Theron
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The Raven's Fang cuts through the Rose Sea's gentle swells, her timbers groaning like an old warrior's bones as we trail the Barelli fleet toward a land I've only heard about in dockside tales, thick with smoke and exaggeration. The evening unfurls like a painter's dream—amber and violet clouds streaking the sky, a cool breeze kissing my face with salt and the faint musk of distant shores. It's a damn sight better than the thirty-nine days of hell we've endured. Since the second dawn, storms battered us, waves rearing twenty-five feet, their crests clawing like some ancient beast. By some miracle—or the gods' cruel whim—not one of the forty Barelli galleys, nor our three mercenary ships, went down.
Our vessels—Raven's Fang, Wolf's Bite, and Serpent's Tail—are lean, weathered beasts, scarred by salt and blood, each carrying two hundred sellswords bound by coin, not loyalty. I stand at the prow, one hand on the worn railing, the other clutching my leather flask, smooth as a lover's skin from years of use. The sea's in my blood, the blade's in my bones, and the scar above my left eyebrow tells a story of a life spent chasing danger. Those storms only lit a fire in me—I thrive on the edge, dancing with fate in shadows and light. My brown eyes scan the horizon, sharp, calculating, but I flash a roguish grin to hide the secrets I carry. I'm captain of this ship, hired to guard the Barelli's flanks, escorting their proposal for Lady Elysia's hand—a marriage to tie the Isles of Ivory to the Zephyrian Empire. But I've got my own purpose, buried deep, and not a soul aboard can guess it. I like it that way.
I glance back and spot Eamon, the young historian, clutching the mast, his face pale as a fish's belly. Seasick, poor bastard. A smirk tugs my lips, and I stride over, boots thudding on the deck with a sellsword's swagger. I give his shoulder a playful nudge—hard enough to feel like a punch—and let out a bark of laughter, echoed by the crew's rough chorus. "For such a fine evening, you look like you're about to puke your guts, Smart One," I tease, my voice gravelly with amusement. But my eyes catalogue every flinch, a habit from years on the knife's edge.
Eamon groans, his knuckles white on the mast, but the crew's laughter washes over him, warm and relentless. I raise my flask, the rum scorching my throat, and glance at it with a flicker of softness. My grandmother gave it to me on my tenth nameday, her voice trembling with pride and something heavier. "Reaching ten is momentous in our family," she'd said. When I pressed, her eyes darkened, like she'd dug up a grave. "For generations, our family bore a curse," she whispered. "Children died before their ninth year. My mother's mother lost seven, then two more after the gods relented." That lesson—life's fragility—stuck with me, even in a trade that thrives on its brink. I bury it deep, but it's there.
The memory pulls a frown across my face, and I shake it off, turning to the Barelli fleet stretching across the horizon—a forest of masts, yellow banners snapping in the wind. Our black sails stand out like crows among gold. My chest swells at the sight, though my mind's already on the job: guarding the king's envoys as they pitch Elysia's marriage. I wonder about the Great City of Jade, its rulers, its dangers. I'm good at reading people, finding the cracks in their armor—a skill that's kept me breathing in darker dealings.
I nudge Eamon's leg with my boot. "Tell us a story, Smart One," I say, my tone light but my eyes sharp with curiosity—and something harder, sizing him up.
He sighs, exasperated. "It's Eamon," he corrects, probably the twelfth time this trip, "and stop calling me 'Smart One' like you're a halfwit."
The crew roars with laughter, and I join in, shoulders shaking. Eamon's wit is a rare spark on this salt-soaked journey, and I'm starting to think his sharp mind might be useful in the city ahead. When the chuckles die, Eamon scans the men, his gaze lingering on the horizon where the City of Jade takes shape—a smudge of buildings against the fiery sky. He clears his throat, the sound cutting through the ship's creak. "Which story do you want?" he asks, his voice heavy, like he carries history itself.
"Tell us one of old!" Kane, a grizzled sailor with a scarred lip, calls from the back.
"I'm a historian," Eamon shoots back, a wry smile twitching. "They're all old." The men laugh again, their voices mixing with the gulls' cries overhead.
Eamon straightens, his seasickness gone, and fixes us with a steady look. A hush falls, the kind before a storm—or a tale that might summon one. "On my last visit to the Isles of Ivory, I buried myself in the Citadel's scrolls, hungry to learn," he starts, tossing me a mischievous grin. I feign disappointment, then chuckle low, already thinking how his knowledge might serve me in Jade. "Among the parchments," he goes on, "I found a manuscript about the 'Beginning of Ash,' from 469 BC—a tale I never thought I'd see written."
His voice drops, heavy, and the crew leans in, shadows stretching across the deck. My brow furrows. I've heard whispers of the Time of Ash—nursery tales to scare kids—but I wonder if there's truth in them, something I could use. "A myth, Eamon," Kane scoffs, spitting over the side. "The Time of Ash is just a story."
"I believe it's real," Eamon says firmly, pulling a cracked, faded book from his satchel. The crew's eyes lock on it, curiosity flaring like torchlight. The pages crackle as he opens it, and he breathes deep. "Let me quote Chronicler Jeremiah Noble: 'It is the third day of the twelfth moon, 469 BC, and I pace my study in Ombasa, Kingdom of the Stars. I've sent a messenger to warn Ossirah IX, Pherosin of Amarthia, of shadows spilling from the Osiria Ore mines, wreaking havoc. My nightmares—visions these past thirty nights—were no dreams. They were premonitions. If true, the gods have cursed us all…'"
Silence hits the deck, broken only by the ship's creak and the sea's murmur. Noble's name—one of history's greats—gives the tale a weight that chills the air. The crew shifts, hands touching swords or talismans. I feel no fear, just a burning curiosity, wondering how such shadows could serve a man like me. I lean forward, sheathing my sword and dagger with a flick. "Where was this Kingdom of Amarthia, Eamon?"
He exhales, pointing to the city rising in the distance, its buildings glowing in the sunset's fire. The Rose Sea mirrors the crimson and gold, framing Jade in a halo. "From what I know," he says, voice steady but reverent, "it's a twelve-day ride from the City. Reach the outskirts, and you're in what was once Amarthia."
"Once…" I echo, my eyes snapping to his, a question—and a spark of calculation—hidden in my gaze. "Once?"
Eamon opens his mouth to answer, but a shout cuts him off. Edward, the Barelli captain on our ship, bursts from the helm's quarters, his yellow cloak flapping, face flushed. "Make ready! City ahead!" he bellows, his voice carrying the weight of command, though his presence here shows the Barelli's wary trust in us sellswords.
The crew springs up, steel clinking, leather creaking as they don armor—blackened chest plates, bracers with swirling patterns, helms etched with family names. I adjust my helm, Aeloria—my grandmother's name—scribed across the brow. Eamon stows his book, hands trembling but resolute. I stride to the railing, my cloak billowing, and peer at the Great City of Jade. Its walls rise sheer from sea cliffs, towers blazing in the sunset, Zephyrian banners—blue with silver roses—fluttering. The harbor buzzes, lanterns twinkling like stars on the darkening water. Beyond, the Wasting Desert stretches into twilight, a sea of shadow and sand.
A knot tightens in my chest. This isn't just a port—it's the heart of the Zephyrian Empire, a place of wealth and treachery, where alliances are forged in gold and broken in blood. I think of King John I, the boy king leading this fleet, and his bid for Elysia's hand to bind the Isles to Jade. I've never met her or her brother, Prince Vesper, but whispers paint him as a ruthless bastard, dreaming of a lost throne. My loyalty's to my coin and my men, not House Barelli, but my private purpose hums beneath my grin. I'm a man of many masks, and this city's my stage.
"Captain Theron," Edward calls, striding over with a parchment, his tone clipped but polite. "Orders from the king. We anchor a league out tonight, show our numbers at dawn. A display of strength."
I nod, jaw tight, hiding my thoughts. "Smart. Let them see the bear's claws—and our steel—before they size us up." I turn to my crew, voice booming. "Drop anchor, light the lanterns! We make our mark tonight!"
The men roar, their voices thunder over the waves. As the Raven's Fang slows, sails snapping shut, I glance at Jade. The sun's gone, the sky bruised purple with crimson streaks. The city's lights glitter, a web of promises and dangers. I take a swig of rum, the burn grounding me. The sea brought me here, but the land—and its games—will test me.
Morning breaks over the Rose Sea like a shattered gem, crimson and gold spilling across the waves. The Raven's Fang rocks at anchor, black sails furled, a shadow among the Barelli's golden fleet. I stand at the prow, cloak snapping in the dawn breeze, watching boats lower into the water. The air's crisp, salty, promising a new day, but wariness coils in my chest. Jade's a viper's nest, and I don't trust its shine.
My men—Gorran, a brute with a thunderous laugh, and Torm, wiry and dagger-happy—stand ready, handpicked for the shore trip. Eamon's nearby, his seasickness gone, eyes gleaming with a scholar's hunger. Edward adjusts his yellow cloak, the Barelli bear gleaming. With us are Barelli delegates—lords and advisors in silks, pale under their mission's weight. We're to meet Zephyrian leaders and deliver John's proposal for Elysia's hand.
A murmur ripples through us: King John's staying aboard the Golden Bear. Edward clears his throat, addressing us with forced calm. "His Grace has… pressing matters," he says, voice strained. "A sudden ailment. He'll join us when able." The lie's flimsy as a tavern wench's word—a king too sick for this, but fit to send forty ships? I raise an eyebrow, smirking, but keep quiet, my eyes on the pier.
Our boats row closer, oars splashing rhythmically, and I spot three figures at the pier's end, flanked by Zephyrian guards in gleaming armor, their faces wrapped in blue cloth with silver roses, eyes burning with loyalty. Prince Vesper stands center, tall, slim, blonde hair cascading past his shoulders, some strands braided like gold. His blue eyes are cold as ice, his pale skin almost ghostly. Tales of his cruelty precede him, but he looks brittle, like a statue ready to crack.
Beside him is Zephyr IV, Sultan of Zephyria, a storm of a man. His black skin shines, gold and jewels glinting—rings, an amber-and-onyx chain, a blue silk robe with rose embroidery. His braided hair, gray-streaked, falls past his shoulders, a medium beard framing a stern, wise face. He's a warrior-king, broad-shouldered, unyielding, the kind who breaks foes with a look.
Then I see Lady Elysia, and my breath catches. She's shorter, softer, but commands attention. Sailors' crude jests—you'd rather fuck a sheep—are lies. Her rosy cheeks glow, full lips parted, hazel eyes sparking defiance beneath allure. Her golden hair falls in waves, a halo in the dawn. Her white skirt and lace-trimmed blouse hug her curves, silver and pearl rings gleaming, a rose-chain necklace at her throat. She's a rare beauty in this world of steel and blood, and I stare too long.
Our boats hit the pier, and I step ashore first, boots thudding. I approach the trio, my men and the delegates behind, and offer a shallow bow—courtesy, not submission. Zephyr steps forward, hand outstretched, and I clasp it, feeling his strength. "Welcome to the Great City of Jade," he says, voice like thunder over dunes. "I am Zephyr IV, Sultan of Zephyria."
"Theron, captain of the Raven's Fang," I reply, steady. "An honor, my lord."
Vesper's next, his pale hand offered with disdain. I shake it, his fingers cold, and meet his icy gaze without blinking. "Prince Vesper," I say, neutral, noting his sneer—sellswords are filth to him.
Elysia offers her hand, and I take it gently, her warmth stirring something I bury fast. "Lady Elysia," I say, voice softening. "A pleasure."
"Captain Theron," she replies, breathy but firm, her hazel eyes studying me. "Welcome to the city."
As introductions continue, I step back beside Eamon, watching the delegates present their credentials. I lean in, voice low. "These Zephyrians look tough," I murmur, eyeing the guards. "Even with their faces wrapped, their eyes say they'd die for the Sultan. Skilled, too, I'd wager. We'd best stay sharp."
Eamon nods, awestruck by the city. "It's remarkable," he breathes. "The architecture, the colors—every stone's a story. I could spend a lifetime here and not learn half its secrets."
We're led up stone steps, through city gates, into Jade's heart. Our quarters in the palace are lavish—marble, sandstone, silver-and-blue tapestries. My chamber's got silken bedding, carved wooden furniture with clay reliefs, and a view of the Rose Sea. Gorran whistles, touching a panel. "Fit for a king," he grunts. "Though the whores here probably cost more than our pay."
Torm smirks, tossing his dagger onto the bed. "I'd sleep better in a ditch. Too many shadows."
I nod, scanning for hidden doors or spy holes. "A pretty cage," I say, voice low. "Beautiful, but politics like this turn beds into graves."
The Barelli delegates, in their own wing, mutter similar unease, though Edward forces a smile. "A fine welcome," he says, hand near his sword. "Let's hope it holds."
Later, we're toured through the city, a gesture of good faith before tomorrow's meeting. I'm with Eamon, Gorran, and Torm, led by Khepri, a striking woman with sharp features—dark almond eyes, high cheekbones, bronze skin unlike the Zephyrians' usual look. Eamon whispers, "She's not Zephyrian. Maybe from the Sunscorched Realms or a trade port."
Khepri guides us through bustling streets, thick with spiced bread, roasted dates, and jasmine. Sandstone towers mix with wooden, clay-reinforced buildings, rose motifs carved into stone, inlaid with turquoise and lapis. Markets overflow with saffron and indigo fabrics, children's laughter blending with merchants' calls and priests' chants to ancient gods.
At a fruit stand, Khepri points to golden melons. "A delicacy from the Sakhara Sunplains," she says, voice musical. I reach for one, but two Zephyrian guards approach, spears lowered, barking in their tongue. Their gestures are hostile, and my hand hovers near my dagger. Gorran and Torm step in front, hands on swords. "Easy, lads," I mutter, eyes locked on the guards.
Khepri steps between us, her rapid Zephyrian calming them. They lower their spears, nod, and leave. She turns, smiling wryly. "They thought you were stealing. They don't speak Common and are protective of their market."
Gorran laughs, clapping my shoulder. "Stealing a melon? I thought you'd go for jewels, Captain!"
Torm grins, sheathing his dagger. "Or a wench. You're no fruit thief."
Eamon chuckles nervously. "I thought we were done for. But their armor—those roses! I need to sketch them."
I smirk, watching the guards' backs. "Those spears weren't for show," I say quietly. "This city's a powder keg, and we're the spark. Keep your blades sharp." The encounter stings, but my deeper purpose hums, a shadow trailing me.
At a stall with turquoise beads, I see my chance. "Pardon, Khepri," I say, grinning. "Too much rum on the ship—need to piss." She nods, gesturing for the group to wait.
"Don't be long, Captain," she says, her voice a melody. "The city's got more to show."
I slip into an alley behind a potter's stall, the air thick with clay and dust, the market's din fading. A scarred Zephyrian limps from the shadows, breath sour with wine. "You're late," he mutters, eyes darting.
I lean against the wall, hand near my dagger. "I'm here," I say, low. He shoves a crumpled parchment into my hand—a sketch of a palace chamber, Vesper's quarters marked with a red smudge. He taps it, finger trembling. "Tonight, the gardens light up—feast of roses. He'll be there, restless. Tomorrow, they talk marriage—he'll fight it." His gaze flicks to the alley's end. "Your move."
I tuck the parchment into my cloak, nodding. "Keep watching." I melt back into the crowd, memorizing the sketch—doors, windows, a path to slip in unseen.
Rejoining the group, Khepri leads us to a courtyard with a half-finished statue—a robed figure, staff in hand, face stern under clay and wood. "A new monument," she says warmly.
Gorran squints. "That the prince's statue? Looks like a pompous arse."
Vesper, nearby with a sculptor, whirls, his braids glinting, pale skin flushing. "This is no statue of mine, you dog," he snaps. "It's a priest of this wretched land—dead a century. I'd not waste breath on such filth." His sneer sweeps us. "Mind your tongues, sellswords. They're the only tools you sharpen."
I meet his gaze, smiling easily, eyes hard. "Apologies, my lord," I say, smooth. "We're rough—used to statues of men, not shadows. Must be local custom." The jab's veiled, but his jaw clenches, and the guards shift, their wrapped faces unreadable but intense.
Khepri intervenes, voice soothing. "The priest was a healer, revered," she says, moving us on. Vesper's temper's a crack I can pry open.
As the sun dips, Eamon and I share a chamber, its sandstone walls cool, wooden beams casting shadows. Eamon sketches rose motifs, pencil scratching. I lean against the wall, flask in hand, Vesper's outburst lingering.
Eamon looks up, blushing. "That guide—Khepri," he says shyly. "She's… pretty, no? I'd like to find her, ask about the city's past. And… hers, maybe."
I chuckle warmly, though my mind's cold, calculating. "Careful, Smart One," I tease. "She'll have you writing love songs instead of histories. If you chase her, I'll watch your back—though half the city's probably at her door."
Eamon laughs, tension easing. I sip, gazing out the window. Tonight's feast could be my moment—a strike amid the revelry. I need to be swift, unseen.
The Night of Roses turns the palace gardens into a riot of light and sound. Rose-shaped lanterns glow, jasmine and roasted lamb scent the air. Nobles, priests, and commoners mingle, their laughter blending with reed flutes and drums. I move through the crowd, cloak tight, hand brushing my dagger. The sketch maps Vesper's chamber, but tonight, I need a vantage to watch.
I spot Vesper slipping away, his braids glinting as he climbs a stair to a secluded balcony overlooking the gardens, away from his quarters. I follow, steps silent, pulse steady. The balcony's small, framed by roses, the city a torchlit tapestry below. Vesper's at the railing, back to me, rigid with disdain.
My hand slides to my dagger, the blade whispering free, my breath even. One thrust, and it's done. I step closer, the air thick with roses, when a voice stops me.
"Brother," Elysia calls, her skirt rustling as she joins him, hazel eyes bright, smile warm. "You're missing the dance—awful, but you might laugh."
I freeze, sheathing the dagger, slipping into shadows. Vesper turns, his expression softening. "I'd sooner dance with a pig than these curs," he says, fond.
Elysia pouts, then sees me. "Captain Theron," she says, curious. "Enjoying the night?"
I step forward, smiling, heart pounding. "Aye, my lady," I say, nodding to Vesper. "Catching my breath. Fine festivities." I can't strike—not with her here. Her scream, her brother's blood on her gown—it twists something in me. I'll spare Vesper for her sake, find another way, maybe in his chambers, as the sketch promises.
We return to the feast, and I linger, my choice heavy. The mission can wait.
Later, Eamon, Gorran, Torm, and I crowd into Eamon's chamber, wine pitchers empty, laughter thick. I sprawl in a chair, flask aside, grinning.
Gorran slams his mug down, wine sloshing. "You, Smart One," he roars at Eamon, "near pissed yourself at that fruit stand! Thought you'd faint when the guard jabbed at the captain!"
Eamon, red-faced, waves a hand. "I was observing, you ox! Their armor—those roses! I'd have died happy sketching them!"
Torm cackles, tossing a grape at Eamon. "Sketching, my arse! You were shaking like a pup! Bet you'd sketch Khepri's arse faster!"
Eamon sputters, the grape bouncing off. "I—would not! She's a lady of culture! I'd sketch her… with respect!"
I laugh, deep and real, the night's weight lifting. "Respect, he says," I tease, raising an imaginary mug. "To Eamon, the poet who'd draw a wench's curves with a priest's piety!"
Laughter erupts, Gorran nearly falling, Torm clutching his sides, Eamon burying his face, his protests drowned. I lean back, wine warming me. Tomorrow's meeting looms, Vesper's defiance ahead, but tonight, I let the laughter shield me from the shadows waiting.