Chapter 4: An Arrival

Tir arrives on Cormorant.

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Tir

Silence.

Seconds stretched into eternity. Tir watched the little bloody lumps of flesh bob along the waves, their rust-colored hues diluting the dark depths. His shoulders slumped. Nothing. Nothing at all.

He felt Oxfur’s sweat-stained hands grasp his shoulders. Tir struggled, but the sailor was far too strong.

“I’m gonna make you hurt,” he sneered.

This was it. He hadn’t even seen another island, explored anything new, and his story was already coming to an end. Prentice was right. Not everyone’s cut out for this. If only he realized it earlier. At this point, an eternity of sheepherding sounded like a blessing. 

The boat shook, knocking Tir from Oxfur’s grip. He sprung free, creating as much distance between him and the stout man as he could.

“It’s not over yet,” Prentice proclaimed, eyes on the horizon. “Look!”

The waves rippled. A chill wind whipped through the sky. Then, something Tir could hardly comprehend happened.

There are some things in this world that seem to defy the very laws of logic. Creatures so massive and phenomena so indescribable that the mind can hardly conceptualize what is happening. The being that burst forth from below was of such immense size that Tir swore he was hallucinating. This was to the Palescale as a lion was to a kitten. Jaws, scales, and emerald eyes the size of sheep emerged from the water, clamping down on the chum like it were a slice of bread. 

Ardsman’s voice was the only thing that managed to bring him back to reality.

“HANG ON TIGHT!”

A wave nearly the size of the ship formed in its wake. Tir realized what was happening a moment too late. As soon as it hit the ship, he lost his footing, collapsing to the wooden deck. He scrambled, slipping, his grip faltering. He was falling. A watery grave seemed inevitable. He closed his eyes, preparing for the depths to claim him. Instead, something cold and metallic clasped his arm, hauling him up. Prentice had separated his prosthetic from his arm, using it as a makeshift hook to keep him aboard. 

As the ship steadied itself, Tir took stock of the situation. Only Captain Ardsman, Prentice, and a few snow-bearded sailors remained on their feet. The rest of the crew — Tir and Oxfur included — were sprawled out across the deck. One by one, they began to pull themselves up, each sharing the same look. 

“In all my years, I’ve never seen something like that.”

“What was it?!”

“A serpent?”

“No serpent I’ve seen looks like that. Is it a shark?”

The only thing Tir seemed to remember about the monster were its scales. They twinkled like a rainbow in the sunset, sparkling in nearly every color of the spectrum. How did it happen? What in the world was this creature? 

“I’ve been sailing nigh on forty hears now,” Prentice remarked, “and never in my time have I come that close to a Leviathan. “

If Prentice was the portrait of surprise, Oxfur was a living example of bewilderment. The man careened himself over the edge of the railing, peering out into the depths where the Leviathan had breached the waves.

“Luck,” he muttered. “Had to be luck. There’s no way…”

“The greenest of green men I’ve ever seen just conjured the stuff of nightmares,” Captain Ardsman remarked, hands on his hips. “How’d you do it, boy?”

Tir began to laugh, a nervous, relieved chuckle forcing itself free. He couldn’t control himself. His legs were still trembling from nearly falling overboard. One of the sailors began to laugh with him, joined by a second. One by one, they all began to cheer, hoisting Tir high like he were a conquerer. Oxfur, his head hung low, approached the celebration. The group moved aside, clearing way for him to meet Tir. 

“You might be the luckiest man in all the Great Ocean,” Oxfur admitted, drawing out a long, grumbling breath. “But, stakes are stakes. I concede.”

He offered his hand to the boy. Tir looked at it as if it were covered in chum. Then, remembering how he’d fished the liver from the bucket moments before, took the man’s hand and shook it.

“You almost had me there,” Tir said through nervous chuckles.

“How’d you do it?”

Tir looked up to the sky, his eyes following the albatross encircling the ship.

“I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.’

Prentice broke his way through the crowd, placing an arm around Tir.

“I think the boy’s earned the right to celebrate. What do we say, boys?!”

A cheer erupted from the crew. The boy was the most naive, gullible bumpkin Prentice had ever met — and, to be fair, he’d met a lot of naive, gullible bumpkins. But he’d never met someone boneheaded enough to challenge a seasoned sailor to a game of Fishbait. The stress of watching the boy flounder and panic had likely shaved years off Prentice’s life. Seeing the Leviathan, however, returned them to him on a silver platter.

“Prentice, can I speak with you for a moment?” Tir asked. “Maybe before I get involved in another stupid bet?”

They met in the storage cabin. Tir stooped over his stowaway barrel. He felt his stomach grow week as he looked into the container. He hadn’t stopped trembling since the appearance of the Leviathan. Prentice, who had already begun to stink the place up with tobacco, threw his match into the bottom of the barrel, the smoke wafting up like a little chimney. Despite his stomach’s best efforts, Tir fought back the urge to vomit.

“Quite the show you put on,” Prentice said, tipping a bit of the burned tobacco into the makeshift waste bin. “They’ll be talking about that for weeks.”

The sheepherder shuffled around on his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets. Prentice knew a dilly-dallier when he saw one “Well You wanted to speak. So speak.”

“You know I didn’t win that game because I’m good at Fishbait, right?”

Prentice guffawed. “I think anyone on this ship could tell you that.”

Tir scratched at the back of his neck as if he were tugging on an unseen thread.

“The thing is…I had some help. That albatross that showed up? Well…I talked to it. And in exchange for part of the chum, it helped me to call up that Leviathan.”

Prentice wasn’t sure if he heard the boy right. He’d had a bit of rum during the game. Perhaps it’d gotten the better of him. He was getting old, after all — sometimes he heard things. Did the boy just say what he thought he said? He leaned forward, putting a hand to his ear.

“You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not!” Tir threw up his arms in frustration. 

Prentice tugged on his shirt to keep his belly covered. He could feel the creases forming on his brow. “I believe you. It’s just…”

Tir cocked his head to the side. Somehow, despite nearly losing his life twice in the span of a few minutes, the boy’s smile hadn’t faded.

“It’s just what?”

Prentice lowered his voice until it was nothing more than a quiet mutter. 

“If I were you…I wouldn’t go around telling people that you can talk to animals. Some may think you mad, and others…well, others might believe you.”

“What does it matter if they believe me?”

Dense.

The boy was just dense.

“Because if they do, they might start asking you to do things. Things you might not be comfortable doing.”

“Like what?”

Oh, Great Navigator, did he have to spell it out for him?

“What happens if someone asks you to have a bear maul a person? Or a horse trample its master? Or, what if someone is fond of their goat and-“

Tir waved his hand in the air, stifling a gag.

“I get it, Prentice. But it’s not like they just do what I command. They’re living beings, too. They’ve got needs.”

“But the rest of the world doesn’t know that. If you go prattling along about how you convinced a cat to open a door, or a pigeon to pluck you an apple…well, people might start getting ideas. The worst thing a person can have is the wrong idea.”

“Okay, okay, fine, I won’t let anyone know!” Tir declared. 

Prentice sighed. He blamed himself. Months of filling the young lad’s head with ideas of the world encouraged him to take this leap of faith. In some way or another, his actions were a direct result of Prentice’s choice to bring him along. 

“Like I said earlier, I can’t help you when you’re out in the world,” Prentice remarked. “But what I can do is try to help you out now before you get yourself in serious trouble.”

They spent the rest of the evening going over the do’s and don’ts of life outside Laithlach. At times, Prentice felt as if he were just speaking to a brick wall. Tir would nod and smile and act as if he understood, but when Prentice posed follow-up questions, the boy couldn’t give him a straight answer. This exercise in frustration eventually boiled over to the point where Prentice began making ridiculous stories up. Whether Tir paid attention or not would be up to him. 

“And that’s why you should never anger a Mainlander,” Prentice concluded, finishing up an overcooked bowl of stew. “Because, if you do, they’ll make your head explode.”

“Fascinating,” Tir replied in a monotone voice, biting into the tack. The thrill of eating his first meal on his own had worn off. In its place lay a dissatisfying and dry biscuit and a ladle of watery stew. Then again, he thought, he’d take a lifetime of watery stew and dry biscuits over a quick ending at the bottom of the ocean.

Oxfur still scowled at him, though now his glares and occasional insults came with a gruff respect. Tir made it his duty to avoid the man for the rest of the trip. Prentice was nice enough to give him advice, but Tir wasn’t exactly in a listening mood. He’d just survived a dangerous game of Fishbait and brought a Leviathan to the surface. Prentice didn’t have to worry about him. He’d figure it out. 

That night, he lay on the burlap sack they’d given him for a bedroll, tossing and turning to get comfortable enough to drift off to sleep. Eventually, he realized he wouldn’t be able to sleep in any condition until they were finally at Anderthal.

The city of Cormorant was just around the corner.

———

Feile

Every few years, monsoon season arrived in Anderthal.

As quick as the rainstorms arrived, they departed, dousing everything in its wake in a deluge of water. One could tell its arrival was on its way based on the colossal vertical cloud that sprouted from the sky like a massive black mushroom. It drenched everywhere it enveloped, moving across the island like a Spotlighter’s light.

Feile was one of the unlucky few to experience a monsoon without proper shelter.

When she saw the cloud approaching, a strange combination of every curse word she’d ever heard escaped her lips. The curse continued, this time going out of its way to cake her uniform in thick, sticky mud. Feile contemplated lying on her back and crying, hoping that her tears would at least make her feel somewhat better.

They did not.

She attempted to summon even the slightest bit of optimism. Perhaps she could Mend together the remains of a shelter, breathe new life into an old structure. She had to be close to one, at least. Hundreds, if not thousands, have tried to conquer the frontier over the last century. Surely there must be some remnant of their once-great efforts. 

Feile felt as if she’d been walking for hours for hours. Or, at least, that’s what she told herself, based on the condition of her freshly-bleeding heels. Her only company came in the form of the occasional street lamp, reminding her that civilization was drawing close. 

If anything, she was relieved that she didn’t have to interact with anyone else. Other people want things — time, money, company — and Faron wasn’t exactly the most generous on any of those fronts. Sometimes, they preferred taking them without asking. The worst part about her self-diagnosed curse was that strangers would often approach her and share their life stories with her. Why in the world they chose her was beyond her understanding. 

She unfurled her satchel, resting her hands on the object, breathing a sigh of relief. The rain hadn’t damaged it. It looked old. Much older than her — or maybe even her employers. It was Reultian, she was told. From the Old World, before the time of the Great Flood. She had no idea what it was or what it did, but, according to her briefing, R&D would know what to do with it. 

Her foot slipped on the cobblestone, sending her tumbling forward. By some miracle, she managed to land in a bed of fresh grass and peonies, saving her from a twisted ankle or broken bone. She cursed, slamming her fist into the well-worn path. Ivy and ice had eroded the street’s foundation, riddling it with cracks to the point where every step seemed hazardous. Why hadn’t they sent a repair crew or a Threadbearer to handle it?

Then again, she thought, they were probably just waiting for someone like her to do their work for free.

She recalled Rule 75.2 of the Triune Employee Handbook: take the extra step.

Feile propped herself up again, reaching for the Catalyst at her belt. She both despised and relied on the thing, practically gluing herself to it for the last five years. Surely, by now, she would’ve understood the exact force needed to pry it from her belt. What should’ve been a simple, fluid motion instead turned into a fumbling, dropping both the Catalyst and the bag she’d slung over her shoulder. Out rolled a half-eaten apple. Coins spilled like they’d fallen from a fountain. 

The object — a strange gear that took the shape of a flower — skittered across the stone, taking her plummeting heart with her.She could feel her soul leave her body as the object bounced once, twice, a third time upon the stones, landing face-down amidst the shattered remains of a crate.

Oh no. Oh no no nononononononono.

Was this it? Was this the end of her career? She dropped to her knees, crawling frantically toward the object — the Runeflower — and reached reluctantly toward the object. Wincing, she turned the thing over to examine it for damage. 

Oh, thank the Board. Thank the Executives. It was intact. Beautifully, incredibly intact. Cradling it in her hands, she began to realize why they’d given it the name they had. It did look like a flower — the gears were like ancient petals adorned in little symbols and markings. A faint green glow emanated from the grooves. At least it’d be easy to spot in the dark if she lost it. She pressed it to her chest like it were a newborn, squeezing it tight. 

“Sorry,” Feile muttered to the relic, as if it could somehow hear her. It was warm, and, to her surprise, oddly comforting.

When she turned to gather the rest of her belongings, she couldn’t believe what she saw. Clean. Polished. As new as they were the day they’d been set into the bridge. She stooped down, examining the stone at her heel. Even the traces of mud left from her scurrying were gone. She traced the trail of purity with her finger, standing carefully at its edge as if it were the scene of a crime. The repaired road ended at a freshly-reassembled crate. 

Was she hallucinating? She held up the Runeflower again, turning it over in her hands. 

“Did you do this?” She hoped in vain for some sort of response.

Feile examined the object’s handiwork. The thing had Mended its path better than anyone — or anything — she’d ever seen before. It was as if the masons had chiseled out the cleanest stones in history. This was quickly becoming a very strange day.

“What in the Great Ocean are you?” 

For a brief moment, she contemplated turning its attention to her shoes. Drondin’s voice rang in her mind. Mend them on your own. Cheating would make things easy. But, if she cheated, she’d never learn her lesson. Her face brightened as soon as she figured it out.

“It’s a test of temptation!” she remarked to the Runeflower. “Drondin’s trying to see if I’ll crack. Well, you won’t get me this time.” 

Drondin should’ve known her better. She was, after all, the most stubborn Mainlander of a ll time. Smirking, she returned the Runeflower to her travel bag, adding the rest of her supplies shortly after.

“I’ll show you how to fix a road.”

To any other person, a Threadbearing apprentice’s Catalyst would’ve looked like nothing more than a rusted hunk of metal with a few grooves carved along its edges. To Feile, it was like a conductor’s baton — a pen from which her work flowed. Threadbearing wasn’t something easy — but it should’ve come easier to her. She was the ninth Threadbearer from her territory. The fifth to earn high marks in all her performance reviews. The only apprentice to ever obtain the Seven Pillars of Loyalty Award. Yet, despite all this, she was completely, utterly incapable of Mending without a Catalyst.

She pressed her Catalyst to a collection of shattered stones on the partially-Mended path. In her mind, she pictured the rest of the road, how it must have looked in its prime. Its immaculate hand rails, smooth stones, and intricate patterns likely took a lot of time to assemble. But, thankfully, with her handiwork, it wouldn’t take much to bring it back. The process was easy. 

Or, it should’ve been. 

Using the Catalyst was embarrassing. She was thankful none of her coworkers were out and about. She imagined what they would’ve said behind her back, what conversations they must have had about a fifth-year apprentice. She wished she could just cover her head in a hood while she worked. But hoods were against company uniform policy. After all, the Mainlanders were the face of the Triune, and their appearances should reflect that.

The emerald Threads sprung to life from her Catalyst, sewing their way through the cracks of the stones. The old, splintered stone began to heal, the cracks filling themselves in, the stone growing a luster again. It had needed Mending for quite some time, she thought, walking slowly along the side of the bridge, tracing the rest of it with her Catalyst. This should’ve taken her minutes. But she was a slow Threadbearer, and, even with the help of a Catalyst, it wasn’t easy. 

With her work finished, she decided to test the bridge. She’d really outdone herself this time. Sure, the stones weren’t nearly as immaculately repaired as the Runeflower’s work, but she’d done an admirable job. If only Drondin could see it. Perhaps then she’d finally acknowledge her talents. 

Before Feile knew it, her slow, gloomy journey had transformed into a happy little jaunt that made quick work of the rest of the journey. Atop the hill, she could see the city of Cormorant in all its splendor. The Great Windmill waving to her, the ivy-coated rooftops, and the stone walls that hugged the outer rim of the city all seemed like something out of a fable. The design choice of the architect — a Triune architect, mind you — was with this purpose in mind. They needed new inhabitants for the colony. What better way to convince would-be residents than something taken out of a storybook?

Perhaps she’d get a drink when she arrived to celebrate her successful Mend of the bridge. She offered a little salute to the gate guards, who returned hers with a curt nod. While they wore the Great Windmill upon their surcoats, they were still contractors of the Triune — and allies she could call upon in case of an emergency. Trudging down the road, she considered stopping by a bustling inn for a drink. After all, it wasn’t like the warehouse was going anywhere. She could drop it off at R&D on her way out. Then, it’d be back to Plumeria. Easy as pie.

The long walk and subsequent Mending left her far more exhausted than she’d anticipated. She would’ve sold her left hand for a warm bath and silken sheets. The only thing that stood in the way of her and an early rest were the inns. She’d been to Cormorant at least half a dozen times. Each time she visited, they were always crowded. It could be the thick of winter, the coldest time of the year, and yet, despite this, tourists stood shoulder-to-shoulder, huddling around like penguins in the frigid tundras of Brynn-dir-Dyoll. 

What was the point of travel if you were just going to drink at a bar the whole time? It wouldn’t shock her if the only inn worth its salt in this tourist trap was booked to the brim. 

As if she’d manifested it herself, it was nigh impossible to enter the Albatross without someone pressing their warm, sweaty body against her.

Feile stared blankly at the innkeeper, a wide-eyed man with a mustache that seemed to move whenever he spoke. Booked. The only inn she’d wanted. Booked. Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be? What other curses would befall her this day? All the goodwill from Mending the path evaporated in an instant. She was back to being annoyed again.

“And you’re certain there are no rooms,” she repeated.

The innkeeper looked to the barren rack of keys behind him, then back, nodding again. Behind him, a musical troupe performed an obnoxiously loud sonnet. Lutes, drums and flutes played in unison as a singer belted out sea shanties for wayward sailors. 

“It’s a miracle, actually,” he shouted over the din, his mustache moving like a caterpillar atop a branch. “For a minute there, I was worried we’d go a night without selling out. I’ll never worry like that again!”

Feile parsed her hands through her still-damp hair. “Are there any inns in this city that you think would be open?”

The innkeeper shrugged.

“Pigeon’s usually got a room or two if you want to work for it.”

“Work for it?! Do you know who I work for?!”

Another shrug from the man.

“You could be the Chief Executive for all I care, doesn’t change the fact that we’re booked.”

Before she could muster a reply, a burly man nudged her out of the way, demanding the bartender refill his flagon. Feile had had enough. The only thing that deterred her from cracking the man’s head open with his own cup was how thick his skull appeared. He’d have a lucrative career as a battering ram if he ever wanted to make a career change. 

She shoved her way from the crowd, attempting in vain to groan and sigh over the sound of the music. By the time she’d freed herself from the crowded clutches of the inn, she was ready to give up and sleep in the warehouse. Save for the wayward drunken adventurers and the occasional night watchman, the streets were nigh barren, filled with nothing but the occasional empty crate and overturned barrel. 

True to its name, the Pigeon was flanked by dozens of quiet, cooing birds that shared its namesake. Rats with wings. Just what she needed. Hopefully they’d already relieved themselves, she muttered. The shabby hotel, which stood at the opposite edge of town, looked ready and willing to accept new customers. Nice and quiet. Thank the Executives, she thought. Time to finally put this day to rest.

-----

Carver

Carver chose his mark.

Tired, haggard, dirt-encrusted, to be sure, but she held it. He could feel its presence radiating from the other side of town. Broken shoes. An apprentice? Perhaps they truly didn’t know what they’d found. Or maybe they’d gotten cocky. It didn’t matter. What mattered were the next few seconds. He stepped out of the shadows, bounding down the dark alley in just a few short strides. As he drew closer, he could hear her complaints. She cursed with the frequency of a drunken sailor. Distracted. Good.

“Damn mud,” the apprentice muttered, kicking the split toe of her shoe against the cobblestone. “I command you…OFF!”

A few short steps separated them. Carver spanned the gap in an instant. Then, he struck. Cold steel brushed the edge of her throat.

“You’re in quite the rush. Why don’t you slow down a minute?”

This one’s scent disarmed him. Sweat and mud, to be certain, but there was something else beneath it. Fresh-cut basil? Interesting. He’d never known a Mainlander to like basil. He heard her breath fall short.

“Turn around. Slowly.” 

She obeyed, twisting around to face her captor. He was Fionn the Islander today. Plain-faced. Simple in appearance. Dopey eyes. Easy to lose in a crowd. Carver quite liked his mark’s hair. She’d taken a razor to one side of it, shaved it down until the hair had grown back in short tufts. A scar split her nose. A tired gaze with a sharp expression. Incredibly easy to spot in a crowd. There was something else, though. Determination. This was no everyday corporate lapdog. She almost seemed capable of holding a conversation.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” his mark protested. “Attacking a member of the Triune? Are you mad?”

Not smart enough, Carver concluded. He pushed the knife harder against her neck. It’d be easier if he just finished the job here and now. But there was something about her that piqued his curiosity. This smug elitism, the way she talked to him with contempt — a facade. Perhaps this would serve as a good learning experience for her. 

“Hands in the air,” he replied coldly. “I won’t ask again.”

She interlinked her hands behind her skull. Fear. There it was. It always came out the moment they realized he really could open their throats. 

“If it’s money you’re after, I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong target. I’m an apprentice. Our pockets aren’t exactly bursting at the seams.”

Carver smirked. 

“Do I look like I’m in need of money?”

She did her best attempt at shrugging. He couldn’t help but break into a smile. Honest. A rare trait among Mainlanders, he thought. The satchel at her belt was open for business. He plunged his hand in the bag, fingers moving with the hurried pace of a hungry spider. When at last he rested upon the prize, he wrested the Key free, holding it to the torchlight. It flickered with a dim green light. 

The moment Carver lifted his knife free, the girl attempted to reach for the Key again.

“Wait, what are you-”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Carver said with a smirk, disappearing into the dark as soon as a guardsman turned the corner.

———

Tir

Were it not for the Spotlighter, the crew would’ve been lost in the sea of fog that permeated the sky. 

Above, the small, faded shape of the sun pierced the morning mist, giving Cereno the navigator just enough light to read her map. The squawking of seagulls and the sound of a distant whistle filled Tir with an overwhelming sense of glee. While the sailors couldn’t hear what the seagulls were shouting, he knew they were surely thinking the same thing:

Anderthal was just ahead.

Tir strode to the front of the deck, peering out into the misty morning. The ship’s Spotlighter sat at the mast. Two sets of three-fingered hands held a white flame aloft, the warm light penetrating the fog without much trouble. Upon his approach, she glanced up at him, her milky white eyes blinking horizontally.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Tir exclaimed. “It’s just my first time, and I’m-”

“Excited?”

He couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s that obvious, huh?”

A row of pointed teeth filled the Spotlighter’s mouth, peeking through a set of icy lips.

“It’s cute.”

Tir wasn’t sure what else to say, instead turning his attention to the white flame. She molded the light like it were clay, her three-fingered hands caressing the corners, ensuring the light’s embers remained entrapped within her grasp.

Tir nodded toward the flame. “Does it hurt?” 

“It requires a lot of concentration.”

“Oh.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“So I shouldn’t-”

“Correct.”

“Sorry.”

He sat beside her in silence, listening to the call of the gulls. When at long last the island of Anderthal formed amidst the mist, Tir leapt so high he nearly toppled into the water.

The biggest windmill he’d ever seen towered over the walls of the city like a giant in a folk tale. The masterwork of metal, wood, and stone had been emblazoned on nearly everything in the city: banners, surcoats, clay pots, and even a few smatterings of graffiti on the walls featured effigies of the Great Windmill of cormorant. The city itself was framed by a set of intricately-designed pale stone walls like the fence of a shepherd. Within those walls, rows of ivy-covered rooftops and clean stone buildings filled the streets like dollhouses. 

Cormorant was so vast that Tir could hardly see from one side of the city to the next. His eyes twinkled with excitement as their ship drew closer. Merchants set up shop on the streets, while bustling carriages carved their way along major roads. Ahead, a group of dockworkers cleared the morning’s catch from the harbor. He felt like a fully-drawn crossbow, ready to launch at a moment’s notice. 

A laugh over the Spotlighter’s other shoulder forced a new wrinkle onto her forehead. Bad enough that she had to entertain the stowaway. Prentice was another problem entirely. Never in her 122 years of life had she met someone who could talk so much without having anything to say. This would be quite the painful docking experience indeed, she concluded.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” The old man exclaimed.

The only thing Tir could manage in response was a vacant “It’s incredible”. Of course it was incredible, he thought. The most he’d ever experienced were a few big hills and a forest. Compared to that, a city like Cormorant felt like a kingdom. 

“Listen,” Prentice said, “there are some things you need to know about Cormorant ‘fore you get going. The city’s got a lot of rules. Strict rules. You break ‘em, you might wind up in jail. So listen up.”

Tir wanted to listen - really, he did - but how could he when there was so much to take in? Children played in the streets. Small boats dipped in and out of a beautiful beach. The distant sound of a fiddle filled the air with an eerily comforting tune. Soon, he thought. Soon he’d finally have the chance to live life on his own terms.

When the ship docked, Tir was the first one to make his way off the loading plank. Before he could set foot on land, however, a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to a halt.

“Boy,” Captain Ardsman said in a plain, hardy tone. “Wait a moment.”

He’d exchanged the dirty, dusty coat for a more refined justacorps, a long jacet adorned in all manner of brass and silver pins and buttons. His freshly-groomed beard and slicked-back hair made him appear more like a mannequin than a grizzled seafarer. 

“You’re the strangest stowaway I’ve ever met — and the only one that’s ever lived to tell the tale.”

“Thanks,” Tir exclaimed, glancing back towards the dock. Couldn’t the man just let him go already? He was tired of lectures.

“But you won’t have that kind of luck out here. Not everyone’s gonna be keen as I was about lettin’ you live. Doubt you’ll meet someone as desperate for games as Oxfur, either. Prentice’s got somethin’ for you. Go on.”

The old man unfastened his belt, pulling free a dagger. He held it out to Tir, who stared at it for a little too long.

“Well?” Prentice remarked. “Take it. You’re gonna need it.”

Every person experiences something differently when they hold an instrument that can take a life. Where some see power, others recognize the responsibility of wilding such a weapon. Tir felt uneasy. Sick to his stomach. He could barely look at it, much less think of touching it.

“I can’t,” he finally admitted, pushing the blade back towards the sailor.

“Take it,” the sailor insisted. 

“C’mon, Prentice. You’ve seen how well I handled sheepherding. You really think I’m gonna be able to hold that thing the right way?”

“You daft, lad?” The captain snorted. “You’ve no clue what the world’s like out there!”

“I’ve got a much more powerful weapon at my disposal,” he remarked, gesturing to the smile on his face.

If Ardsman was much of a betting man, he’d put his entire salary on the boy not surviving the night. Well, he supposed, better let the boy enjoy the rest of his meager life while he can.

“You’re certain of this?” Prentice said with a frown.

Tir nodded.

“I appreciate your kindness, though. Both of you.”

“Then at least allow me to offer you one more,” he remarked, rummaging through his coat pocket. “Hold your hand out for me.”

Prentice tipped a handful of gold coins into the boy’s hand. He stared deep into them, eyes aglitter with excitement. A handful like this could last Tir all weekend in Latihlach. Captain Ardsman chuckled, half-assuming the boy would start salivating on the spot.

“First thing you ought to do is book a room at an inn,” Prentice remarked. “Get there early so you don’t wind up on the street. Homelessness is illegal in Cormorant.”

Illegal? Tir wondered how that worked. 

Prentice must have seen him thinking hard about it. “Don’t go spending it all at once. This city’s owned by the Triune Corporation. They’re a little too good at separating folk from their money.”

“I promise I’ll pay you both back, eventually,” Tir said. “For both your kindness and your coin. I swear it on my life.”

He pressed his hand to his heart, enclosing his thumb while holding four fingers taut in the traditional approach of the Island Promise. Ardsman stifled a laugh, which quickly devolved into hacks and coughs.

“Alright, boy,” Prentice grumbled, “remember what we talked about earlier. Obey those laws and you won’t wind up in jail.”

“I will,” Tir lied, having already forgotten everything the man had said.

“One more thing,” he muttered, approaching the boy so close that he could smell the tobacco on his breath. “Stay away from anyone with blue marks on their face like this.”

He drew a line with his fingers from below his eyes to his jaw.

“Threadbearers and Tailors are bad omens. See one, and problems will almost certainly follow.”

Tir nodded.

“Can I go now?”

Ardsman and Prentice shared a brief look with one another before the captain stood aside, allowing him free passage on the dock. Without another thought, Tir scrambled down the plank, waving back at captain and crew.

“Goodbye, good sailors! Farewell, friends! Take care!”

It is said that money is the fickle friend of a fool.

If what they say is true, then Tir was far and beyond the greatest fool of all time. The start of his financial downfall began at the ice cream vendor. He’d never heard of such flavors before. Orange sherbet was his favorite. The biggest damage to his meager accumulation of coins came at the crossbow stand, where, after four attempts, the best Tir could muster was hitting two out of the five targets. At the end of his lunch of roast duck and potato dumplings, he decided it was time to book a room at the inn. When it came time to pay up, his search for the rest of his stash came up with just a single coin.

“Aw,” he frowned. “How’d I spend it all already?”

Shrugging, he departed the inn, flipping the coin in the air. When he fumbled the catch, he chased down the last of his funds, watching in dread as the little sliver of gold slinked its way down a sewer grate. His heart sunk. Surely there had to be something he could do. Maybe he could work for some money. By the time the Twin Moons crept their way across the horizon, Tir started to get worried. Most of the inns and shops had thrown him out almost as quickly as he’d entered them. Even worse, he was hungry again.

With empty pockets and slumped shoulders, he retreated to an alley, pulling himself into a small ball. A cold wind brushed by, sending a shiver down his spine. This wasn’t right, he thought. Opportunity was supposed to come his way! By now, fate should’ve guided him exactly where he needed to go. He should be off on some great adventure. What had he done to risk the world’s cruel ire? 

Then again, he thought, the great stories and legends of old began when the hero took action. Leaving home was one thing — but it took courage to forge ones’ own destiny. It was time Tir did the same. 

He decided he wanted to be an explorer of legend.

He’d read about them his whole life. These trailblazers made it their goal to discover the unknown, bringing fresh ideas and great discoveries to the world. When he was young, he and his friends would play explorers. As they grew up, most moved on to take on responsibilities with their family or choose different career paths. Tir never strayed from his goal. Where they failed, he would succeed. He’d be the first explorer from Laithlach. A legend in his own right.

But he wouldn’t become a legend overnight, he concluded. Exploring was best done with a good night’s sleep and a full stomach. He could manage one right now and figure out the other tomorrow. For now, the best thing he could do was rest. After a bit of rummaging around in the alley, he managed to find a sack of dried rice to serve as a temporary pillow and a ripped rug for a blanket. This would do for now, he thought. Fatigue would have its way with him tonight. Tomrorow, he’d be ready to take on the world.

Fate, however, had other plans for Tir.

Minutes before the boy turned in for the night, Feile managed to track down the Sheriff of Cormorant, demanding that he and his finest men help her search for the man that robbed her. Their search brought them to the same alley Tir called home for the evening. The Islander, in a half-asleep daze, rose from his makeshift bed, rubbing his eyes. Three men in suits of armor and a woman in a black uniform caked in mud stood around him. The men were Southerlings - short, slim, tan-skinned men adorned in black ink. 

The woman, however, looked nothing like anyone Tir had ever met. Tir’s pale complexion and round ears were almost in complete contrast to this woman’s olive tone and pointed ears. Two blue tattoos fell like long lines of tears from her eyes to her jaw, glimmering faintly in the dark. Despite the mud that caked the black coat and tapered pants, the rich silken fabrics carried with them an air of authority. He’d seen the three-headed lion symbol before — many of the shipping crates in Laithlach had been emblazoned with the same emblem. He couldn’t recall its significance. Fatigue had robbed him of his ability to think straight.

Well, that, and the fact that he was absolutely stunned by her beauty.

To be fair, Tir had this thought about practically every woman he’d ever met. His mother called him a womanizer, but that would imply that he’d succeeded in any attempt to woo a woman in his life. More often than not, he’d pine over these girls from a distance before embarking on a grand declaration of love. This had never proven successful. But this one was different. He wasn’t sure if it was the pattern she’d shaved into the side of her head, or the way she held her shoulders high, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

“You,” the woman hissed, extending a four-fingered hand in a pointed gesture towards him.

Tir gestured to himself, his face turning red.

“Me?”

The Mainlander glanced over her shoulder to an older, lightly-armored soldier adorned in a red cape. A torch in his hands revealed a thick, alabaster mustache that blanketed his lip.

“That’s him. That’s the thief.”

“Thief?!” Tir exclaimed. “What thief? What are you talking about?!”

“Stand up, lad, and put your hands behind your head.” The guard, who Tir came to learn was the Sheriff of Cormorant, spoke his words sharply, taking the tone of cracking ice.

“But I didn’t steal anything!” Tir repeated.

The Sheriff held his palm high. 

“Come with us and we’ll get it all sorted out.”

Tir turned to make a run for it. At the other end of the alley, two soldiers appeared with spears in hand, adorned in the same windmill-designed surcoat as the Sheriff. They lowered their weapons toward Tir, the Sheriff reaching for a blade of his own.

“Let’s take this nice and easy,” he proclaimed. Come along, lad.”

Read Chapter 5: An Interrogation