The smell of salt and tar clung to the nostrils long before the masts of the ships docked at the harbour came into view. The road to Porto Calido wound through sun-scorched hills, where the earth was as dry as charred bones and the wind carried the restless murmur of cicadas and ancient memories. Caelus kept his eyes half-closed against the glare of the horizon. At his side, Bia rode in silence.
When they finally reached the crest of the last rise, the city revealed itself to them like an open wound on the coast: a sprawl of white houses with red roofs, walls wilted by the heat, and a harbour full of masts like a field of spears pointed at the sky.
It was the only port city in the Kingdom of Calentia, and for that very reason it teemed with life and intrigue – merchants from the north, sailors from the Principality of Azuria, smugglers, spies and deserters, all vying for space in the same maze of filthy alleys and shouting markets.
The entrance was watched by an old stone tower, with the faded crest of House Calentiflor still visible above the gate – a green vine winding across a golden field. But that vine no longer brought life as it once had. The city, like the kingdom, was divided in its loyalties, and, in the taverns, forbidden names were whispered, as if they were different types of poison distilling into the wine.
Caelus and Bia's escort, dressed in the plainness of armed merchants, drew some suspicious glances, but no one stopped them. In Porto Calido, gold spoke louder than flags or coats of arms, and the silence of a sword was more respected than a royal decree.
Bia tightened her grip on the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. Her eyes swept the alleyways, where barefoot children ran between vendors and prostitutes, and hooded men played dice with fingers stained with blood and gunpowder.
– This city has no king – she murmured, more to herself than to Caelus. – Only owners.
Caelus did not reply. He was looking at the anchored ships: merchant galleys, armed brigs, and a carrack with black sails and a rudder shaped like a skull – a symbol not found on any map or official navigation chart.
Caelus and Bia stopped beside the old and cracked fountain in the centre of the square. The horses snorted in the heat, and the murmur of the market mixed with the hoarse cries of vendors and the creak of sails from the ships in the distance.
Caelus dismounted first, his face shadowed by the tension he had carried in his chest since catching sight of the city. Bia, on the other hand, seemed lighter, more certain of her role. She had in her eyes that light that only kindled when there was a greater purpose – and that frightened him more than he cared to admit.
– I will find you at the old temple of Solarius in five hours – he said, adjusting her hood over her hair. – If you do not arrive, I shall wait until the sixth hour. At the seventh, I will come looking for you.
Bia smiled, but her eyes did not smile. She stepped closer without haste and, without a word, kissed him with the firmness of one who had survived too many long farewells. Her lips tasted of salt, fear, and hope.
– May Solarius protect and aid you, my love – she murmured. – And may the right doors open on your path.
– And you... don't let Porto Calido swallow you whole – he replied, before they turned their backs.
The Governor's House rose at the top of the hill, like an old lion watching rats at the docks. It was a building of yellowed stone, with tall windows and shutters corroded by sea air. Two guards kept watch at the entrance – sun-burnt men with muskets as worn as their boots.
Caelus climbed the steps with a firm stride, the coat his father had given him billowing behind him like the shadow of a crow. When he stopped in front of the soldiers, he spoke with the authority of one who had nothing to prove.
– I am Caelus Duarte, son of Isabela Pisodorato, Duchess of Pisum. Lord Valmorada is expecting me.
The guards glanced at each other. One scratched his chin, covered in sweat and flies.
– We have no instructions – he replied, – and no name was given to us.
Caelus clenched his jaw. Sweat trickled down his temples in the heat, but he did not avert his gaze. He stood firm like a blade driven into stone.
– You should have received a message. It was meant to arrive. I have important matters to discuss with Lord Valmorada.
The soldiers hesitated. One shrugged and disappeared into the atrium. The other remained on watch, trying to keep his face impassive. The wait dragged on. Minute after minute, the silence slithered like a snake across hot stones. Caelus could hear everything: the distant shouts at the harbour, the gulls' bells, the creaking of the banner hanging above the door. And, in the back of his mind, he heard a whisper: do not trust those who make you wait at the gates.
When the guard returned, he wore a strange expression – not relief, but restraint.
– Lord Valmorada grants you audience. You will be received in the upper chamber.
Caelus nodded, but something in the tone of voice, the delay in the confirmation, and the guard's evasive eyes sent a chill down his spine. His arrival had been expected… but not with urgency. As if his name had been recognised… and debated.
The Viscount's chamber was wide and stifling, the windows shut to keep out the heat – or to avoid unwanted gazes. Curtains of purple and gold velvet hung like heavy tongues from the walls, muffling even one's own thoughts. The air smelled of lavender, sweat, and old papers.
Afonso Valmorada sat in a worn leather armchair, a goblet of dark wine in hand and his eyes half-closed like a bored predator. He wore a waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, though time had stained it with wine and grease. His face, still handsome, was marked with deep lines of mistrust.
– Caelus Duarte… – he said, the name dripping from his mouth like spilled poison. – Why should I interrupt my rest for someone who arrives without clear warning or visible intent? Speak your purpose, or spare me my time.
Caelus was not intimidated. He remained standing, without asking for a seat, as befitted a messenger – or someone who knew that thrones changed hands when the winds shifted.
– I come on behalf of Isabela Pisodorato and Edouard Lefevre – he said firmly. – I bring you news of the liberation of Pisum and the neighbouring provinces. The revolution advances, and they hope Your Lordship will consider your place in it.
The silence that followed was thick, like a cloud about to break into thunder. Valmorada set down his goblet with a careful gesture, as though the entire room balanced on that single act. He fixed Caelus with dark, weary eyes – eyes that had seen blood, gold, betrayal, and knew how to tell hope from madness.
– Ah, yes. That news reached me. Like rats brought in by the tide – his voice was slow, almost melancholic, but sharp. – You speak of freedom, of justice, of the people, of glory… Beautiful words, for someone who's never held a corpse in his arms.
He stood with effort, leaning on the arm of the chair. His hand trembled slightly.
– Tell me, boy… what do you expect me to do? Abdicate my title? My house? The memory of my father and his father before him, men who sweated blood to keep this stretch of coast from the hands of thieves, tyrants and usurpers? – he stepped closer, his face mere inches from Caelus'. – Do you expect me to throw the Valmorada crest to the floor like a tavern rag and kneel before a cause that reeks of defeat before it even smells of gunpowder?
Caelus did not step back. He did not blink. He knew he had to convince House Valmorada to join the cause he had fought for – and nearly died for.
– I am not asking you to kneel – he replied. – I'm asking you to choose the side of history where your name can still be remembered with honour. Because, when the banners of freedom are raised while the king's lie trampled, it will be too late for those who hid behind the curtains.
A bitter smile cut across Valmorada's lips.
– And what if it's the executioner's banners that are raised? – he whispered. – Who will speak of you in the public squares if there's no one left to remember your names?
Caelus did not look away. Rage burned inside him, but he held it back, as one holds back a vicious dog on a chain. He remained proud, like a general deciding where to plant the standard before the battle.
– The cause is not yet lost, My Lord – he said, his low voice full of conviction. – The cause is only lost when those with the power to change the world decide it's not worth trying. If there are more like you, Afonso Valmorada, nobles of ancient name, lords of strongholds, commanders with troops, ships and coin willing to rise against King Rafael Calentiflor and his yoke, then the revolution will not be a spark, but a firestorm. And the people… the people may finally live a worthy life. A just life. A life worth living.
His words echoed through the chamber, but met in Valmorada a face of stone.
The Viscount smiled, an old, cynical smile, and sat down again, swirling the goblet between wine-stained fingers.
– Fine words, boy. Perhaps even sincere. But do you know who else had fine words and great dreams? The Duchess of Pisum's father. And, before him, the old Royal Counsellor, Dorsen, who ended up hanging by his guts in the Plaza of the Sun. And now his daughter, Isabela, plays the same game. The only person foolish enough to ally herself with Edouard Lefevre thus far. The Duchess and her little army of starving wretches.
He paused, sipping slowly.
– Speak to me of hope only when you are burying the bodies of your comrades. Speak to me of justice when the guillotine no longer distinguishes between the name of your father and that of an executioner. Speak to me of freedom when you are the one ruling the hungry and the fanatical. Until then… – he crossed one leg over the other, like a man weighing the pieces on a chessboard he's not yet sure is worth playing – ... I will be frank with you.
He straightened himself, and now his eyes were clear, cold and calculating.
– If I am given written guarantees, sealed and signed, that my family and I will keep our offices and our lands under the new regime and if your revolution has leaders with enough sense not to ruin the few lords who can maintain order, then yes… we may be willing to help you with troops, with gold, and with our fleet.
Caelus remained still.
– But – Valmorada continued, and now his smile was that of a cat before a wounded bird, – until there is a clear advantage, a solid certainty, a victory won against the King… Porto Calido will remain neutral. I am neither a dreamer like Lefevre nor a martyr like the Duchess of Pisum. I am a Valmorada, and the Valmoradas do not gamble in the dark.
Silence settled once more. Outside, the distant sound of bells mingled with the creaking of ropes and the voices of sailors could be heard, as if the world continued to turn, oblivious to the decisions that might shape the fate of an entire kingdom.
– I thank Your Lordship for your time. I will carry your answer to Isabela Pisodorato and Edouard Lefevre… as it was spoken. They will know whom they are dealing with in Porto Calido.
Without another word, he gave a short bow, turned, and left, the sound of his boots echoing through the worn marble of the manor house. Sweat clung to his shirt, but it wasn't just the heat that troubled him – it was the stench of indecision and cowardice masked as prudence – the stench of a noble house that only moved when the risk was gone.
Outside, the sun was already descending over Porto Calido, dyeing the sky in blood and gold. Shadows stretched across the alleys like snakes lying in wait.
As soon as he set foot on the cobblestones of the square before the Governor's House, he heard hurried footsteps and his name whispered with urgency.
– Caelus!
He turned just in time to see Bia approaching at a quick pace, her eyes flashing with alarm. She grabbed his arm before he could react.
– Come. Now. Now, Caelus!
– What? What has happened? – he asked, frowning. His hand already moved instinctively to the hilt of the sword at his waist.
She didn't let go.
– I saw her. The woman. The one from the tavern – she said, her breath tight, in a whisper that barely cut through the city's noise. – The one with the golden pendant… with the strange symbols. She was near the Bear.
Caelus froze.
– The Bear? Here?
Bia nodded quickly, her eyes scanning the street behind him.
– And she wasn't alone. There were at least three with her. Strangers. All dressed in black, heavy hooded robes. They weren't sailors, nor soldiers, nor merchants. They're people who don't belong here. I saw them heading up towards the old temple, on the north road.
For a moment, the world tilted under Caelus' feet. The name of the Bear, spoken there, in the middle of the city, made his stomach twist. The Bear was no ordinary man – he was a threat, a nightmare clad in flesh. And if he was with that woman…
– Then there's no time – he murmured. – We must follow them. Now.
– But secretly – Bia corrected, with a dark gleam in her eyes. – Because if she's here… it's not by chance.
They both slipped away down a side street, exchanging no more words. The gulls screamed above the ships' sails, and the bells of the old tower rang the sixth hour, while deep within Porto Calido, ancient and hidden forces began to stir beneath the disguise of shadows.