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 deck of 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! She's tha property and under the sov'rent 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 was aware of the subtle odor of sour cream and onions mixed with a light smell of evergreens. He glanced around looking to the Wizards on his team for evidence someone was casting an eavesdropping spell. None were. So where was the smell coming from?

"We have reason to believe you have received illegal cargo here 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-point hat emerged from the door to what Tybour assumed to be the captain's quarters. "First Mate Thompsiat, what's going on?" This 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 the Warlock in their midst.

The smell and taste of magic in the air changed slightly, a pinch of cinnamon and some citrus added to the previous taste and smell. Not a spell Tybour was familiar with, but perhaps it was just a touch of alarm flavoring the spell. Tybour could tell it was coming from the deck below, through the door to the fo'c'sle.

The taste and smell of the eavesdropping spell suddenly disappeared and was abruptly replaced with 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 pushed his way past guards, priests, and his own soldiers to the door to the decks below. A bright white bolt of magic force from his hand blasted the door into pieces and 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 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 terminated.

A binding spell held a young boy at the Warlocks feet. Tybour moved quickly toward the Warlock when suddenly a large section of the deck from overhead ripped free and slammed between him and the Warlock. Tybour made short work of the makeshift wall, magically tearing it in half and removing it, sending the pieces flying into the harbor in a high arc above the upper deck.

The one armed Warlock was quite strong, magic surged from him in every direction, Tybour watched as several of his men were flung against posts and the hull with great force. One young soldier hit a post with enough force to crack the post and cause it to bend at a slight angle.

An oddly dark bolt of what appeared to be black lightning struck one of the sailors attempting to scramble out of the way, ripping away an arm and scorching the man's side, blackening flesh and muscle.

The Warlock had the boy's arm in the grip of his right hand, dragging him toward a dark, spinning portal in the hull of the ship.

Tybour reacted without thinking.

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

Sunlight flooded the fo'c'sle

Too late.

Tybour watched as the boy was tossed through the portal, the opening already closing at the death of the Warlock.

The portal closed on the Warlock, leaving half of his body here and the other half... gone.

Everything went silent for several long moments.

Then sound came rushing back. Groans and cries of the wounded amid shouted orders.

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

The practiced team moved swiftly to see to the wounded and move those less affected away from the scene. Dead sailors lay scattered about, many still chained to the deck or supports, others floated in the water beside the damaged ship.

Tybour stepped over blood-slicked planks to what remained of the Warlock—a mangled half, still smoking.

Haningway step up next to him.

"Bag what's left," Tybour said. "Send it to the keep until we can take a better look."

Haningway issued orders to a couple of younger Malminar soldiers and they hurried off to get a body bag.

“Any idea where that portal led?” Tybour asked, eyes on the blood trail.

"No," answered Haningway. "I'll put the word out and see if we can locate the destination, but it's near impossible to track a Warlock portal and I didn't have time to put a track on that boy, or the Warlock. Not entirely sure that would have even worked now that he's kinda split in two."

"I know," responded Tybour. "Let's get the word out and see if anyone saw anything. What's the max distance he could have gone, twenty, thirty miles you think?"

Pragmatic as always, Haningway said, "I'd say twenty. Don't think he had a lot of time or attention to manage more than that." 

"Thirty then. and let's start a search for that boy. I think he was casting an eavesdropping spell when we came on board."

Tybour cast his gaze around the fo'c'sle searching for anything that stood out. A mysterious boy casting spells that would certainly get him killed or worse by those in charge of this ship. And a Warlock interested in him. His jaw clenched, worry wrinkled his brow.

The perimeter should have detected a Warlock well before the ship docked, and yet the warning came almost an hour afterward.

This wouldn't do.

Tybour returned his attention to the present and made to leave the room but stopped when he noticed an injured child being attended to by one of his soldiers.

This was just a boy, not more than ten or twelve turns old. The young Wizard working on the shackled boy looked up as Tybour approached.

"Sir, I’ve mended his broken bones, but… his internal injuries—" his voice caught—"I can’t save him."

Tybour knelt beside the boy and reached out, letting a thin thread of magic slip into his body. He followed it inward, searching gently—there: a mangled gallbladder and a section of intestine crushed by the tentacle’s grip. Tybour focused. With practiced care, he repaired the damaged intestine. The gallbladder, beyond saving, would have to be removed. He disintegrated it delicately, sealing the surrounding vessels as he went. The boy’s breathing eased almost at once. Tybour laid a sleep charm across his brow and watched as the tension melted from the child’s face.

Tybour placed a reassuring hand on the younger wizard’s shoulder. “You did well, Rex. Injuries like that take practice to heal. Go see if you're needed elsewhere.”

Rex nodded, swallowing hard. He stood, composed himself, and moved off to find where he might be of use.

Tybour concentrated for a moment and released the shackles from the now-sleeping boys leg. The spell left a clean, metallic tang in the air—a stark contrast to the stench of unwashed bodies and human waste that still clung to the cramped, now-exposed quarters of the conscripted crew. The salty sea breeze drifted in, offering some relief, but not nearly enough.

Two young soldiers in red linen approached from the far side, a stretcher held between them. They set it down carefully and began lifting the boy.

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

He paused, his gaze sharpening. “Don’t speak to the crew. Don’t let them see you leave. Keep him apart until I’ve had a word with him.”

"Yes, sir."

Tybour moved through the room, offering aid where he could—guiding hands, steadying nerves, comforting those who’d lost a patient. He paused briefly to watch three of his team carefully bag what remained of the Warlock—half a body, still oozing malice—and carry it away.

As the chaos ebbed and the last spells were cast, he climbed the steps back to the deck, drawing in the crisp salt air like a balm. From the aft, Haningway approached, nodding toward the starboard side, then down to the dock below.

The sounds of a commotion came from below on the dock as Tybour and Haningway made their way to the gangway. A tall man in officious robes was arguing loudly with the guards trying to contain the cluster of surviving sailors. Captain Talisan stood nearby, hands folded behind his back, watching the exchange with patient detachment. The shifty first mate lingered close to the agitated priest, occasionally chiming in to support the priest’s complaints..

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

The priest, already red-faced with frustration, grew angrier still—but even in his fury, he was smart enough not to lay hands on a guard.

Captain Talisan laid a firm hand on the priest’s shoulder and spoke to him in a low voice. As he tilted his head toward the descending figures, the priest followed his gaze—eyes narrowing as he spotted Tybour and Haningway coming down the gangway.

Tybour stepped toward the gathered group, his gaze sweeping over the sailors—some wide-eyed with fear, others hollow with resignation.

“You’re in charge?” the priest asked, incredulous. “You seem much too young to be in command.”

His tone shifted smoothly, almost theatrically, from scorn to syrup. “Which must mean, of course, that you’re remarkably capable. Quite an achievement—for someone who appears so young.”

The emphasis on appears wasn’t lost on Tybour. The priest’s voice dripped with calculated charm, meant to flatter and condescend in equal measure, a subtle assertion of age and authority.

Then came the scent—honeysuckle and roses, cloying and sweet. Tybour recognized the spell at once. A subtle enchantment, likely woven into the priest’s very breath. Practiced. Familiar. This one had used it often.

Strong magic, too—strong enough that in any other setting, the priest might be called a Wizard. But the Church of Peace denied such titles. Magic, to them, was the domain of the divine, reserved only for clergy acting in service of the Gods.

Tybour doubted the priest even thought of it as spellwork. More likely, he believed himself a vessel—channeling holy will rather than manipulating arcane forces.

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 habitual—reflexive from overuse.

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

His voice remained polite, but the deliberate flatness carried a quiet message: You’re not fooling me.

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

Tybour offered his most disarming smile—one he reserved for disarming snakes.

“Yes. You can return me—and my men—”

Captain Talisan stiffened, just slightly, at that phrasing.

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

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

“We expect compensation, and repairs at your dry docks. We must be able to sail for home as soon as possible.”

Tybour could tell the man spoke not as if requesting, but commanding—utterly confident that he would be obeyed.

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

His voice began to rise. “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 took a step forward, robes swirling. “Are you suggesting we are in league with Warlocks? With Demons? The Church of Peace would never allow such blasphemy!”

His voice now boomed, theatrical in its outrage. “This story of a Warlock aboard our vessel is absurd! Do you have proof? The Warlock’s body? Anything at all to justify this accusation?!”

The priest’s agitation was mounting, his voice sharp with righteous indignation—and it was beginning to ripple through the sailors gathered behind him. Faces shifted: some uncertain, others clearly feeding off their priest’s fervor.

Tybour noticed the shift instantly. Several of his soldiers, who had been casually stationed nearby, straightened and drifted closer, no longer pretending to lounge. Their movements were quiet, but deliberate—eyes sharp, hands resting near hilts and staves—as the energy among the Arrangement crew grew taut.

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

But before he could go on, the priest drew himself up, standing as tall as he could manage—still a few inches short of Tybour—and lifted his chin as if to look down on him.

“I know how you people in Malminar feel about the Church,” he sneered, voice laced with venom. “You’re godless brutes, rutting with beasts, practically 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, rising over the creaking harbor and bustling docks. Nearby sailors and dockworkers turned to stare.

The conscripted crew huddled behind the priest shrank at the outburst—many stared at the ground, some dropped to their knees, muttering prayers or clutching at their chests in fear.

Even Captain Talisan, for all his calm, quietly 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 snapped, voice rising with every word, “but I am a representative of the Arrangement of Peace—and a high-ranking member of the Church of Peace!”

He stepped forward, jabbing a finger toward Tybour. “I am not some soft-headed Seliorian noble raised on pinecones and sloth milk!”

His face reddened, lips frothing as he shouted. “This tale of a Warlock is nothing but a fabrication—an excuse to seize our vessel, steal our cargo, and spirit away our faithful, God-fearing men for your own twisted designs! I know what you people do to strangers in your godless land!”

The priest’s tirade echoed across the dock, rising above the groan of ship lines and cries of gulls. The crowd along the quay was growing now—dockworkers, traders, and sailors drawn by the shouting, watching with wide eyes.

Tybour kept his expression calm, though he hadn’t wanted to slap a man this badly in months. The priest was clearly used to getting his way—back home, disobeying a man of the Church could mean death. That kind of power clung to him, heavy and entitled.

But this wasn’t his country. Here, his Church held no authority, his titles no weight. And yet, he still expected his word to be law.

Tybour was certain the priest truly believed a Warlock aboard his ship was impossible—that he and his fellow clergy could not have missed such a threat. Which only deepened the mystery: how had a Warlock bypassed five priests and slipped through the magical markers along Malminar’s borders, all the way to the capital’s docks?

Troubling, to say the least.

He pulled his focus back to the red-faced man in front of him.

“Good sir…” Tybour began, letting the calm roll off his voice like silk. “What was your name again?”

He offered a pleasant smile, letting his words and magic cast a subtle charm. The scent of honeysuckle and rose drifted in the air,  the sweet taste of honeydew soothed his tongue.

“I am Tybour Insuritor,” he said. “First Mage of the Realm.”

It was unlikely the priest had the sensitivity to detect another’s spellcasting—but if he did, all the better.

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

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

His face was still flushed, and his posture rigid—determined not to yield. But Tybour could see the flicker of recalibration in his eyes. Suffé grasped for footing, for control. He straightened further, seizing the moment to assert rank.

“Godly Priest of the Inner Circle,” he continued, voice gaining strength, “Shepherd of the Lost. Emissary of Gods and Church.”

The smile that followed was not warm—it was thin, tight, and practiced. A mask of piety stretched over the bones of pride.

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

“I can assure you, a Warlock was aboard your vessel. How he got there, or why, remains unclear. He appeared to carry with him a kind of magical haze—something that obscured his true nature from those around him.”

He paused just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.

“That said, I do 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 gaze remained steady, voice even. “Once it is sea-worthy again, you and your crew may take your leave freely. We have no interest in detaining you.”

His tone cooled slightly. “But you must understand—we cannot, in good conscience, allow a vessel so damaged to depart our shores. That would be… negligent.”

As if on cue, the ship let out a deep groan, followed by a sharp, echoing crack. All eyes turned as the forward mast split near its base and crashed sideways into the harbor with a splash that sent startled gulls wheeling into the sky.

A faint scent of pine sap and ozone wafted past Tybour. He glanced toward Haningway, who gave a subtle shake of his head.

No one hurt. Good.

Tybour returned his gaze to Suffé, voice calm, measured—almost kindly.

“Let’s get you and your crew somewhere more comfortable,” he said. “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 had predicted, the promise of isolation appealed to Suffé more than he'd care to admit. Tybour could almost see the calculations flickering behind the priest’s eyes—a mixture of retreat, control, and the need to reassert dominance in front of the watching crew.

“All of the crew must be kept separate from your population,” Suffé declared, his voice regaining some of its earlier volume. “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 prove he hadn't yielded to the young heathen after all.

“Only my priests and the 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 in a show of deference—carefully measured, and entirely insincere.

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

That, at least, was true.

“Now, about that Warlock…” Tybour continued, his voice casual but pointed. “Perhaps you can help clear something up.”

He studied Suffé’s face as he spoke.

“He was a tall man. Wild hair. The left side of his face a mass of burn scars. Missing his left arm above the elbow.”

Tybour let the description hang in the air like bait on a hook.

“Does he sound familiar to you?”

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

A flicker of recognition crossed 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,” Captain Talisan replied, his voice quiet but clear.

Typical of these Church types. So steeped in their own self-righteousness they couldn’t see past a man’s posture or smell. Too prejudiced against anything outside their narrow image of piety to even conceive that someone broken, ugly—or simply different—could be important. Or strong. Or dangerous.

“Plug. Thank you—both.”

Tybour gave the captain a brief nod, then turned slightly.

“Lieutenant,” he said, his 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.”

Tybour turned to Haningway with a slight tilt of his head.

“See that these gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the weary cluster of sailors and conscripts on the dock, “are taken to the King’s barracks on Barret Street. Use covered wagons—let’s avoid drawing any more attention than necessary.”

He glanced toward the growing crowd, then back to Haningway. “Block off the street. Reassign any soldiers currently stationed there to another post. Let’s move quickly—our honored guests deserve proper accommodation.”

His tone remained even, but pitched just loud enough for Suffé to hear.

“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 have to. The priest had likely already straightened his robes in satisfaction. A little ego-stroking now could save hours of argument later.

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

The nearby Malminar Wizards and soldiers bristled at the slight, exchanging sharp glances, a few shifting their stance as if preparing to intervene.

But Tybour didn’t so much as blink.

“Yes, of course, Your Holiness,” he said smoothly, voice like velvet over iron. “We’ll locate the manifest your ship submitted upon entry to Malminar and confirm that all cargo is present and accounted for. If you wish, your captain or designated crew may oversee the inspection to ensure everything remains in order.”

He paused just a moment before continuing.

“If there are items not listed in the Retinor manifest, please provide documentation. We’ll inventory everything and offer compensation for any damages sustained during the conflict with the Warlock.”

At that, Captain Talisan stepped forward—just as the first mate opened his mouth. With a swift, practiced gesture, Talisan raised a hand and pressed the edge of it lightly to the man’s chest, silencing him without a word.

“I’ll check the hold and prepare an updated inventory,” he said evenly. “Should there be any concerns, I’ll inform you—and you or one of your men can verify the damage yourselves.”

He smiled—a casual, effortless expression, like a man discussing the weather. “Some of the cargo is bound for our Merion allies, and it’s… sensitive. I’m sure you understand the delicacies of international relations.”

Suffé stiffened at that, his jaw tightening—but then, after a beat, he exhaled and allowed his shoulders to relax, a thin smile flickering across his lips.

Just as Tybour suspected—cargo neither the priest nor the captain wanted to explain. Contraband? Smuggled goods picked up here in Retinor? Possibly. Maybe it truly was diplomatic trade with the Merions. It didn’t matter—for now.

Let them keep their secrets. He would uncover them in time. Especially the first mate—there was something in his posture, his careful silences, the way his eyes flicked to every speaker and back again. That man had the manner of someone far too familiar with illegal dealings.

“Very well. That’s acceptable, Captain,” Tybour said, his tone 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 we’ll expedite repairs to your ship as swiftly as possible.”

He let a pause stretch, then added, “Perhaps you’d feel more at ease assigning a few of your most trusted officers to accompany the vessel to the yards. They can oversee the repairs, ensure the cargo remains secure.”

Tybour offered a faint, measured smile. “We’ve accommodations there for a few men, should you wish it. Major Haningway will coordinate the details and see to it personally.”

With that, he gestured Haningway over, calmly turning away and leaving the arrangements—and the performance—to them.

“Emissary Suffé,” Tybour said, gesturing for the priest to follow him a short distance away from the gathered sailors and soldiers. “I’d like to assign my assistant to you for the duration of your stay, if you’ll have him. He’ll ensure you receive anything you require—transport to and from the shipyards, provisions, privacy. Whatever you need.”

He met Suffé’s eyes with calm assurance. “He’ll know how to reach me directly, and he’ll serve you as he serves me.”

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

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

Suffé looked the young man up and down, assessing him with a mix of curiosity and calculation.

“Yes. Alright then,” the priest said finally, with a nod. “I expect access to my ship when needed, and I expect my men to remain undisturbed by this... mess.”

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

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

Further down the quay, the dockmaster had mobilized a team of shipyard workers. Preparations to relocate the Dutchess’ Teat were well underway. Thick harbor ropes snaked from the hull to a cluster of tugboats already in position, their crews calling to one another over the water.

The great ship groaned against the pull, its damaged mast bobbing gently in the water nearby, but the lines held. Slowly, steadily, the Dutchess’ Teat was being drawn out of its berth and toward the shipyards—toward repair, containment… and further scrutiny.

Arrangements were quietly made to transport the six deceased sailors to the nearest morgue, where they would be held until burial services could be coordinated with Captain Talisan and Emissary Suffé.

Among Tybour’s own—Phoenix Company, the elite unit under his direct command—injuries had been minimal. A few scrapes from flying shrapnel, and a couple of bruises courtesy of overzealous sailors who’d lashed out in confusion during the chaos. All wounds had been quickly and cleanly healed.

With the immediate threat resolved, the company worked efficiently to secure the scene, confirm all spellwork had been dispelled or contained, and oversee the final departure of the Dutchess’ Teat as it was towed out of its berth. Only once the ship had disappeared around the curve of the harbor did they turn to go, making their way back to the castle barracks in 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 sleeping boy, rescued from the chaos, now waited.

The boy and three sailors from the Dutchess’ Teat had been brought to the Healing Center at Waystone 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, their minds and bodies still recovering from what they’d endured.

The man in the locked room had fought hard. Too hard. Tybour had seen enough in the field to recognize a fighter who wasn’t just defending himself—he’d been trying to escape. Now, bound in shackles laced with anti-magic runes, he waited under the watch of two guards. The man bore three tattoos marking him as a former prisoner of Malminar, and another—worse still—branding him as banished. He had no right to be within the Kingdom’s borders.

Tybour spoke quietly with the woman in charge of the Healing Center—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 turned to join Haningway at the door of the secured room.

Inside, the wiry, silver-haired man stood from a squat against the wall. The years had not robbed him of strength—if anything, they’d carved him into sinew and scar. His tattered clothes still bore the wear of the earlier skirmish, but the wounds were healed. Only the chains remained, glowing faintly with power.

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

Ueet grinned, a wolfish expression that never quite touched his steel-gray eyes. “To be fair, they were trying to stab me. And I didn’t kill anyone. I was careful.”

Tybour waved a hand. A fresh scent of mint and citrus swept through the room, replacing the sharp tang of blood and antiseptic. The magical shackles clanked softly to the ground.

Ueet rolled his wrists. “A few of those kids showed promise. None like you, of course. You finally replace me? Scotsal? Bainbrage?” he added with a sneer. “Those bootlickers would’ve jumped at the chance.”

Tybour caught Haningway stiffening at the mention of those names and subtly gestured for him to hold. He stepped forward, closing the distance between him and the older man.

“Why did you come back, Ueet? You know your face is too well known to hide. What, you thought you’d just vanish into the countryside?”

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

Tybour raised an eyebrow.

“Alright,” Ueet said, with a sheepish grin. “It was a way 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 bound for Dragor. It seemed simple enough. I didn’t count on docking here. Or a damned Warlock.”

“Why didn’t you just go home?” Tybour asked softly, though he already knew the answer.

Because going home meant swearing fealty to his younger brother, the Chief of the Qoitiken tribe. And Ueet’s pride would never allow it. For a warrior of his people, that kind of shame was a death sentence.

Haningway spoke from near the door. “Regardless of your reasons, you broke the 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 I appreciate the honesty.”

Tybour managed a weary smile. “I’ll visit. Maybe we’ll even spar—keep you from going soft in your plush retirement.”

“Soft?” Ueet said, amused. “You were never motivated enough to train properly.”

In a blur of movement, he snatched the shackles off the floor and flung one at each of them. He charged low and fast. Tybour batted the shackle aside, leapt clear, and caught Ueet’s shoulder mid-lunge. In a fluid motion, he turned, pressed the man’s chest against his own, and drew a blade to his throat. Steel whispered from behind as Haningway’s sword came to rest against Ueet’s exposed side.

The shackles clattered to the floor, one set ringing around the hilt of Haningway’s sword.

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

Between his feet, a dagger quivered, point down in the hardwood—drawn from Tybour’s belt without him even noticing.

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

“Only because you ask.” Ueet stepped back, glancing between the two men. “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 Haningway to fetch the guards.

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

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

“Let’s go see the boy,” he said to Haningway, his tone turning grim again. “I want to hear his story. We need to find out how that Warlock got past our borders—how he made it all the way to the docks without the markers flaring. Maybe that boy can tell us 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.