The Beginning

Silvanna clapped her hands once, loud enough to snap everyone out of their collective panic spiral.

"Alright, alright! Magic show's over, you bunch of cowards," she said, rolling her eyes. "Let's do this properly."

She pointed toward Gass, who was still trying to blend in with a barrel. "Victar, you've already met Gass. Professional sneak. Terrible thief. Somehow still breathing."

Gass gave a sheepish wave.

She jabbed a thumb at Don, who was finally getting to his feet, rubbing his ribs and glaring like he couldn't decide whether to throw up or throw hands.

"This charming assh*le is Don. Muscle. Mouth. Equal parts rage and self-esteem issues."

Don grunted. "I liked it better before the intro."

"Too bad," Silvanna shot back, then gestured to the still-silent short king slouched on a coil of rope. "Over there is Hugo. Explosives guy. Short temper, shorter height."

Hugo gave a lazy salute. "Pleasure."

"Steffon," she continued, pointing toward a tall, stoic man near the helm who hadn't moved since Victar boarded, "is our captain. Doesn't talk much. Doesn't blink either. Might be ex-navy. Might be dead inside."

Steffon gave a barely visible nod. Maybe.

Silvanna turned to a grease-streaked figure who had just emerged from below deck, wiping his hands on a soot-stained rag. "That's Henry—or 'Ha-ry,' because he insists on spelling it stupid. He's our engineer. Knows every bolt on this ship and exactly where each one wants to explode."

Henry grinned, missing two teeth. "Only two engine fires this month. We're making history."

"Guide's over there—Natalie," Silvanna added, nodding toward a quiet woman leaning on the railing. Hood up, arms folded, eyes as orange as lava. "Knows the Eldorysian forest better than most locals. Doesn't talk much either, but if she tells you to stop walking, stop walking."

Natalie just nodded once.

"And that," Silvanna said, with a vague wave toward the ship's front where a broad-shouldered woman lounged in a chair, drinking something from a bottle with no label, "is Manny. She said she's on vacation. We didn't argue."

"I am on vacation," Manny called out. "A working one."

Silvanna pinched the bridge of her nose. "And finally—our doctor. Emelia."

A woman in a black coat stepped out from the cabin, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind silver-rimmed glasses. "I charge double if you get injured doing something stupid," she said flatly. "And triple if it's sarcasm-related."

Victar raised a brow. "Do you get much business, then?"

She smiled thinly. "You'd be surprised."

Silvanna took a long breath, then looked at the full crew. "In total, I've spent seventy dracos assembling this fine mess of talents—which, fun fact, is also the exact amount needed to buy an air ticket to Lin Poi. With checked luggage. And still enough left for a hotel."

"Could've gone to Lin Poi…" she muttered to herself. "Warm beaches. No Shades. No cursed parchments. Just sun, drinks, and the occasional polite scam."

She turned back to Victar. "But no. I chose this circus."

Victar looked around at the motley crew.

"…Charming," he said.

Emelia coughed. "That's one word for it."

Silvanna nodded towards Victar and he nods back as he goes to he railings to watch the Great Blue ocean as it stretched on for miles.

Henry shuffled over, wiping his oily hands on his already-filthy overalls, eyes flicking between Victar's face and the deck like he was debating whether this was a good idea.

"H-hello," he said, voice nervous but oddly hopeful. "I, uh… I came to your store once."

Victar didn't blink. "Really?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Alright then. What's the name of it?"

Henry froze like a man caught in a lie three seconds before he even told it. "Uhh… Victar's?"

Victar let out a slow breath and stared at him. "First Star," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple. "Why are you lying?"

Henry panicked. "I don't know! I just—I find magic fascinating!"

Victar gave him a long, deadpan look.

"Right," he said slowly. "And lying to the sorcerer you're stuck on a boat with… that was your plan?"

"I got excited!" Henry blurted. "You made a guy teleport. That's not card tricks, that's... that's like ancient myth come to life!"

Victar raised an eyebrow. "You think flattery will get you out of this?"

"Is it working?"

"No."

Henry deflated. "Okay, just checking."

Victar sighed and stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough so only Henry could hear.

"Magic," he said, "isn't a game. It's not fireworks or fairy tales. It's dangerous. Wild. People like me don't get taught—we survive it."

Henry blinked.

"I still think it's fascinating," he whispered.

Victar stared at him.

"…Just stay away from my pockets," he said finally, turning away.

Henry gave a little victorious fist pump as Victar walked off.

"Still counts as a conversation," he whispered to himself. "Progress."

Silvanna looked up toward the helm where Steffon stood, motionless as ever, one hand resting on the wheel like it was part of him.

She raised two fingers in a mock salute. "Start movin', Cap."

Steffon didn't say much. He never did.

"Aye," was all he said.

Silvanna took a long, exaggerated breath and stepped to the edge of the deck, wind already beginning to stir her coat.

"One f***king week of ship sailing," she muttered, eyes narrowing at the horizon like it had personally insulted her.

From below, the engine coughed to life.

The old pipes shuddered, bolts rattled, and then—whoosh—a plume of steam hissed out from the side vents. The Gray Dawn rumbled underfoot as its heart began to beat, slow and strong.

Dockhands jumped back. Seagulls scattered. A few folks on the pier turned to stare, watching as the ship belched smoke and shuddered forward.

Victar stood near the railing, suitcase beside him, watching the city begin to drift away behind them.

Port Black. Fading into the fog.

"Seven days on this floating tin can…" he muttered.

Silvanna walked up beside him. "Cheer up. Could be worse."

"How?"

She shrugged. "Could've been your money that paid for all this."

The ship groaned, tilted slightly with the current, and then—slowly but surely—sailed out into the open sea.

The hunt had begun.

***

As the first moon, Luna, rose slow and silver above the horizon, its light bathed the iron towers and crumbling walls of the Mercenary Cities in a cold, regal glow.

Then—clang.

The bells rang. All of them. From the broken spire of Gorin's Watch to the rebuilt dome of Cragmouth Hall. Their sound echoed across the alleyways and skybridges, bouncing off the rusted steel, faded flags, and half-sunk piers that made up this alliance of fractured power.

Inside one of the few chambers still lit by candlelight instead of torchfire, a door opened.

A man entered—thin, sharp-featured, with rings on every finger and wearing a white silk robe. 

"I think I know something," he said without pause, "that could change the course of our cities, Kaesar."

At the end of the long table, seated beneath a cracked glass dome filled with moonlight, sat Dondoran Jittry, known to all as the Kaesar.

He didn't look up from the parchment he was reading.

"And that is?" he asked.

The man stepped closer, placing a thin dossier on the table.

"A parchment has been stolen," he said. "From the Faith. In Eldorys."

Now the Kaesar looked up.

"The Faith dispatched a ragtag crew to retrieve it—cutthroats, sorcerers, mercs. A desperate play. But," he added, eyes glinting, "there's another ship. Headed the same way. Different players. Same goal."

Kaesar leaned back. "So?"

The man grinned. "So… we get the parchment first. We take it. Then we sell it back to the Faith—at our price."

Kaesar said nothing.

"And when that happens," the man pressed, voice rising with every word, "our cities—the Mercenary Cities—will rival the Free Cities. Liberty City. Lin Poi. No more table scraps. No more being left out of the maps, the trade routes, the whispers. We'll have power. Bargaining chips. Fear."

The room fell silent. Only the bells still rang outside.

Kaesar tapped a finger on the dossier.

"You're sure?"

"I am."

The Kaesar stood slowly. The light from Luna hit the scar across his jaw, giving him the look of a statue chipped by war.

"Then summon the Ravagers," he said. "Tell them we sail by dawn."

The moon rose higher.

The race had just gained another player.

As the second moon, Mond, crested the sky—smaller, sharper, casting a cold bluish hue—the bells rang again. Once more, every bell tower in the Mercenary Cities screamed to life.

Within the Great Hall of Irons, the Ravagers gathered.

They came from every corner of the cities—hunters, slayers, mercs with bloodied pasts and no futures. The hall was filled with the scent of steel, sweat, and ambition. The Ravagers weren't an army. They were worse. Professionals with no loyalty but coin and conquest.

A younger voice rose above the low rumble.

"A parchment? We go out—for a parchment?"

Gasps. Mutters. Someone laughed, but nervously.

The young man—barely twenty, sharp jaw, too much pride in his voice—stood tall in black and bronze, the mark of heirship on his shoulder.

Before anyone else could speak, a gruff older Ravager stepped forward, eyes narrowed.

"Careful, boy," he said coldly. "You're talkin' to the Kaesar. You may be his heir—the next to wear the crown of blades—but not yet. Not. Yet."

The room went still.

At the end of the long iron table, seated beneath banners older than any living man, Kaesar Dondoran rose.

His voice didn't need to shout.

"You will all sail by dawn," he said, eyes sweeping the room. "Because that parchment—"

He stepped down from the dais, every word measured, deliberate.

"—was never just parchment. It's a key. A map. A curse. A whisper of power so deep, even the Faith fears it. They didn't send preachers after it. They sent killers. And now so do I."

He stopped in front of his heir, meeting the young man's wide eyes with steady fire.

"Respect isn't earned through bloodlines, boy. It's earned through what you're willing to bleed for. Now ask again if it's worth chasing."

The heir said nothing.

Kaesar turned, cloak sweeping behind him.

"Prepare the ships," he growled. "If we reach Eldorys first... the world won't know what hit it."

"Who gave you this idea anyway?" the heir snapped, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a knife.

Kaesar Dondoran didn't turn. He didn't have to.

"Magister Lin Xi," he said calmly.

That made the room twitch.

The heir's face twisted. "That Lin Poi'i bastard?! He gave you the idea?"

Half the room flinched at the tone, the other half leaned in, enjoying the show. The name LingXi carried weight—too much, maybe. A scholar, a mage, a traitor, depending on who you asked. No one really knew where his allegiance lay. But if he was whispering about this parchment…

Kaesar stopped walking. Slowly turned back.

"Daiz," he said, voice low and sharp. "You are my nephew. My blood. My heir. Son of my beloved sister."

Then the room went dead silent.

"But talk like that again," Kaesar continued, stepping toward him, "and blood or not, I will put you on latrine duty so fast our ancestors will smell it."

Daiz clenched his jaw, fists tight, but nodded. "...Right. At dawn."

Kaesar gave a thin smile. "Good."

He looked back to the rest of the Ravagers.

"Get your gear. Tell your second-in-commands. Pray if you still remember how. We sail when Mond dips below the sea."

And with that, the Kaesar of the Mercenary Cities walked out.

The Ravagers followed.

And Daiz stood alone in the hall, still seething—burning not from shame, but from the growing hunger to prove himself.

If it meant claiming the parchment first. So be it.

***

The ship creaked as it pulled away from the rotting docks, its sails catching the wind like a patchwork quilt stitched by desperation. The hull groaned under the weight of rusted cannons, stolen cargo, and bad decisions. It had no name painted on its side—only scorch marks and scraped-off sigils where names used to be.

This was the vessel the Faith had hired.

Or bribed. Or threatened. The lines got blurry with this lot.

A crew of ragtag cutthroats, back-alley scammers, washed-up pirates, bounty-dodgers, and men who called themselves "captains" just because they hadn't sunk yet. The kind of people who didn't ask questions—only what they'd be paid.

At the bow stood their leader.

A Ghunian by the name of Darak Jhonti. Dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, adorned in a mismatched set of bronze armor and silk robes, he wore a ruby-studded eyepatch over one eye, though he clearly didn't need it. It was fashion. Or intimidation. Or both.

He chewed on a twig of spicebark and watched the coast fade into mist.

"How many mates do we have?" he asked, voice calm, almost bored.

A weasel of a man next to him checked the manifest, though it was half-wet and mostly unreadable.

"Fifty-two," he said, squinting. "Sixty if you count the slaves."

Darak didn't blink.

He turned to the man. "I don't count the slaves. I count the ones with steel in their hands and blood on their hands."

The weasel shrugged. "Then fifty-two."

"Hmm."

Darak exhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers along the edge of his belt.

"Make sure ten of them don't die before we reach Eldorys."

"I'll try."

"Try harder."

He turned back toward the sea. The twin moons hung behind him now, casting the ship in silver and blue. Somewhere out there, a parchment waited. And Darak Jhonti didn't care about gods or prophecies.

He cared about what the Faith was willing to pay to get it back.

"10,000 Dracos for this sh*t?" one of the crewmen barked from the lower deck, laughing like a man who didn't believe in fate or consequences. "Can ya believe it? You can hire, what, three thousand sellswords for that?"

Another voice chimed in—older, rougher, leaning on a pike that had seen more blood than polish.

"Whatever it is…" the man muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon, "the Radiance wants it. And I want my money. And my name wiped off every bounty list from here to the Spine."

Someone spat over the side of the ship. "You think the Faith's gonna keep its word?"

"I think they don't want that parchment fallin' into the wrong hands. Ours or anyone else's."

A short silence followed. The kind that only exists when everyone's thinking the same thing: What the hell did we just sign up for?

Darak Jhonti stood above them all, one hand on the rail, his cloak whipping in the wind. He didn't turn around. Didn't speak. Just smiled, slow and knowing.

Because unlike the rest of them, he wasn't wondering if the Faith would betray them.

He was wondering when.