Tirian rode hard for the ports, his elite unit thundering behind him. The wind tore at his cloak as the sun bled toward the horizon. His thoughts were nothing but storm—fractured, violent, relentless. Orielle's name beat in his chest like a second heart.
They reached the docks in record time. What should have taken three hours had been crushed into one and a half by sheer force of will and exhaustion. The salt-heavy air hit him as he dismounted, mingling with dirt, rope, and seaweed.
His scouts were already waiting. "The ship is two days ahead, my lord," one reported grimly. "We won't be able to intercept at sea."
Tirian's jaw tightened, eyes sharpening. "Prepare the fastest vessel regardless," he ordered. "If we can cut even a single hour off the journey, that's still ground gained."
The scout nodded quickly and turned, calling for a captain.
An old man stepped forward before permission was granted, thin, weather-beaten, his back bent not by weakness but by years of defying wind and wave. His clothes were worn, practical, and stained with salt. His eyes, however, burned with sharp intelligence and barely restrained excitement.
The scout lunged, grabbing him by the shoulder. "My lord, apologies—this man was not meant to—"
Tirian raised a hand.
Silence fell.
The king studied the captain's face: the audacity, the confidence, the hunger. Ambition.
"You," Tirian said slowly. "Bold enough to step forward without a hint of fear. You must know who I am?"
The man bowed, even with the scout still holding onto him. "Of course lord, who wouldn't know their own honourable king.
A grin tugged at Tirian's mouth, brief."Your name?"
The old man straightened, brushing off the scout's grip, then bowed even deeper, but not properly. Respectful, yes. Court-trained? Not even close. It looks more like a bad imitation of a bad imitation.
"You asked for the fastest ship in Eldoria, my lord," he said, daring to lift his gaze. He pointed past the wooden fleets—to a vessel that didn't belong among them.
It had no sails.
"There is none faster than mine."
Tirian turned, eyes narrowing as he examined it. The ship was wrong. Its hull was forged of dark, metallic material—not wood, not iron—etched with glowing mana emblems that pulsed faintly like a living thing. The deck shimmered black under the dying light, smooth and seamless. No rigging. No mast. No oars.
Yet it floated.
"How does a ship sail without any sails?" Tirian asked coolly. "And where are you from to build such a contraption?"
The captain's grin widened as though he'd been waiting his entire life for that question. He clasped his hands together eagerly.
"My lord," he said, practically glowing, "I am Captain Omari. I have crossed every sea worth naming in pursuit of knowledge, to build the greatest vessel this world has ever known! It was I-"
"You're an inventor," Tirian cut in.
Captain Omari blinked, stunned—then nodded rapidly."Yes! By the blessing of the god of wisdom himself! Phoros has given me knowledge beyond anyone when it comes to sea fairing vessels! My ship doesn't even require a full crew—"
"Are you from Veridelle?" Tirian interrupted again.
The captain clenched his jaw this time, annoyance flickering, but fear kept him polite."No, my lord, I—"
"Then we sail now." Tirian turned away.
For a heartbeat, Omari stood frozen, then his face lit up like a man granted a miracle."Yes! My lord, I can gar—"
"You'd better hope your ship does what you claim," Tirian added without slowing. His voice dropped, sharp as an executioner's blade."If you're caught in a lie, you'll be beheaded on the spot."
Omari swallowed hard.
"We're leaving immediately," Tirian continued. "Will your ship be ready?"
"Yes—yes, my lord," Omari answered quickly, nerves rattling his bones.
Tirian turned, eyebrow raised.
The captain forced a strained smile."The ship will be ready immediately, my lord." Satisfied, Tirian gestured for his knights to follow and strode toward the vessel.
Behind him, Captain Omari trembled—fear and exhilaration tangled together in his chest. It had been years since his neck felt so truly on the line. Not since he was a boy, sailing his first self-built dinghy straight into a monstrous storm. That same thrill coursed through him now.
Danger. Risk. Excitement. Gods, how he lived for it.
As Tirian boarded, his thoughts returned to Orielle. Quiet, fierce resolve settling deep in his chest.
Hold on, little fox. I'm coming.
The sea churned beneath them as the ship cast off, the horizon stretching wide with promise and threat. Whoever had taken her didn't seem to want to harm her, that much he knew. That alone was a thin thread of relief he clung to.
Tirian stood at the edge of the strange vessel, the salty wind snapping his cloak as he studied the deck beneath his boots. The metallic flooring hummed faintly with mana, etched symbols glowing softly along the hull. No wood. No buoyant materials he recognized. He tapped it twice, and it sounded like a drum.
How peculiar... It's floating but seems as it should sink...
"My lord," A tall, striking young knight with red hair falling in soft waves past his ears, his clean-shaven face sharp and noble, green eyes piercing under polished armor. Sir Dante, one of Tirian's First Order said, saluting sharply. "We caught a spy in the Citadel. A newly hired maid. She confessed to feeding information to Veridelle—specifically the queen's location in the library."
Tirian's hand tightened on the railing. A maid… under my very nose? How many more could there be? "Who else?" he demanded.
"She came forward alone," Dante replied. "We'll conduct a full investigation."
Tirian exhaled slowly."Anyone can become a knight or a servant in Eldoria," he said darkly. "But only by recommendation can a maid be appointed in the palace... I thought everyone was too afraid to betray-"
He stopped himself.
Fear isn't loyalty, he realised. And I was a fool to think it enough.
He turned to Torvax."You're in charge. Tear the Citadel apart. Every servant. Every knight outside the First Order. Question them all."
His eyes hardened. "Maids require a knight's recommendation. Find out who let her in."
Then, with a sharp glance at Dante:"Question the older maids too. They notice things others don't." A humorless laugh escaped him."Those old crabs know everything."
"Yes, my lord," Torvax said.
Dante bowed, green eyes unwavering."The Citadel will be secure."
Tirian watched him go, one of his finest. At twenty-one, Sir Dante was young, but his eyes carried the weight of battles fought since he was twelve, a noble's bastard thrown into war with no regard for his survival. Tirian had seen his potential, trained him, and forged him into one of Eldoria's fiercest knights, and been loyal to him for nine years now.
He turned back to the sea.
His message to King Sol could be taken as a declaration of war—if Sol wasn't responsible. Tirian hoped, trusted, that if it was Sol, then there was reason behind it. The kingdoms had been allies for decades.
And Sol… Tirian scowled faintly. Sol was a gentleman, but a flirt to all those he deemed beautiful. And Orielle—Gods.
"She's the most beautiful woman alive," Tirian muttered. "Of course he'd notice."
A flicker of jealousy sparked—quick, restrained. You better watch your charm, Sol.
*****
The ship rocked gently as it docked at Veridelle's port. Orielle stood on the deck with her hands clasped tightly before her, knuckles pale. SirCalen and several knights remained close, their formation loose but watchful.
Her face was pale, lips pressed thin as she swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathed through it, then blinked against the brightness of the rising sun.
When her vision cleared, her breath caught. Veridelle's docks unfolded before her.
The harbor curved in a perfect crescent of smooth stone, its breakwaters cutting through the waves with elegant precision. Ships were aligned in orderly rows, each secured exactly where it belonged. Cranes lined the piers, powered by intricate gears and water-driven systems. Lanterns burned even in daylight—fed by a refined, long-lasting oil, and a strange orb on each one's side.
Beyond the docks, Veridelle stretched outward. Streets paved with patterned stone led into the city, clean even in the humblest quarters. Modest homes stood in neat rows, small gardens tended with care. The kingdom lacked Eldoria's wild, untamed splendor—now dulled by the curse—but this beauty was deliberate. Sculpted. Disciplined.
Orielle's lips parted in quiet awe. She swayed, unsteady, and a gentle hand steadied her. "Careful, my lady," Lira the maid murmured.
Orielle glanced down at the young maid, gratitude flickering briefly in her eyes. Lira had dressed her in Veridelle's fashion—a flowing white robe, loose but dignified, trimmed with fine gold thread that caught the light as she moved.
Calen watched her from a step back. Even exhausted, even pale, she carried herself with an unspoken elegance. It struck him, uncomfortably, just how naturally her beauty shines.
Orielle's gaze snapped to movement along the pier.
A carriage approached, but no horses pulled it. Instead, white clouds of vapor puffed rhythmically from its front, its frame sleek and polished, humming softly as it rolled closer. "What is that?" she asked, her voice hoarse but curiosity knitting her brow.
Calen followed her gaze and smiled faintly."An Aetherion," he said. "It runs on mana emblems—orbs designed to capture excess mana."
Orielle's eyes widened. "Excess?"
"Yes," he continued. "Mortals generate more mana than they can consciously control. These emblems collect what naturally overflows and channel it into devices like this."
Shock and worry suddenly came over her. "What if it takes all of it?" she asked quickly. "What if it drains them?"
Calen laughed softly. "No need to worry, my lady. There are two types of emblems. Sipha emblems only collect what spills over—they can't pull by force. And Volti emblems require intentional input. Neither takes what you don't give."
He smiled."They aren't alive. They can't hunger."
Orielle nodded slowly, though unease lingered."How many priests do you have," she asked, "to power so many of these?"
Calen blinked—then realized."Ah. No, not only priests have mana." She looked up sharply.
"In Veridelle," he explained, "anyone who wishes may receive a blessing. Mana isn't restricted here."
Shock crossed her face, but it was muted, dulled by everything she'd already learned."You mean… ordinary people can have power too?"
"Yes," Calen said simply. "When they choose their path."
He smiled, then added, "I chose strength. At ten, I prayed to Myralis—goddess of Order and Justice. She answered."
Orielle studied him anew.
"But you must live by the god you choose," he continued. "It's a bond, not a convenience."
A wry smile crossed his face."We even have some who chose the Holy circle... but...they're selective about who they bless in Veridelle. We honor the True Veil. They don't appreciate that."
Orielle absorbed the information. "And they just… give it?" she asked quietly. "Anyone can ask for power?"
"If their purpose is true," Calen said.
Then, more gently:"In Eldoria, this knowledge is forbidden, isn't it?"
Orielle nodded, her face paling."It's… not spoken of," she admitted. "I didn't even know there were gods beyond the Circle until recently. Anything else—"
She stopped herself, fingers twisting into the fabric of her robe.
"What else can the gods do here?" she asked at last.
"Aequira grants curiosity and mastery of the sea," he said. "Bralgor blesses craft and endurance—many of our machines are born of his followers' hands."
He paused."And Khaylith… he guides those who grieve. He rarely grants power—but sometimes, he offers memories. A kindness for the broken-hearted."
Orielle's grip tightened.
"It's all so different," she whispered. "why..."
Calen's expression softened."Because freedom is dangerous to those who want control," he said. "The True Veil teaches truth, not obedience. That's why we had to save you."
Orielle didn't answer.
She allowed the knights to guide her toward the Aetherion. The machine hummed to life. Orielle looked back once, at the harbor, the city, the beauty that felt almost too perfect.