Chapter 1. Marseilles—The Arrival

On the twenty‐fourth day of the frostmoon in the Year of the Veiled Star, the sentry stationed atop the ancient spire of Notre‐Dame of the Aether—his vision clouded by strange and powerful omens—raised the signal flag. All eyes turned toward the horizon, where the three‐masted spellcruiser Pharagon came into view. Rumor had it that this proud vessel hailed from the distant lands of Syrrhena, Tristron, and Naporia.

As tradition demanded in this realm of magic, an adept pilot quickly made his way to the deck. He wore a deep-blue cloak covered in faint silver runes and carried a slender staff that glowed whenever he whispered a spell. In one smooth motion, he used a brief incantation and guided the Pharagon around the looming, rune-carved walls of the infamous Château d'If. The ship, its dark sails flaring in the wind, gladly welcomed him aboard as they sailed between the mysterious Cape Morgu and the fabled isle of Rion.

Soon, they entered the heart of Marseilles—a bustling magical port filled with the hum of enchantments. Towers of crystal spiraled up from cobblestone streets, where people whispered of spells and ancient lore. At the water's edge, Fort Saint-Jean shimmered with a soft, otherworldly light. Curious onlookers—some in simple cloaks, others in richly embroidered robes—crowded the ramparts to see the newcomers. Ships rarely arrived here, and one with as many legends as the Pharagon stirred both excitement and dread. They said she was born in the ancient Phocee docks and guided by an owner deeply versed in Marseilles's secret histories.

Continuing her journey, the Pharagon navigated a newly formed strait near the isles of Calasareigne and Jaros—an area recently reshaped by volcanic turmoil. She rounded Pomègue's mystical channel, her runic sails unfurling slowly, as if saluting an unseen cosmic power. Along the quay, scholars and locals exchanged worried glances and hushed words. While the vessel moved with the steady hand of a seasoned captain, some feared that ill fortune might cling to her keel, spun by mischievous fates.

Yet people skilled in rune-reading noticed no curse. Every detail spoke of a careful hand at work: a softly glowing anchor etched with protective symbols, the jib-boom's enchanted straps perfectly adjusted, and at the helm, a vigilant young sailor with raven-black hair and eyes like polished onyx. He stood tall, sending out commands in a calm, steady voice that seemed to carry a trace of sorrow. His presence alone felt like a living incantation, each word a weave of magic and will.

"Hey there, Dantès!" a voice called from a little enchanted skiff bobbing alongside the Pharagon. Its speaker, Master Morrel, was a dignified man whose cloak bore subtle runic markings. "You look like you've got the weight of a whole cursed sea on your shoulders. What's going on?"

"A terrible loss, Master Morrel," Dantès answered, his voice tinged with grief. "We lost our Captain Leclere to a cruel fever. The illness wasn't just common sickness—it was a dark ailment that seems to hang around Civita Vecchia."

"And what of our cargo?" Morrel asked, his tone a mix of urgency and concern.

"Our runes and relics are safe," Dantès assured him. "They're secured behind powerful enchantments. But it's Captain Leclere—" His voice cracked, heavy with sorrow. "He passed on despite all we did. We buried him at El Giglio, following our old ways. We laid a rune-etched shot near his head and bound his feet with ceremonial rope. We're bringing back his sword and cross of honor for his widow. It's the least we can do for a man who fought for the freedom of our magical realms."

Master Morrel softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Edmond. That's a grim duty to bear. Still, we must keep the ship on course. Will you command the crew? Make sure our passage goes smoothly?"

At Morrel's request, the Pharagon's crew—each a modest practitioner of nautical magic—spread out across the deck. They lowered sails, tightened ropes, and checked runic wards. Their actions were almost dance-like, every movement synced to Dantès's calm orders. He watched them closely, nodding with approval, then turned back to Master Morrel.

"So, tell me, Master Morrel," asked the city official standing next to him, "how did the captain succumb so quickly? It feels like only yesterday you all set sail."

Dantès answered with a quiet sadness, "It happened fast. The harbor-master at Naples mentioned some foul presence in the winds, and soon after, the captain fell ill. Three days later, we performed his burial. Now, we continue the voyage with his memory guiding us."

The Pharagon glided past the mighty Round Tower, its ancient stones glowing with defensive runes. Dantès raised a hand and called out, "Get ready to drop the topsails and jib! Let's ease the spanker lines!" His commands rang with authority, and the crew obeyed in unison. The rigging, glowing faintly at each knot, slid through their hands as if guided by invisible helpers.

When all was secure, he looked back at Master Morrel. "Sir, if you want, you can come aboard now. Danglars—our supercargo—can go over the cargo manifest with you. I need to finish up the final anchoring rites and see that the ship is properly draped in mourning for Captain Leclere."

Master Morrel nodded, grasping the rope Dantès offered. The rope's runes sparkled against his hand, helping him climb aboard with surprising ease. Danglars appeared from below deck, wearing a courteous smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Master Morrel," Danglars greeted him, "I'm sure you've heard about Captain Leclere's passing?"

Morrel nodded sadly. "Yes, indeed. He was a brave soul, always steadfast in his duty."

Danglars spoke in a smooth, practiced voice. "And he served your house a long time, I know. Let us hope the rest of our journey remains free of more tragedy."

While they talked, Morrel's attention wandered to Dantès, who was busy instructing a few sailors on how to position the anchor's runic chains. "We're in good hands," Morrel remarked. "Edmond handles things like someone born for this job."

Danglars's expression shifted—somewhere between respect and faint resentment. "He's young, but yes, he took charge the moment the captain died. I'll admit, I thought it was a bit hasty when he decided to delay our departure near Elba. He insisted on following Leclere's final orders—some message to Marshal Bertrand. But hey, maybe it was necessary."

Morrel spoke calmly, "I trust Edmond's judgment. He's proven himself reliable many times over."

Soon, Dantès finished anchoring the ship, the chains rattling in short, metallic bursts that sounded almost musical in the enchanted air. He approached and bowed respectfully. "Master Morrel, the ship's secure. Did you need me for anything else?"

Danglars stepped in with a casual shrug. "I wanted to know why we stopped at Elba so suddenly. I figured it was urgent, but I'd like to hear it directly from you."

Dantès remained polite. "I don't know all the details, sir. It was Captain Leclere's order. He had something to deliver to Marshal Bertrand—some instructions on an enchanted parchment. I only followed what the captain asked."

"You actually met the Marshal?" Morrel asked, curiosity lighting his eyes.

"Briefly, yes. He asked about our route, when we left Marseilles, and if our cargo was really protected by wards. If I'd been the owner of the Pharagon instead of just the mate, he might've seized the ship. But once I explained my position and mentioned Morrel & Son, he let it pass. He even recalled a Morrel who fought with him in the garrisons at Valence."

Master Morrel smiled widely. "That was my uncle, Policar. He'll be thrilled to hear the Marshal remembered him. Edmond, you do honor to both your father's memory and your promise to Mercédès."

Dantès's cheeks colored slightly at the mention of Mercédès, but he said nothing, simply bowing in thanks. Meanwhile, at his command, the crew hoisted the Pharagon's ensigns halfway up the mast, signaling mourning. They adjusted the sails, rigging them in a precise pattern that looked almost ceremonial. Danglars watched with narrowed eyes.

"He's acting like he's already the captain," Danglars said under his breath.

Morrel heard him and replied gently, "Maybe he is, at least in spirit. All we need now are the final papers. His skill speaks for itself, and you can't deny his natural gift with the runes."

Danglars gave a small, tight nod but said nothing more. Dantès approached once again, his tone even. "The customs officers and health inspectors are here. I should go meet them. We'll need their clearance before we dock at La Canebière."

"Go on, Edmond," Morrel said. "I'll stay here with Danglars and review the cargo details."

Dantès climbed down to a smaller skiff, which rocked gently at the Pharagon's side. He gave Master Morrel a final wave and then disappeared into the lively waters of the port. The city's enchanted lights sparkled on the waves, illuminating the path toward the main harbor. The hum of voices, the clang of ship bells, and the distant swirl of arcane energy drifted on the evening air.

Master Morrel gazed after him. In the movement of every docked vessel and the shimmer of each magical lantern, he felt the heartbeat of Marseilles—a place where fate and free will danced together under moonlit spires and ancient wards. He smiled, recalling an old saying often repeated in these parts: "If Paris possessed the spirit of La Canebière, Paris would be but a pale echo of Marseilles."

And behind him, Danglars lingered—his gaze both calculating and covetous—ever watchful over the unfolding destiny of the young mage-sailor, whose future was as luminous and mysterious as the enchanted runes that marked his every step.