[Before the War]
The night was cold, and the sea was silent.
The northern fleet carved through the black waters under a pale moon, its ships cutting a ghostly trail of silver light.
Noah stood at the edge of one of those vessels, the wind brushing through his hair as he watched the reflection of the moon ripple across the sea.
His coat fluttered against the wind, his eyes unmoving.
Behind him, the soldiers of the North slept, their breaths rising and falling in unison.
None of them knew he was leaving.
His small wooden boat waited, tethered to the side of the warship.
He descended quietly, boots barely making a sound as he untied the rope.
With one last glance toward the distant lights of the northern fleet, he pushed off.
The oars dipped into the water, slow and steady, like the heartbeat of the sea itself.
Ahead, shrouded in mist, was a small island.
A anctuary belonging to the St. Eldred Church, it was said to be a place where even gods came to rest.
