Spit to drum up support. Despite the hot sun and the weight of new worries, Kano felt a flicker of purpose. We're not powerless, he reminded himself. We've done this before; we can do it again.

Still, an undercurrent of unease tugged at him: illusions and makeshift defenses might hold off small bands of pirates, but if a larger threat—like Valrakan or a determined House—descended upon them, their ruse would crumble fast. And with Brannis away, they had no direct link to the scattered Stormrún loyalists who might lend real force.

As he trotted back toward the half-finished watchtower to rally workers, Kano paused to look at the rolling sea. The horizon shimmered innocently in the daylight, concealing whatever ships or secrets lay beyond. Stormrún's echo flickered in his mind, filling him with both longing and dread. We need more than illusions if the true storms of war come, he thought, swallowing hard. But until we have that, we'll do what we must to keep Coral Spit safe.

With renewed determination, he plunged back into the flurry of activity—organizing, planning, hoping that each small effort might tip the scales in their favor when the next threat inevitably arrived.

That evening, Kano gathered with a small group of volunteers under flickering torchlight on the half-finished watchtower platform. The makeshift lanterns cast strange, swaying shadows across the wooden beams, distorting the determined faces of fishers, traders, and a handful of curious onlookers who had shown up to learn basic defense drills.

Nallo, scar-faced and stocky, stood at Kano's side, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a battered old breastplate, loaned by a retired guard who'd once served in a more fortified city-state. "Alright, you lot," he called, voice gruff. "We're no professional soldiers, but we've got a village to protect. First lesson—holding formation without tripping over each other."

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the volunteers, breaking the tension. Some clutched spears fashioned from fishing hooks and spare poles; others held wooden clubs or small shields woven from thick reeds. Standing apart from the group, Reina and Marro observed quietly, stepping in when anyone asked about tactics or vantage points.

From his vantage, Kano assessed the group. Twelve. Maybe fifteen on a good day, he mused, heart tight with worry. Enough to fend off a handful of raiders, but hardly a match for a real pirate armada. Yet each person here glowed with a raw conviction—the kind that had let them beat back the first pirate skiff. A little training might sharpen that resolve.

"Line up!" Nallo barked. The volunteers shuffled into two ragged rows. Tima fumbled with a net-snagged spear until Reina gently showed him how to free it, prompting a few chuckles from the rest.

Kano cleared his throat. "No judgments tonight. We're all new at this," he said, remembering Brannis's stern advice to maintain morale. "But if we support each other, we'll learn faster. Let's start with bracing spears against a charge. Nothing fancy, just the basics."

A few people nodded enthusiastically; others exhaled shakily, steeling themselves. The torches sputtered in the briny breeze, momentarily dousing the platform in near-darkness before flaring back to life. Kano suppressed a shiver, recalling old visions of Stormrún's final siege. The eerie gloom reminded him that real battles happened day or night, merciless and chaotic.

"Spears forward," he instructed, setting his stance. Nallo stepped forward to demonstrate, crouching with legs apart, spear butt anchored at his hip. "Good," Kano continued, scanning the line. "Keep your arms relaxed. If you're too stiff, you'll get knocked off balance."

They ran through the motions, stumbling often but gradually improving. Shuffling feet thumped against the new planks, and occasional missteps led to some playful ribbing. Kano forced a smile whenever he corrected someone's posture—these people were placing trust in him, a boy once dismissed as tarnished. Every success, even a small one, reminded him that unity could be forged from unlikely beginnings.

After nearly an hour of practice, the volunteers broke for a breather. Tima flopped onto a barrel, panting. "Didn't think spears required so many…steps," he joked, nudging the net-bundle at his feet.

Nallo rolled a kink from his neck. "Trust me, we're barely starting. Next time, we'll go over how to hold formation when one side breaks."

Kano moved among them, offering words of encouragement. "This is good progress," he assured a worried-looking fisher who confessed he'd never held a weapon before. "Even if pirates show up, they'll think twice if they see disciplined lines."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Marro studying him with a mixture of pride and concern. It struck Kano how surreal it was to be in this role—coordinating training sessions, carrying the hidden burden of Stormrún's Name-essence.

Suddenly, a hoarse cry broke the moment: "Boat approaching!" A watchman on the newly erected lookout platform pointed seaward, where a bobbing lantern glimmered faintly in the night.

Tension snapped through the group like a tightened bowstring. The volunteers scrambled to their feet, spears and clubs in hand. Reina and Marro exchanged urgent looks with Kano. A raid already? His stomach knotted. We're not ready for a real fight.

Nallo barked orders, hastily forming a defensive line near the tower's base. Meanwhile, Kano joined the watchman at the parapet, straining to see beyond the lantern's halo. The approaching vessel was small, pitched by gentle waves. A single figure stood at the prow, arms raised in what seemed a non-threatening gesture.

"He's alone?" Kano muttered, heart hammering. Who would sail into Coral Spit by night, carrying only a lone lantern?

Within minutes, the boat bumped against the pier. The volunteers hovered behind crates and barrels, weapons raised but trembling. The figure stepped onto the boardwalk—revealed by torchlight to be a wiry old man with a travel-stained cloak. He clutched the lantern in one hand and a carved staff in the other.

"I come in peace!" the stranger rasped, voice cracking in the salty air. "I—ah—seek…someone."

Kano and Nallo emerged from behind the barrels, the volunteers forming a shaky ring. The man squinted, blinking rapidly. "Stormrún," he croaked. "I heard rumors… Is it true?"

A prickle of alarm ran up Kano's spine. Another one? Yet this stranger's voice held a desperate edge, not the smooth cunning of Sigurd Gladewind. Could he be another wanderer seeking the fallen House? What did he want—and what danger did he carry with him?

"Lower your weapons," Kano ordered gently, turning to the volunteers. "Let's hear him out."

The old man exhaled in relief, bowing his head. "My name is Tavren… I've traveled far. If Stormrún truly stirs, I must see it with my own eyes. There are those who'd stand against Valrakan, who'd pledge themselves to Stormrún's cause if—if it's real."

Kano's mind whirled, remembering Brannis's promise to find scattered allies. Had Tavren encountered Brannis? Or was he just chasing fables? Either way, the fact he risked a solo journey here spoke volumes about his desperation—or conviction.

Behind him, the volunteers shifted uneasily, unsure whether to treat this man as threat or opportunity. Marro and Reina hurried down the tower steps, eyes darting between Tavren and Kano, waiting for a cue.

Kano inhaled slowly, choosing his words with care. "We're no threat to you, Tavren. But Coral Spit's not a place for grand crusades. If you have news—speak it. If not, move on quietly."

Tavren's features crumpled in quiet relief. "News…indeed. Of scattered knights, old alliances. And… a rumor that Stormrún's heir might live in these waters." He glanced around, voice trembling. "I beg you—if you know anything, show me some sign. We've lost so much already."

An electric hush draped over the pier. The volunteers, poised with spears, wore perplexed, wary expressions. He's asking us to confirm or deny the existence of Stormrún's heir, Kano realized, heart pounding. What do we say now?

In that hush, Kano felt Tariq Stormrún's echo stir, a faint presence pressing at his consciousness. He wanted to help, but he couldn't risk revealing the truth. Not yet—not when outsiders like Gladewind might return at any moment. Still, Tavren's desperation tugged at his sense of duty.

Steeling himself, Kano stepped forward, meeting Tavren's gaze. "You're safe here," he said quietly. "We'll hear your news. But as for Stormrún… I can't promise you'll find what you're looking for."

Tavren bowed his head, clutching his staff like a lifeline. "That's enough for now," he whispered. "Enough that you'll listen."

As the circle of volunteers slowly lowered their weapons, Marro approached Kano with a hushed question in his eyes: What now? Reina stood at their side, equally torn between suspicion and pity. Another stray soul drawn by rumors of a fallen House—and possibly a harbinger of more travelers to come.

"This way," Kano murmured to Tavren, motioning toward a quieter stretch of pier. "We'll talk somewhere safe."

Behind them, the torchlight illuminated the watchtower, newly built spears, and uneasy faces—an image of a village on the brink of deeper entanglements. Stormrún's name, once a distant legend, was fast becoming Coral Spit's uncertain future. And Kano, at its center, could only hope that guiding these scattered seekers wouldn't invite an even greater storm.