Tybour watched as his team approached the ship called the Dutchess' Teat. Just the misspelled name he'd expect from The Arrangement and the Church. Haningway, his second in command, was speaking to, well, arguing with, a rough looking man blocking the gangway onto the ship.

"You are in our port and we demand access to your holds to inspect what you have taken aboard." Haningway's voice was calm but pitched to carry. A few sailors on the deck stopped what they were doing and began to pay attention to the first mate and who he was arguing with.

Tybour strode up the gangway to stand next to Haningway.

“You’ve no right or author’ty t’ board this vessel!” the man barked. “She’s property o'—and under the sov’reign’ty o'—The Church and The ’Rangement o’ Peace!” The man's voice was raised and his face was beginning to turn red. Tybour could see the signs of stress that indicated he was lying, but about what was the real question.

Suddenly Tybour caught the subtle odor of sour cream and onions mixed with a trace of evergreen. He glanced around at the Wizards on his team for evidence someone was casting an eavesdropping spell. None were. So where was the smell coming from?

"We've reason to believe you have received illegal cargo at this port. We only request a look at your hold to ensure you have taken on no illegal cargo," said Haningway calmly.

Tybour focused his attention on locating the source of the smell and the magic. The taste of it was stronger now at the top of the gangway. Someone on board the ship, below decks apparently. Not the smell of Warlock magic.

A tall man with a dark three-pointed hat emerged from what Tybour assumed to be the captain's quarters.

"First Mate Thompsiat, what's going on?" The man's accent marked him as educated and at least somewhat sophisticated.

Tybour caught the tone of threat aimed at the first mate. This was not a man who put up with any failure from his crew.

"These soldiers wanna come a'board an' check our cargo, Cap'in." The first mate sounded certain his captain would back him up in his refusal to allow them on board.

"By all means then, let them. We haven't anything to hide now, do we?" A thinly veiled threat that Tybour was certain indicated that if anything were found, the first mate would likely pay the price. "Good sirs, welcome aboard! What would you be looking for and how can I help?"

"My apologies, Captain...?" Tybour paused, waiting for the man to give his name.

"Talisan," answered the Captain quietly, directly toward the handsome young man in the shiny armor and white cloak.

"Talisan. Yes. My apologies for the slight deception. We are representatives from the Malminar Wizard's Guild and we are here looking for a Warlock brought to our shores on your ship."

Tybour paused, watching the effect of his words on the captain and the gathering crew. Surprise, shock, no indication that anyone here was aware of a Warlock in their midst.

The smell of magic in the air changed slightly, a pinch of cinnamon and some citrus added to the smell. Not a spell Tybour was familiar with, but perhaps it was just a touch of alarm flavoring the spell.

It was coming from the deck below, through the door to the fo'c'sle.

The smell suddenly disappeared, replaced by the smell of cow manure and rotting vegetation, the taste in Tybour's mouth went sour like bad milk and burnt hair. The smell of brimstone and sulfur was quickly added to the noxious smells and bad tastes.

Tybour shoved his way past guards, priests, and his own soldiers to the door to the decks below. A bright white bolt of magic from his hand blasted the door into pieces.

He rushed down the short set of steps into the room below.

The smell of brimstone, sulfur, and ash mixed with sweat and unwashed bodies washed out the smell of vanilla and the taste of peppers from his force bolt.

Tybour took in the scene in an instant and fired off another bolt, slightly modified, to seal the open Demon Pit before turning his attention to the Warlock across the room.

Smells and tastes came too fast now to distinguish one from the next as Tybour and several of the Wizards on his team fired spell after spell toward the disfigured Warlock across the room. The spells hit the protective magic shield in front of the Warlock—and exploded ineffectively.

A binding spell pinned a young boy at the Warlock’s feet.

Tybour lunged forward.

A massive section of the deck above ripped loose and crashed down between them, blocking his path.

With a twisting arc of force, Tybour shredded the barrier. Splintered wood exploded outward, sharp fragments flying across the room.

Several sailors and priests were knocked off their feet, hurled into walls or sprawled across the floor as the debris tore through the air.

The one-armed Warlock radiated power—magic surged from him in every direction. Tybour watched helplessly as soldiers were flung into posts and bulkheads. One struck a beam with such force it cracked, bending at a grotesque angle.

A bolt of black lightning—dense and unnaturally dark—lashed out, striking a sailor who was scrambling for cover. The blast tore away the man’s arm and seared his side, leaving scorched, blackened flesh in its wake.

The Warlock gripped the boy’s wrist in his remaining hand, dragging him toward a dark, spinning portal yawning in the hull.

Tybour didn’t think—he reacted.

A bolt of white fire exploded from his palm. It pierced the Warlock’s shield, punched through his chest, and detonated against the far wall.

Sunlight poured into the fo’c’sle through the sudden hole, bathing the chaos in golden light.

Too late.

Tybour watched as the boy was flung into the portal, the opening already collapsing with the Warlock’s death.

The portal snapped shut around the Warlock—severing him cleanly. His lower half remained, crumpled and smoking. The rest was simply gone.

Silence fell. Long and unnatural.

Then, as if drawn by a returning tide, sound rushed back. Groans and cries of the wounded mingled with shouted orders.

Tybour's team recovered swiftly. Sailors and priests, most in shock, were rounded up and marched off the ship under guard.

The practiced unit moved with efficiency—tending the injured, clearing the worst of the wreckage, and escorting the unhurt away from the carnage. Dead sailors lay scattered, some still chained to the deck or support posts. Others floated lifeless in the water beside the battered hull.

Tybour stepped over blood-slicked planks to the Warlock’s remains—a mangled, smoking half of a man.

Haningway stepped up beside him.

"Bag what’s left," Tybour said. "Send it to the keep. We’ll study it later."

Haningway nodded and issued a quick order. Two younger Malminar soldiers hurried off to retrieve a body bag.

“Any idea where that portal led?” Tybour asked, his gaze lingering on the blood pool.

"No," Haningway replied. "I'll put out the word, but it’s damn near impossible to trace a Warlock portal. I didn’t have time to tag the boy or the caster—and honestly, I’m not sure tracking would’ve worked. Not once he was... split."

"I know." Tybour exhaled. "Let’s still spread the word. Maybe someone saw something. What’s the max range you figure—twenty, thirty miles?"

Haningway didn’t hesitate. “Twenty. He didn’t have time or focus for more.”

"Then start with thirty. We need to find that boy. I think he was casting an eavesdropping spell when we came aboard."

Tybour cast his gaze across the fo’c’sle, searching for anything that stood out.

A mysterious boy, casting spells on a ship like this—where even suspicion could earn a child death or worse. And a Warlock, of all things, taking interest in him.

Tybour's jaw clenched. A furrow of worry creased his brow.

The country’s perimeter defenses should have detected a Warlock long before the ship docked—yet the warning hadn’t come until nearly an hour afterward.

Unacceptable.

He turned to leave, then paused. Across the ruined space, one of his soldiers knelt beside a prone figure—another child.

This boy looked no older than ten or twelve turns, limbs thin and bruised, one ankle still bound by a shackle. A young Wizard hovered over him, face tight with frustration.

“Sir,” the Wizard said as Tybour approached, “I’ve mended his broken bones, but… his internal injuries—” His voice broke. “I can’t save him.”

Tybour knelt without a word and reached out, letting a thread of magic slip into the boy’s frail body. He followed it inward.

There. A mangled gallbladder. A section of intestine crushed, likely by a tentacle’s grip.

He focused.

With careful precision, he repaired the intestine. The gallbladder was beyond saving—he dissolved it with a whisper of magic, sealing the vessels and cleaning the site as he worked.

The boy’s breathing slowed. His features eased.

Tybour placed a sleep charm gently across his brow, watching as the tension melted from the child’s face.

Then he placed a hand on the young Wizard’s shoulder.

“You did well, Rex. Injuries like that take time to master. Go—see where else you’re needed.”

Rex nodded, swallowing hard. He stood, steadied himself, and moved off.

Tybour turned back to the boy and, with a whisper, released the shackle from his leg. The spell left a faint metallic tang in the air—sharp and clean, cutting through the lingering stench of unwashed bodies and filth. The sea breeze drifted in through the open hull, offering some relief. But not nearly enough.

Two young soldiers in red linen approached, a stretcher held between them. They set it down carefully.

“Gently,” Tybour said. “Take him to the Healing Center at Waystone. I’ll speak with him when he wakes. I want to hear his story.”

He paused, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t speak to the crew. Don’t let them see you leave. Keep him apart until I’ve had a word.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tybour moved through the wrecked fo’c’sle, offering aid where he could—guiding hands, steadying nerves, comforting those who had lost a patient. He paused as three of his team finished sealing what remained of the Warlock—half a body, still oozing malice—into a thick black bag and carried it off.

As the chaos ebbed and the last spells settled into silence, Tybour climbed the steps to the upper deck. He inhaled the crisp salt air like a balm, letting it clear the blood and smoke from his senses. From the aft, Haningway approached and nodded toward the starboard side, then gestured down to the dock below.

A commotion stirred below.

Tybour and Haningway made their way down the gangway as shouting rose from a crowd of guards and sailors. A tall man in officious robes argued loudly, gesturing with self-importance at the red-haired guard blocking his path. Captain Talisan stood nearby, hands folded behind his back, watching with detached amusement. The shifty first mate hovered behind the robed priest, adding his voice now and then in support of the priest’s complaints.

The red-haired guard stood her ground, tone calm but resolute. “You’ll have to wait for the First Mage,” she said. “No one steps foot back on this ship without permission from him or his second.”

The priest’s face darkened with frustration—but even in his outrage, he knew better than to touch a guard.

Captain Talisan leaned in and placed a steadying hand on the priest’s shoulder, whispering something low. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he indicated the gangway. The priest turned—and spotted Tybour and Haningway descending.

The priest’s expression shifted.

“You’re in charge?” he asked, incredulous. “You seem far too young to command.”

His tone slid, almost too smoothly, from disdain to syrupy flattery. “Which must mean, of course, that you’re remarkably capable. Quite an achievement—for someone who appears so young.”

The emphasis on appears landed with practiced precision.

Then came the scent—honeysuckle and roses, sweet and cloying. Tybour recognized it instantly.

An enchantment. Woven into the very air of the priest’s speech. Subtle. Familiar. This one had cast it often.

Strong magic, too—strong enough that in another setting, the man might be called a Wizard. But in the Church of Peace, such titles were forbidden. Magic was considered divine, not arcane—granted by the Gods, wielded only by their chosen clergy.

Tybour doubted the priest even thought of it as spellwork. More likely, he believed himself a holy vessel, channeling divine will.

And like most of his order, he was almost certainly a fanatic.

Tybour had no doubt the priest knew the charm wasn’t working on him. More likely, its use had become reflex—habitual from overuse and success elsewhere.

He raised a single eyebrow. “Thank you… I think. I do try.”

His voice was courteous, but deliberately flat—just enough to make the message clear: You’re not fooling me.

“Is there something I can help you with,” he continued, tone smooth as glass, “as the person in charge here?”

He offered the priest his most disarming smile—the one he usually reserved for venomous snakes.

“Yes. You can return me—and my men—”

Captain Talisan stiffened ever so slightly at that phrasing.

“—to our ship,” the priest finished. “We also demand to know why it was damaged by you and your people.”

He deliberately avoided looking at the tall, red-haired guard still standing calmly before him.

“We expect compensation. And repairs at your dry docks. We must be able to sail as soon as possible.”

He spoke not as one requesting assistance, but issuing an edict—utterly assured he would be obeyed.

“I understand you're telling my men”—he caught himself, glancing at Talisan—“our men… that a Warlock was aboard. But that cannot be.”

His voice rose in volume and pitch. “There is no way my priests and I would not have sensed a Warlock on board for five weeks. It’s far more likely the creature slipped aboard after we docked. You can’t possibly claim to be certain it was with us all this time!”

He stepped forward, robes swirling dramatically. “Are you suggesting we are in league with Warlocks? With Demons? The Church of Peace would never allow such blasphemy!”

Now his voice boomed, rich with theatrical outrage. “This story of a Warlock aboard our vessel is absurd! Do you have proof? The Warlock himself? A body? Anything to justify this accusation?!”

His fervor rippled outward. Behind him, the surviving sailors stirred—some wary, others roused by their priest’s righteous fury. The air tensed.

Tybour noticed instantly. A few of his soldiers, who had been casually posted nearby, straightened and drifted closer. Their movements were quiet, purposeful. Hands rested near hilts and staves, eyes sharpened, as the energy around the priest’s crew grew brittle and electric.

“Good sir, I’m not accusing you or your crew—” Tybour’s gaze flicked again to Captain Talisan, “—of anything.”

But the priest surged forward, lifting his chin, attempting to look down on Tybour despite being several inches shorter.

“I know how you people in Malminar feel about the Church,” he sneered. “You’re godless brutes—rutting with beasts, laying out a feast for Demons to devour your flesh and souls! Do you even want the Gods to return?! They would smite the lot of you where you stand!”

His voice cracked like a whip across the harbor. Dockworkers and sailors turned at the sound, some frozen mid-task, others inching closer to watch.

Behind him, the conscripted crew flinched and shrank. Some dropped to their knees, muttering prayers, clutching their chests. Even Talisan—stoic and cool—made the three-fingered sign of warding over his heart.

“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, young man,” the priest spat, his voice climbing higher, “but I am a representative of the Arrangement of Peace—and a high-ranking member of the Church of Peace!”

He jabbed a finger at Tybour.

“I am not some soft-headed Seliorian noble raised on pinecones and sloth milk!”

His face turned crimson, his mouth foamed at the edges. “This tale of a Warlock is a fabrication—an excuse to seize our vessel, steal our cargo, and spirit away our faithful, God-fearing men for your own twisted ends! I know what you people do to strangers in your godless land!”

The outburst rang across the docks—louder than the creak of rigging or the cries of gulls. A crowd was forming now, drawn by the noise. Faces peered from windows, others leaned against crates or railings, listening.

Tybour remained still.

He hadn’t wanted to slap someone this badly in months. The priest carried the weight of unearned power—used to obedience, unaccustomed to limits. In his homeland, defying a clergyman could mean death. That kind of confidence clung to him like oil.

But this wasn’t his homeland.

Here, his Church held no authority. His titles held no weight. And Tybour had no intention of letting him forget it.

Tybour was certain the priest truly believed a Warlock aboard his ship was impossible—that five clergy, seasoned and pious, could not possibly have missed such a threat.

Which only deepened the mystery: how had a Warlock bypassed five priests, evaded magical markers at Malminar’s borders, and made it undetected all the way to the capital’s docks?

Troubling, to say the least.

He drew his focus back to the red-faced man before him.

“Good sir…” Tybour began, his voice smooth as silk. “What was your name again?”

He offered a pleasant smile, letting the words—and the subtle charm that laced them—begin to settle in. The scent of honeysuckle and rose returned, but this time it was his doing. A wisp of honeydew sweetened his tongue, and his magic flowed, quiet and persuasive.

“I am Tybour Insuritor,” he said softly. “First Mage of Malminar.”

Recognition dawned in the priest’s face—his reputation had clearly preceded him.

It was unlikely the priest could sense another’s spellcasting. But if he could, so much the better.

The wind seemed to leave the priest’s sails, if only slightly.

“Cardow Suffé,” he replied, voice quieter now, almost catching on the name. “Charge Priest, First Level.”

His face remained flushed, his posture stiff with wounded pride. But in his eyes, Tybour saw the flicker of recalibration—the mind of a man adjusting to the reality before him.

Suffé straightened. He seized the moment to reassert rank.

“Godly Priest of the Inner Circle,” he added, voice firming again. “Shepherd of the Lost. Emissary of Gods and Church.”

The smile that followed was brittle—tight and practiced. Piety stretched thin over the scaffolding of pride.

“Ah. Your Holiness Suffé, Emissary of the Church,” Tybour replied smoothly—pointedly omitting the Gods.

“I can assure you: a Warlock was aboard your vessel. How he came to be there, or why, remains unclear. He appeared to carry with him a sort of magical haze—something that obscured his true nature from those around him, even those trained to sense such things.”

He let the words linger in the air for a moment—weighty, unhurried.

“That said, I apologize for the damage done to your ship. And I assure you, it will be repaired—at no cost to you or yours.”

Tybour's tone remained steady, measured. “Once she is seaworthy again, you may take your leave freely. We have no interest in detaining you.”

His voice cooled, ever so slightly. “But surely you understand—we cannot, in good conscience, allow a vessel so compromised to leave our shores. That would be… negligent.”

As if summoned by his words, the ship gave a groan—a long, splintering crack echoing across the docks.

All eyes turned as the forward mast snapped near its base and crashed sideways into the harbor with a great splash. Startled gulls screamed into the sky, wheeling away.

A faint trace of pine sap and ozone passed under Tybour’s nose. He glanced at Haningway, who gave the barest shake of his head.

No one hurt by Tybour's spell. Good.

Tybour returned his gaze to Suffé.

His voice was calm. Measured. Almost kind.

“Let’s get you and your crew somewhere more comfortable,” Tybour said, voice warm. “A place to rest. Heal. Somewhere free of gawking onlookers and dockside whispers.”

He smiled gently, almost fatherly. “We have just such a facility nearby—private lodging for you and the captain. Clean baths. Proper food. All at the expense of His Royal Highness, King Malminar.”

He let the offer settle like a warm blanket.

“You’ll need speak only with myself, my men, and the staff. No one else will trouble you.”

As Tybour expected, the suggestion of isolation appealed to Suffé more than he’d ever admit. Tybour could practically see the gears turning behind the priest’s eyes—calculating how best to retreat without appearing to yield, how to reassert control in front of his crew.

“All of the crew must be kept separate from your population,” Suffé said, his voice regaining some of its earlier thunder. “We have a standard to maintain. Exposure to godless users of magic cannot be tolerated!”

He squared his shoulders, clearly performing now for the sailors behind him—eager to demonstrate that he hadn’t yielded to the young heathen mage.

“Only my priests and officers will have any dealings with you, your men, or your staff. And there will be no magic in their presence. Or mine.”

“As you say, Your Holiness,” Tybour replied, dipping his head with just enough deference to be polite—no more. The gesture was precise, practiced, and utterly insincere.

“We’ll do all we can to make you comfortable and see you on your way again as soon as possible.”

That, at least, was true.

He let the moment breathe, then continued, tone light—but edged.

“Now, about that Warlock…” he said. “Perhaps you can help clear something up.”

His eyes remained on Suffé’s face.

“He was tall. Wild hair. Left side of his face was burned—badly. Missing his left arm above the elbow.”

Tybour let the description dangle like bait on a hook.

“Does he sound familiar to you?”

“Tall…? No,” Suffé said slowly. “I don’t remember anyone tall. There was a cripple—one arm, hunched back, bit dim. Yes, I think he had a burn scar… left side of the face.”

A flicker of recognition passed across his features. “But it couldn’t have been Plug. Unpleasant man, smelled like rot, but I never saw any sign he was a Warlock. He’s been part of the crew for—”

He turned to the captain. “How long did you say?”

“Two months before you were assigned, Your Holiness,” Talisan replied, voice low and even.

Typical.

So steeped in his own piety, his own vision of what power should look like, Suffé had never considered that someone hunched, ugly, and foul-smelling might pose a threat. Or have magic. Or matter.

“Plug,” Tybour repeated softly. “Thank you—both.”

Tybour gave Captain Talisan a brief nod, then turned slightly.

“Lieutenant,” he said, voice cool and precise, “get a full description from the good captain. Everything he can recall about this man—habits, duties, behavior. I want details.”

"Sir," the red-headed soldier responded

He turned to Haningway, giving a slight tilt of his head.

“See that these gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward the weary cluster of sailors and conscripts on the dock, “are taken to the King’s barracks on Barret Street. Use covered wagons—we’ve drawn enough attention for one day.”

He glanced at the growing crowd, then back to Haningway. “Block off the street. Reassign any soldiers currently posted there. Move quickly—our honored guests deserve proper accommodations.”

His voice remained even, but pitched just loud enough for Suffé to catch every word.

“Notify Norft to reduce his staff to the essentials,” Tybour added. “And place Emissary Suffé in my suite. The captain and his officers are to receive equal lodging.”

He didn’t look at Suffé—but he didn’t need to. The priest was likely already adjusting his robes, reassured by the apparent deference. A little ego-stroking now might save hours of argument later.

“What about our cargo, young Tybour?” Suffé asked, deliberately omitting any honorific. The emphasis on young dripped with condescension—a final jab, an attempt to reassert dominance.

Nearby Malminar Wizards and soldiers stiffened. Glances sharpened, stances shifted. A few looked ready to speak—or act.

Tybour didn’t blink.

“Yes, of course, Your Holiness,” he replied smoothly, voice velvet over iron. “We’ll retrieve the manifest your vessel submitted upon entry and verify that all cargo is present and accounted for. If you wish, your captain or a designated crew member may oversee the inspection personally.”

He let the offer settle, then continued.

“If there are items not listed in the Retinor manifest, please have documentation ready. We’ll inventory all goods and arrange compensation for anything damaged in the conflict with the Warlock.”

The first mate inhaled as if to protest, but Captain Talisan was faster. He stepped forward, calmly pressing the edge of his hand against the man’s chest—silencing him without a word.

“I’ll inspect the hold and prepare an updated list,” Talisan said evenly. “If there’s anything of concern, I’ll notify you—or your representative—and you can confirm matters yourself.”

He smiled, casual and unbothered. “Some of the cargo is bound for our Merion allies. It’s… sensitive. I’m sure you understand the delicacy of international agreements.”

Suffé tensed, jaw clenching at the mention of the Merion—but after a beat, he exhaled. His shoulders eased. A tight smile twitched across his lips.

Exactly as Tybour suspected. The Arrangement of Peace—famously intolerant of anything non-human—dealing  with the sea-people? Suspect in and of itself.

Cargo neither the captain nor the priest wished to explain. Contraband? Smuggled items? Or legitimate but politically delicate trade? It didn’t matter—not yet.

They’d hidden something. And Tybour would find it in time.

The leadership of this ship reeked of subterfuge and criminality, especially the first mate.

That man’s posture, his restraint, his eyes tracking each speaker—too careful. Too aware. He had the bearing of someone far too familiar with secrets and deception.

“Very well. That’s acceptable, Captain,” Tybour said, voice even. “We’ll have you comfortably settled in no time. And I give you my word—on my station as First Mage of the Realm—that your ship’s repairs will be expedited.”

He let the moment hang, then added, “Perhaps you’d prefer to assign a few trusted officers to accompany the vessel to the yards? They can oversee repairs, ensure the cargo remains secure.”

A faint, knowing smile. “We’ve accommodations there for a few, should you wish. Major Haningway will handle the details.”

He gestured Haningway over and turned away, leaving the logistics—and theater—to him.

“Emissary Suffé,” Tybour said, drawing the priest slightly aside. “I’d like to assign my assistant to you, if you’ll have him. He’ll ensure you receive whatever you need—transport to and from the yards, provisions, privacy. Anything.”

He met Suffé’s eyes with calm assurance. “He answers directly to me. He’ll serve you as he serves me.”

At Tybour’s signal, a dark-haired young man in crisp white linen and polished armor stepped to his side.

“This is Balte. Quiet, capable, and discreet. He’ll accompany you to your lodging and help you get properly settled.”

Suffé studied the young man with calculated scrutiny, eyes flicking down then up again.

“Yes,” he said at last, with a nod. “Alright.”

Then, narrowing his gaze, he added, “I expect access to my ship as needed. And I expect my men to be left undisturbed by this… mess.”

A pause. A faint sneer.

“And I expect this matter to be resolved quickly. Idle men, First Mage, are a Demon’s playground.”

Tybour's men moved with practiced efficiency. It wasn’t long before covered wagons arrived at the top of the dockside street. The area had already been cleared—onlookers turned away, traffic diverted, adjoining piers emptied of idle dockhands and curious sailors.

Further down the quay, the dockmaster had mobilized a shipyard crew. Preparations to relocate the Dutchess’ Teat were well underway. Heavy harbor ropes snaked from the hull to a waiting cluster of tugboats. Across the water, crews called to one another, their voices echoing over the tide.

The wounded ship groaned under the strain, its damaged mast bobbing gently nearby. But the lines held. Inch by inch, the Dutchess’ Teat was drawn from her berth—toward the yards. Toward repair, containment… and scrutiny.

Quiet arrangements were made to transport the six deceased sailors to the nearest morgue. They would be held until burial services could be coordinated with Captain Talisan and Emissary Suffé.

Among Tybour's own—Phoenix Company—injuries had been minimal. A few scrapes from shrapnel. Some bruises from frightened sailors lashing out in the confusion. All quickly, cleanly healed.

With the immediate threat neutralized, the company moved with precision—securing the dock, dispelling lingering enchantments, and overseeing the ship’s final departure. Only when the Dutchess’ Teat vanished around the curve of the harbor did they turn from the pier and march back to the castle barracks in tight, disciplined formation.

Tybour, however, did not follow.

With Haningway at his side, he stepped away from the wharf and began the walk through the city toward the Healing Center at Waystone—where the rescued boy now waited.

The child and three sailors from the Dutchess’ Teat had been brought to the center in secret. Of the four, only one was conscious, and he was being held in a secure room under guard. The others, including the boy, remained unconscious, still recovering from whatever they had endured.

The man in the locked room had fought hard—too hard. Tybour knew the difference between someone defending themselves and someone desperate to escape. Now, shackled with anti-magic runes, the man waited under constant watch. Three tattoos marked him as a former prisoner of Malminar. One—far worse—branded him as banished. He had no right to be within the kingdom’s borders.

Tybour spoke briefly with the Healing Center’s director, a middle-aged Wizard with warm eyes and a crisp, competent manner. She assured him the boy would recover soon. “He’ll be sore, but there’s no lasting harm,” she said.

Tybour thanked her and joined Haningway at the door to the secure room.

Inside, the wiry, silver-haired man stood from a crouch against the wall. Time had carved him into lean sinew and scar. His tattered clothes bore signs of the earlier skirmish, but his wounds had been healed. Only the glowing shackles remained.

“You stabbed three of my best swordsmen today, Ueet,” Tybour said flatly. “Any particular reason?”

Ueet grinned—wolfish, without warmth. “To be fair, they were trying to stab me. And I didn’t kill anyone. I was careful.”

Tybour waved a hand. A breeze of mint and citrus washed the room, dispelling the blood-stale air. The shackles dropped with a soft clank to the floor.

Ueet rolled his wrists. “Some of those kids showed promise. None like you, of course. You finally replace me? Scotsal? Bainbrage?” He sneered. “Those bootlickers always wanted my job.”

Haningway stiffened at the names, but Tybour gave a small gesture. Hold.

“Why did you come back, Ueet?” he asked. “You know your face is too well known to disappear.”

Ueet shrugged. “Not exactly hiding. I went to the Arrangement. Not easy for a non-believer to get honest work there, so I signed on as a sailor.”

Tybour raised a brow.

“Alright,” Ueet said with a sheepish grin. “I was trying to get to Dragor Island. Kenitt's a deathtrap for someone like me, and I wasn’t about to freeze to death going north. The Teat was going where I needed. I didn’t count on docking here. Or a damned Warlock.”

“Why not go home?” Tybour asked quietly, though he already knew.

Home meant kneeling to his younger brother, Chief of the Qoitiken tribe. For Ueet, that shame would be worse than death.

Haningway spoke from the door. “You broke your banishment. The King gave you mercy once. He won’t again.”

Tybour sighed. “He’s right. You’ll be returned to prison. Whether I like it or not.”

Ueet nodded. “I figured. But thanks for saying it plain.”

Tybour managed a tired smile. “I’ll visit. Maybe we’ll even spar. Keep you from going soft in that plush retirement.”

“Soft?” Ueet laughed. “You never trained hard enough.”

In a blur, Ueet snatched the shackles and flung one at each of them. He charged low—fast. Tybour parried, spun, and caught him mid-lunge, sword at Ueet's throat. Steel hissed free behind him—Haningway's sword at Ueet's ribs. One shackle clattered against its hilt

“Alright, alright!” Ueet barked, hands raised. “Maybe soft was the wrong word.”

A dagger stood between his feet, point buried in the floor—taken from Tybour's belt without him noticing.

“Promise me you’ll go quietly,” Tybour said, eyes narrowed.

“Only because you ask.” Ueet stepped back, glancing between the blades. “I missed you, Ty. Disappointing you was… my biggest regret.”

“Will the old man be the one to judge me?” he asked as Tybour signaled for the guards.

“Aye,” Tybour said. “He’ll pass judgment.”

When the guards returned, the shackles were replaced. Tybour clapped Ueet on the back once before they led him away.

“Let’s go see the boy,” he told Haningway, his tone grim again. “I want to hear his story. We need to know how that Warlock got past the border wards—how he reached the docks without triggering the markers. Maybe the boy saw what we missed.”

Far away, on the western coast of Halconiket,  a massive figure stirred in restless slumber. Buried deep within a ruined shrine carved into the jagged cliffs, a red-skinned Demon twitched in his dreams.

Tremors echoed through the deep magic of Rit—subtle ripples, barely perceptible to most. But to the ancient creature curled beneath layers of crumbling stone and bone-deep rage, they were thunder.

His brows knit. Smoke curled from the corners of his mouth.

Something had shifted.

A portend. A warning. A whisper of movement in a game far older than the world on which it was played.

And in the dream-dark, the Demon smiled.