"Lady" was a large ship crafted predominantly from wood and iron. Its expansive white sails could accommodate more than three thousand people, and it was adequately armed with both weaponry and soldiers. Although it belonged to the Imperial Royal family, it served the purpose of transporting individuals from various provinces.
Morvain presented his ticket and boarded the ship, offering farewells to both Lavender and Gideon. The weather was favorable, with calm waters and low waves creating a serene atmosphere.
As the ship's horn sounded, signaling its departure, Morvain leaned against the railings and observed the dock gradually receding. The northern sea wind gently brushed against his face, almost beckoning him forward. He smiled, thinking to himself, 'I'll return, Lavender. Mark my words.'
A small light emitted from the ship's side as they set sail on their journey towards the Stormwatch province.
…
In the middle of the night, Morvain was abruptly awakened, not by the sound of a knock on the steel door or a nightmarish dream, but by an overwhelming sense of nausea. Clutching his stomach, he leaned over the bed, his eyes fixed on the ground as he waited for the next wave of sickness to hit.
Spotting a lonely bucket beneath the table, Morvain had a revelation about its purpose. He reached out and grabbed the bucket, anticipating each bout of nausea. The repetitive cycle continued—every time the unpleasant sensation struck, he hunched over the bucket and emptied his stomach.
After several rounds of this, Morvain found himself slumped on the bed. "I'm sure all the good meals from the past days are gone."
His stomach grumbled, he was hungry.
Determined to alleviate his hunger, Morvain washed his face and made his way to the ship's mess. The bustling activity of people walking, talking, and laughing around him grated on his nerves.
As Morvain entered the ship's mess, he observed the distinct class divisions among the passengers. Although there was no explicit discrimination on the ship, people naturally gravitated toward those of similar status. Each class had its own space, creating an informal segregation.
Timing seemed to work in Morvain's favor as he arrived during supper. The various classes sat separately at their designated tables. Spotting Young Master Ravencor at one of the tables designated for his class, Morvain took note of the divisions but found himself uninterested in adhering to such social distinctions.
He just wanted to get this over with.
Morvain strolled toward the rear of the mess hall and settled into an unoccupied seat among those from the lower classes. The table reflected the harsh reality of poverty, and the atmosphere was muted, interrupted only by the sound of the impoverished passengers munching on stale bread.
The glaring disparity in food was hard to miss. The wealthy enjoyed a spread of lavish dishes—chicken soup, rice, mutton chops—while the poorest were left with meager options, ranging from dried bread to, at times, bread containing hidden stones.
His blood boiled. He wanted to end this cycle and he will do that. One day.
A servant clumsily dropped a plate of stale bread in front of him, and he began to chew on it. The bread was tough, but it was a familiar taste. Stale bread had been a staple for both lunch and supper back in Silverlake slum. No matter who he robbed, it seemed everyone had stale bread. If he was lucky—though he rarely was—he might occasionally come across a fresh loaf.
As he chewed on the bread, thoughts of his next move consumed his mind. He had two months to devise the perfect plan for his mission. The stakes were high, especially considering he had killed his brother to set these plans in motion. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes; he had to make this right.
Yet, at the same time, he dreaded the upcoming two months. The motion sickness and hunger were already taking a toll on him.
'If it's going to be like this, I'll probably end up in bed rest for an even longer period.'
There was a fleeting notion of wanting to sleep through the next two months, avoiding the discomfort of motion sickness and hunger like bears hibernating. However, he quickly dismissed the thought.
"Man, why is this bread so much staler than the bread we had in that dump? Isn't this ship owned by the Imperial Royalty? Why is there a blatant class system on a Royalty-owned ship?" complained a young boy about Morvain's age among the people at his table. Morvain suspected they came from the slums, much like himself.
"Shut it, Rony. Just eat your fill and get up. We should be thankful to the King for providing us with a free meal and a bunk for the next two months," scolded an older man, presumably Rony's father. Exhaustion was evident on his face.
"Free meal?" Rony raised his eyebrows as he scoffed. "You mean, selling our entire land and pitching our life-long savings to buy two tickets to a dump? Call that a free meal, and I'll show you the right words." Rony held up his fist. "I'll say this is bullshit."
He was gaining an audience now. People around the table were listening to him.
'Fool.' Morvain thought, though he admired the boy for speaking up against the system. Still, Rony's place wasn't here, voicing his opinions loudly. Instead, he should keep his eyes down and hope things turn for the better.
"Rony, keep quiet," his father snapped at him.
"Quiet for what, pops? This classism?" Rony slammed his bread on the table, the loud sound echoing through the room's silence.
'Finally, the chaos has begun,' Morvain smirked.
"This is the royal fleet. That means all the meals should either be stale bread or chicken soup. For everybody, including the lords, ladies, their sons, ministers, merchants, and the poor peasants! Not just a fucking box for us!" Rony continued his rampage against his father.
The mood had finally shifted. Morvain noted this as he turned his attention toward the lords.
"Boy," his father clenched his fist, "We have two months of travel. Don't become a fool on the very first day."
Morvain wanted to watch the drama unfold, but he was no fool. If the lords and ladies reacted, this table would go down. Even if the arrogant boy was the only one speaking up, the others at the table would also suffer the consequences.
He clutched the stone in his pocket. People were focusing on him. There wasn't a single clatter of spoons or forks hitting the plates. Every eye was on their table now.
'No, wait. Just not on me,' he amended. There were other tables where some conversations continued, and other lords didn't even pay a bit of heed.
He noticed the young master of Ravencor signaling to a soldier. Morvain quickly pocketed his stale bread. Hard or not, he still wanted to eat it. He wasn't the type to complain if something at least served its purpose.
Now, Rony was standing up, one of his legs on the table as he continued his banter. Morvain got up, took the plate with him, and walked over to Rony.
"We should not sit back for this, pops," Rony gripped his father's shoulder. "If we—" Rony spotted Morvain approaching but didn't have time to react as he saw a white plate coming at him, hitting straight on his forehead.
Crack! A few dozen pieces of ceramic clattered on the table and the floor. Rony fell backward, lying there with his tongue out and a single streak of blood flowing from his forehead, like that fountain on certain gardens where the statue pees water.
The mess was now utterly silent. Rony's father had his mouth wide open, as if he had witnessed his son's murder.
"What the—" He was about to protest when Morvain slammed his hands on the table and leaned towards him.
"I just saved your son's life. I hope you will repay me for this kindness one day."
And then, he left.