The Curator
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Chapter 18 - 20
🕑 Added 2025-07-20 16:57:45 +0000 UTC
<author note>
Patreon got an update and i haven't found out yet how to upload without sending everyone a notification. So i stacked the chapters in one post. If noone complains i gonna keep uploading in this format until i find out what has happend with patreon :)
<author note>
Chapter 18:
The sun rose over the endless ocean, casting its first rays of golden-orange light across the polished deck of the elven ship. The wood shimmered in the dawn like lacquered amber, and the sails caught the morning breeze with an effortless grace. We were no longer flying. I'd grown tired of steering the vessel through the skies, where every shift in direction demanded my focus. I preferred drifting on water, watching the waves crash against the hull and the foam swirl like lace in our wake. It gave me time to experiment with the aether or simply sit and breathe.
We were headed toward Mardik, a coastal town swallowed long ago by bandits and pirates. A charming cesspool, really. I’d be surprised if we reached it without drawing some blood. Waters around such places were rarely calm, and if we were attacked, I’d be the one cleaning up the mess. Most of the current crew could barely lift a sword. Still, a little chaos wouldn’t hurt. It had been too quiet lately.
I glanced over at Sarah, who was cheerfully humming to herself near the galley. Perhaps giving her that leaf had been a mistake. The aether clung to her now, wrapping around her body like mist caught in moonlight. Soon, she would be able to manipulate it. I remembered how hard I had to work to gain even a fraction of the power she had stumbled into. Of course, I had amplified the effect with the circle I’d drawn beneath her when she consumed the leaf. Even so, finding a resource like that without killing hundreds was nothing short of miraculous.
Speaking of my eager little disciple, it had taken me nearly an hour to teach her how to properly cook bacon and eggs. But she’d finally gotten it right, and now she moved with practiced grace—flipping the bacon at just the right moment, stirring the eggs without burning them. Between that and her soup, she was truly making progress. I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. Teaching her was frustrating, yes, but oddly satisfying. Sometimes I wondered if her nose even worked though, given how many flavors she’d failed to detect.
“You’re okay with roughing up some bandits, right? Believe me, they deserve it,” Rafael said groggily, holding his aching head in one hand. He looked as if his soul was trying to escape through his mouth. “I’ve seen them do horrible things. Selling children, working with fishfolk…”
That last part caught my attention like a blade against skin.
“What do you mean by working with fishmen?” I asked, my voice sharper than intended. A few crew members turned their heads, though most were either asleep below deck or high in the rigging, steering the ship toward our destination.
“I saw it twice, with my own eyes,” Rafael said, his voice low and weary. “Didn’t know who they were back then, but yeah. I’m sure of it.”
He didn’t understand the weight of what he was saying. In his time, perhaps it was just another oddity. But in mine? Fishmen were worse than slavers, worse than death itself. At least death gave you dignity. Fishmen devoured you slowly while laughing at your pain. They were sadistic creatures, mockeries of flesh and spirit. I had watched them feast on soldiers, tear them apart while whispering madness into their ears.
“I’ll make sure they regret it,” I muttered, fists clenching. No one who allied with fishmen deserved mercy. Back in the old days, I had enforced that law. Not that it was ever a particularly important one, but it was mine. If I could revive a sport from those times, it would be fishman hunting.
The conversation died down as Rafael leaned over the railing like a sack of spoiled potatoes, groaning softly. I left him to his misery and strolled across the deck toward the two fishwomen. They no longer looked much like women at all. Their skin had dulled, covered in patches of dried vomit, and their long silvery hair now hung in clumps. Much of it had already fallen out.
“Look what you’ve done to us!” one of them cried in a low, guttural tone that barely passed as feminine.
“Don’t look at me. You need to work on your drinking habits,” I said with a smirk, showing no sympathy. The stench radiating from them was eye-watering. “Time to clean you up. You’ll be taste-testing more of my apprentice’s creations soon, and I need your senses sharp.”
I took hold of the aether-bound ropes and heaved them overboard. With a loud splash, they hit the cold, salty sea. Before they could slip beneath the surface, I pulled them back up, then repeated the process again. And again. From the outside, it probably looked like invisible hands were waterboarding them, but my goal was cleanliness, not cruelty. Besides, waterboarding didn’t work well on creatures who could breathe underwater.
Still, their screams pierced the morning air as they saw their hair floating away in the waves. It wasn’t pain but the loss of their once-prized appearance clearly hit them hard. After a dozen rinse cycles, I hauled them back onto the deck and dropped them like sacks of wet meat.
Their scales glistened in the sun, their limbs limp and shivering. Whatever dignity they had left had washed away with the tide.
“By the way,” I asked, my curiosity piqued, “are you turning back into females now that you’ve stopped drinking alcohol?”
I hadn’t paid much attention to their biology before. Back in the old days, I usually killed them too quickly to notice that kind of transformation.
“No,” one of them rasped bitterly, her voice slipping into a lower register that barely resembled anything feminine. “The change is permanent. We can never go back.”
Someone was clearly not handling the news with grace.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I mused with a smirk. “Being a woman can be tough, sure, but being a man? That’s a whole new level of miserable. You’ll have to duel to the death every time someone flirts with your wife, and gods help you if someone beneath your social rank sleeps with her. Then it’s your reputation on the line. Either you hunt the bastard down and kill him, or everyone treats you like a joke forever. It's exhausting.”
I leaned back against the railing, imagining the shock of the first poor soul who discovered that alcohol could permanently flip their gender. That must have been one hell of a hangover.
“But let’s move on to more important things,” I continued, my tone dropping into something colder, sharper. “What business do your kind have with the people of Marvick?”
Fishmen never cared for coin or politics. Their only real currency was flesh—preferably human. In every past encounter I’d had with them, their so-called 'deals' always involved blood. Sacrifices in exchange for protection, usually children. The younger, the better. It made my skin crawl.
“We don’t know,” one of them answered weakly. “We weren’t high-ranking enough to be told where the... supplies came from.”
So my suspicions were true. Another town dabbling in the old horrors. There would be blood in Marvick—of that, I was certain. I’d see to it myself. They needed to be reminded why no one made deals with fishmen.
Just then, Sarah came bounding up from below deck, her apron stained, a steaming bowl of soup clutched in her hands like a sacred offering. Her face glowed with pride.
“Oh, you must be starving,” she said sweetly, kneeling beside the two miserable creatures. “I made something special for you. Master Tiberius said our honored guests should have the first taste!”
I could already tell something had gone terribly wrong just from the smell. Even from across the deck, it hit me like a slap. Pungent, spicy, acidic. She must’ve been experimenting again—though to her credit, I doubted she’d mess up anything I’d already taught her. Probably just added something... elvish. Which meant it was probably dangerous.
My suspicions were confirmed when I saw them: six red chili peppers floating like fiery buoys in a sea of broth. Six. Even I wouldn’t use more than one in an entire pot. That bowl looked less like soup and more like a portal to a volcano.
“What is this abomination? I’m not eating that,” one of the fishmen grumbled, recoiling as the spoon neared his lips.
Sarah didn’t flinch. Her expression didn’t shift an inch. Instead, she countered like a seasoned torturer with a child’s smile.
“If you don’t want to try the soup, I can just fetch a beer from below to loosen your tongue. You must be thirsty anyway. I’ll get you one.”
“No, please!” the fishman cried, eyes going wide in horror. “No more beer! I’ll try it. I’ll try it!”
Poor fool probably didn’t realize how far the transformation had already gone. If he had, he might’ve welcomed the chili over another drop of alcohol.
“Oh, lovely,” Sarah chirped. “Then open up! Here comes the first spoonful. One for Daddy...”
She was clearly missing a few screws at the moment, but I’d grown fond of her insanity. It added charm to our little crew.
The fishman hesitated, then opened his mouth with the resignation of a man walking toward a firing squad. The spoon entered, filled to the brim with broth and a full, uncut chili pepper. I couldn’t help but grin. The moment that fire touched his tongue, his eyes watered instantly. He hadn’t even swallowed yet, and he was already breaking.
“Well?” Sarah asked cheerfully. “How was it?”
He began to cough uncontrollably, water pouring from his eyes and mouth like a broken pipe. His tongue flailed uselessly, and he slumped against the ropes like a soaked rag.
“H-Hot... hot... hot!” he gasped between coughs and tears. Whether he was crying or suffocating, I couldn’t quite tell.
"Really? Hmm, I hadn’t thought about that before," Sarah murmured thoughtfully, scooping another spoonful of soup. This time, it was topped with yet another whole chili. She blew on it delicately, as if it were just another comforting bite.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant...” the fishman tried to protest, but whatever he was saying came out as slurred nonsense. His tongue was swollen, and his jaw hung limp, barely under his control. Before he could make another sound, Sarah had already pressed the next spoon against his lips and nudged it in.
“What is this torture?” the second fishman exclaimed, his wide eyes locked on his suffering companion. “Just how much do you hate us?”
He watched in utter disbelief as his fellow fishman’s body slumped further in the ropes, knocked nearly unconscious by a single bowl of soup.
“Hmm… he really doesn’t seem to enjoy it,” Sarah noted with innocent surprise, examining the fainting creature with a tilted head. “And here I thought those red things would add a pleasant bit of spice.”
“Wait,” I said, staring at her in stunned awe, “you’ve been eating those whole?”
“Yeah,” she replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “They’re nice for snacking. No one else wants them, so it works out.”
She scooped another spoonful, this time loaded with three chilis, and casually popped it into her mouth. I could only stare. My disciple was a monster. A cheerful, chili-devouring monster. Training her to become a proper cook was going to be a nightmare. Still, as long as she avoided making everything into a firestorm, she had potential. Torturing fishmen with extreme spice? I couldn’t even be mad, if she was doing it on purpose, that was downright inspired. Then again, she might just be too simple to know better.
“PIRATES!” a voice rang out from the crow’s nest above, sharp and urgent.
Sarah’s eyes went wide. “Oh gods! I better get below deck and start preparing a victory feast. Maybe I should leave out the red stuff this time,” she added quickly, dashing away with a bounce in her step.
I raised my gaze to the lookout, following the direction he pointed. My boots thudded against the wooden planks as I strode to the bow for a better look.
There it was, a pirate ship, bearing down on us from the horizon. It was massive, at least sixty cannons per side, its sails blackened with grime and wind-worn symbols. The hull cut through the sea like a predator through water. Worse yet, I could feel the aether around it pulsing and twisting, there were aether users on board.
They’d likely spotted the absence of elves and assumed this vessel would be an easy prize. A ship adrift with little resistance, ripe for plundering. What a mistake that would prove to be.
They were within my range now, and I felt a grim satisfaction rise in my chest. If any of them were connected to the fishmen of Marvick, I would find out soon enough. And if they were…
Well, then today would not be a day of mercy.
Chapter 19:
“Set all sails!” Sardik roared, his voice cracking like a whip across the deck. His skin, weathered and bronzed by decades beneath the sun, was stretched taut over a frame built of raw muscle and hardened sinew. Forty years old, with a thick black beard and the body of a man carved from salt and iron, Sardik was a pirate feared across every corner of the Southern Reach. His ship—the Evelyn—cut through the waves like a blade, and with fifty ruthless men at his back, he had never known defeat. But today, fate had delivered him something more than fortune: an elven vessel drifting through fishman territory, gliding straight into his path like a gift from the gods.
The elven ship was sleek and radiant, clearly a stolen treasure rather than a war vessel. Its deck was sparsely manned, and the crew aboard looked green, no seasoned sailors, no formation, no readied cannons. It was almost insulting. Sardik grinned, the thought of gold, freedom, and endless revelry painting his vision. Elven ships were rare, enchanted, and priceless. This could be his final battle, and it would be the one that earned him a castle of his own.
“MOVE! I want that ship now! When this is over, we’re retiring as kings—celebrating every night until our bones rot!” he bellowed, voice echoing like thunder across the sea. His crew responded with a raucous cry—“HEEYAAA!”—and surged into motion, tightening ropes, adjusting sails, preparing grappling hooks.
As they drew nearer, the pirates began to jeer and bare their teeth, shouting taunts across the gap of open sea. Intimidation was a weapon in its own right, one Sardik had wielded for decades. Break the enemy’s mind before the blades ever clash, and victory was already assured. Not that it would take much this time.
Then came the voice—smooth, disinterested, and cutting through the noise like a dagger through silk.
“Gentlemen, could you quiet down? I have a few rather important questions.”
The voice came from behind him, calm and dripping with the kind of arrogance that suggested this was merely another minor inconvenience in the speaker’s day. Sardik whirled, his hand instinctively going to the fishbone wand strapped to his belt—a relic forged by fishmen from the bones of sacrificed children. A gift, of sorts, from the mayor of Sardik’s home port. The wand crackled with stored mana.
“Oh, a fishwand,” the stranger said, stepping into view. “That’s a penalty. We’ll deal with that later.”
His tone was casual, but something in his eyes made Sardik’s spine tighten. Cold, merciless. The man was dressed immaculately: a high-collared black coat with golden embroidery, a formal shirt beneath, and a silk cravat knotted at his neck. His jet-black hair was styled with precision, not a strand out of place. He looked more noble than pirate, but there was something else—something unnatural.
“Who in the hell is this?” Sardik thought, his thoughts churning with unease. But before he could respond, the stranger spoke again.
“You see, I truly despise fishmen. And since your wand was made by them, I believe you and I need to have a little chat—about Mardik, and those child bones you wear so proudly.”
“DIE!” Sardik roared, leveling the wand and unleashing its stored power.
A concussive wave of telekinetic force exploded forward, strong enough to shatter bone and crush a man’s chest. No one had survived this attack before. Yet the man was simply… gone. Vanished like smoke in a breeze.
“What?!” Sardik cried, disoriented.
A moment later, one of his crewmen fell from the sky, striking the deck with a brutal snap as his neck broke on impact. Blood pooled beneath him. Sardik spun, but no threat was in sight. His men scrambled, confused and panicked. The crow’s nest was empty—the man who’d once occupied it now lay dead at their feet. The deck, moments ago filled with roaring bravado, was silent save for the lapping waves and the thudding of Sardik’s own heart.
“What is happening?” he demanded, though no one had an answer. His crew wore the same expression—fear, confusion, helplessness. Sardik drew his saber, a gilded blade etched with ornate patterns and polished to perfection. It had drawn blood from nobles and beasts alike—but what good was a sword if you couldn’t see your enemy?
“Was that a demon?” one of the pirates muttered, a large silver nose ring glinting beneath the trembling lamplight. “Are we cursed?”
Sardik didn’t reply. His hand clenched tighter around the hilt. This was no ordinary encounter. The game had changed.
Something was hunting them.
“He’s not a demon, and I’ll kill that bastard if he dares show up again. Now get back to—” Sardik’s sentence was cut short by a loud thud from below deck.
A heavy silence fell over the ship. Then, they heard it.
“So... your captain’s working with fishmen?” the voice called out from below, casual, but laced with disdain. “You know, I really don’t like fishmen. And I absolutely can’t wrap my head around why you'd give them children.”
The final word was shouted, followed by another sickening thump. Something cracked—something more substantial than fingers. Then came the scream. Shrill, piercing, human. A moment later, the voice returned, now sharp and furious.
“I’m very, very disappointed in you. What’s happened to the human race while I was gone? A few more years and you’d be swinging from trees again, peeling bananas with your feet!”
Whispers spread across the deck like a plague. Murmurs laced with fear.
“What is that thing? How did he even get down there?”
Before anyone could speak further, the unmistakable splintering of wood rang out, followed by more cries from below. And then, without warning, the man appeared—standing at the center of the deck as if he’d always been there. His expression was calm, but his eyes blazed with quiet fury.
“Alright, everyone listen up,” he said, sweeping his gaze across the stunned crew. “Apparently, I have to do a little educational work here. Lesson one: what to do when you encounter a fishman.”
He paused, turning to survey the wheel, then frowned.
“Gods damn it. Is no one steering this ship?”
He was right. The Evelyn was drifting off course, about to collide with the elven vessel. The crash would sink them both. But before Sardik could react, the stranger waved his hand, and a fierce gust of wind howled from the opposite direction. It hit the sails with supernatural force. The mainmast groaned, then cracked violently. Half the crew fell to their knees as the ship lurched and began to veer off course—stopped and redirected like a toy in a bath.
Sardik had seen powerful magic before—but nothing like this. This wasn’t spellwork. This was elemental command.
“Now then,” the man said, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat, “back to our lesson. I want all of you to listen carefully. Understood?”
No one answered. But many nodded, or even bowed.
“The first lesson,” he continued, “is what to do when you see a fishman.”
He placed a hand under his chin, as if pondering deeply. “Now, I understand some of you may be slow, so I brought along some test subjects to help make things very clear.”
In an instant, he vanished again, reappearing aboard the elven ship. With casual grace, he hoisted two figures bound in rope, then hurled them high into the air toward the Evelyn. Two high-pitched screams echoed over the water as the captives arced through the sky.
They were falling fast. But just before they could crash into the deck, the man reappeared again—catching them midair as though gravity itself answered to him.
“Perfect throw, don’t you think?” he said with a grin, turning to the stunned crew.
“Yes, sir! Very impressive throw!”
“Incredible technique!”
“Flawless form!”
The pirates fawned with sycophantic praise, and Sardik might have barked at them if not for what he saw next.
The captives were not men.
They were fishmen.
Bound. Beaten. Powerless.
It was unthinkable. Fishmen were apex predators of the sea, stronger, faster, nearly impossible to kill. Their regenerative powers rivaled magic itself. For one man to have captured not one, but two, was absurd.
Then, one of them stirred.
“Sardik? Is that you?” she rasped, eyes flickering with pain and recognition.
Sardik’s blood ran cold. He had only ever met two of their kind directly, two females of immense power. One of them had even gifted him the fishbone wand he carried. But these… these could not be the same.
“I don’t know you,” Sardik barked. “Never seen you in my life!”
“You imbecile,” hissed the other. “I am Arisik, you pile of soft meat.”
Sardik staggered backward. It was her. Somehow, he had helped reduce a godlike being into this—bruised, bound, barely alive... and turned male?
The stranger interrupted, his voice light, almost mocking.
“Back to the lesson. What do we do when we see a fishman? Any brave souls want to answer?”
No one spoke. The deck was so quiet, you could hear the sails creaking and the waves kissing the hull.
“No one?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen, you’re breaking my heart.”
Finally, one trembling pirate raised his voice.
“We… we run. Because we can’t fight fishmen.”
“Run?” the man echoed, face darkening. “No. You don’t run.”
His hand twitched, and the man who had spoken was ripped off his feet and slammed into the mainmast. His skull split like fruit. Blood sprayed across the deck. The body dropped, limp.
Not a sound followed. Even Sardik stood frozen, his hand unmoving at his sword.
“That was your first lesson. Let’s make sure it sticks. So I’ll ask again, what do we do when we see a fishman?”
There was a pause. Then, in hushed, embarrassed unison:
“We kill them. We kill them.”
“Much better,” the stranger said with a smile. “Took only one death.”
He sighed and stepped over the corpse, unbothered.
“Now, for lesson two. I had a hard time deciding which of the two was more important. But considering your, shall we say, limited attention spans, I decided to keep things simple. So…”
He looked straight at Sardik.
“What do we do with someone who assists fishmen, who works with them?”
Sardik, veteran of a hundred battles, swallowed hard when the man’s eyes locked onto him like a predator.
Chapter 20:
“Did you really have to blow up the entire ship?” Rafael asked, brushing soot from his jacket as the shockwave threw him onto the deck of the elven vessel.
Tiberius appeared beside him in a flicker of light, his eyes still locked on the flaming wreckage in the distance. The remains of the pirate ship burned against the horizon—an enormous fireball climbing into the sky like a mushroom of vengeance.
“Yes,” Tiberius replied flatly, his gaze unblinking. “Even with all my power, I had no other choice.”
“Not everyone deserved death,” Rafael countered, voice sharp with anger. “They weren’t all complicit. Not all of them supported the captain. Whatever they had done, they didn’t all deserve that.”
Tiberius remained silent.
“You have no morals,” Rafael snapped, jabbing a finger toward the inferno. “From now on, you stop killing people left and right, or I swear I’ll throw the amulet into the ocean. I want to do good with it. Not become some executioner.”
Tiberius could have responded. But he didn’t. There was no middle ground when it came to feeding babies to fishmen. Those pirates weren’t just random criminals, they were elite. You didn’t end up on a ship like that by accident. It required skill, and more importantly, the will to be there. Avenging the children brought Tiberius a rare flicker of satisfaction.
Without another word, he vanished from Rafael’s side. Moments later, he sat high on the yardarm with a bottle of wine, a chunk of cheese, and a heel of crusty bread. He raised his glass to the dead children, a grim toast to justice. Rafael’s morality was starting to grate. And worse, Tiberius knew who in the city of Mardik was working with the fishmen. The coming attack was inevitable. If Rafael insisted on growing a conscience, then the necessary killings would have to be quieter. Subtle. Like a shadow.
“Tiberius! Tiberius!” Rafael’s voice echoed up the mast an hour later, searching across the deck.
Tiberius sighed. He had just finished his wine and was drafting mental notes on how best to assassinate several city officials. With a flick of magic, he teleported a few meters in front of Rafael to avoid triggering the amulet’s failsafe.
“What do you want? We’re still hours from Mardik,” he said, annoyed.
“Our cook—your apprentice—Sarah,” Rafael said. “She’s collapsed. Sitting on the floor, can’t stand up. Did you do something to her?”
The tone made Tiberius raise an eyebrow. He sounded like Tiberius had poisoned her out of sheer cruelty. And annoyingly, the brat might be right. The aftereffects of the leaf he’d given her to taste were... more intense than expected. It induced a temporary high, not dangerous, and certainly not addictive, but disorienting. It likely explained why she had handed the fishmen the soup and beer without question.
She just needed to sleep it off. With a little help, she might even awaken with the ability to wield magic.
That thought did amuse him. Yes, things could get interesting. Perhaps a quick healing spell would speed up the process, nothing too strong to disrupt the natural flow. And maybe a crash course in aether control, assuming she could read. If not, he’d leave her a marked book. Surely the elven ship had one worth using, though Tiberius didn’t hold out much hope.
“I’ll check on her,” he said casually, disappearing before Rafael could complain further.
He reappeared in the ship’s galley. Sarah lay curled on the wooden floor, sleeping soundly, a faint pulse of aether humming around her like the echo of distant thunder. One sailor stood nearby, looking lost.
Tiberius motioned for him to leave. The man nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to obey.
Most of the crew feared him and rightly so.
Tiberius knelt beside Sarah, examining the swirl of magic building in her core. Stronger than he’d anticipated. Maybe she was descended from an ancient bloodline that had simply... slept. Well, she’d been given her wake-up call. Carefully, he lifted her into one of the elven hammocks and covered her with a blanket.
Then, he began rifling through the ship’s supply chests for instructional material.
The books were terrible.
What passed for aether theory among the elves was practically useless, watered-down, outdated, and written like bad poetry. The golden age of their knowledge was long gone. Still, he picked the least offensive volume and marked a few chapters. It would have to do.
Could she even read?
Her background suggested little formal education. She was a cook, after all. But asking outright would only make him look foolish. Best to assume she could manage the basics. If not, killing a few corrupted mayors and pirate collaborators would be a fine substitute for training. Hands-on experience always worked best.
And besides, he had plans.
With a small, malicious smile, Tiberius looked out at the horizon, already dreaming of the silent, surgical chaos he was about to unleash on Mardik.
“Are we even moving?” Rafael asked one of the nearby sailors. The midday sun blazed mercilessly from a cloudless sky, baking the deck beneath their feet. Not a single breeze stirred the sails. The air hung heavy, stifling, like a woolen cloak drenched in sweat.
For days, they had sped across the sea with strong, constant winds pushing them forward. But now? Nothing. The sails hung limp, and the sea itself felt still—as if time had paused.
“Hard to say,” the sailor replied, squinting at the horizon. “Sometimes it looks like the waves are dragging us backwards.” He was shirtless, like many of the crew, sprawled out on the deck, letting the sun scorch their skin in boredom and defeat.
“We could try to catch a few fish,” the man offered, more out of habit than hope.
Rafael barely heard him. His frustration simmered beneath the surface. He had set out to do good—to use the amulet for justice, not to bake in the middle of a lifeless sea. “Where’s Tiberius? I need to speak with him,” he said with sudden resolve.
“Uh... still below deck, with Sarah I think. No one’s dared go near the captain’s quarters since he took her there. You know why.” The sailor trailed off, looking away.
Rafael’s jaw tightened. He was done waiting. He hadn’t come all this way to watch Tiberius play god. The elf conflict was over, Tiberius had killed enough to scare them back into their forests. The kingdom could finally breathe again. Now was the time to travel, to help, to inspire. To be a hero.
He remembered the day his dream had been born. He had no family. He had no name beyond what the streets gave him. Hunger had been his oldest enemy—merciless and constant. He could still recall the beatings from bigger boys, the stolen scraps of food, the gnawing emptiness in his belly that felt like it would never end.
Pain had taught him how to fight. Starvation had taught him how to steal. At first, it was just crusts of bread, half-rotten fruit. But over time, his skills grew. He learned by watching soldiers spar in the squares. By trial and error. Mostly error. His ribs had broken more than once. But eventually, he got faster. Smarter. Stronger. Better than the thugs that ran the slums. Better than the lazier city guards.
He’d tried to stay clean, kept away from the criminal rings. But they’d noticed. They always did. When he refused to join them, they came after him. He barely escaped with his life. Years later, he heard that some new mafia had taken over the city. Maybe it was for the better. Maybe not.
Still, even as he survived, he never stopped helping others where he could. A loaf of bread here. A warm coat there. Small kindnesses. It never seemed like enough. But now, with the amulet, he could do what no one else could: deliver real justice.
Yet here they were, stranded, floating nowhere. He descended below deck, his boots echoing on the wood like impatient drumbeats.
Tiberius had taken over the captain’s quarters. Sarah lay resting in the hammock, the faint glow of residual aether clinging to her like morning mist. Stepping into the room felt like walking from a scorching summer into a gentle spring. Cool. Quiet. Almost peaceful.
“Why aren’t we moving?” Rafael snapped, eyes fixed on Tiberius.
I was reclined on the bed, swirling wine in a glass like a noble at a feast. Don’t accuse me of being a drunk. You should’ve seen what I drank during the war. Besides, we wouldn’t be on this ship much longer. Better I drink the good stuff than let one of these uncultured sailors waste it. I barely kept a straight face and it took him long enough to notice something was wrong.
I’d stopped all wind around the ship. Might’ve turned up the heat, too. Just enough to make things... uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the little royal errand boy they’d sent to reclaim the amulet was still frozen in an iceberg. He’d thaw soon enough.
“Keep your voice down unless you want to wake her,” I said, giving Rafael an exasperated look for show. In truth, I was delighted. It felt good to go back to calling him brat in my head.
“Make the wind blow again,” Rafael said, spinning on his heel. “I want to reach Mardik before nightfall.”
Perfect. Nightfall was exactly what I’d planned for. As he stormed out, I loosened my grip on the aether, letting nature take back control. A sluggish breeze caught the sails, just enough to start moving again, but not fast enough to beat the sunset.
Darkness was the perfect cover for assassinations.
