1222-01-21
About halfway through our voyage past Herto and the other islands of the UIK, everything remains calm. We've almost passed Disla and are now close to the western edge of Loret.
The sun sparkles on the sea, casting golden reflections as the boat cuts through the water. Everyone is busy with their tasks. John and Sheila are steering the ship, their eyes sharp on the horizon. Rory is below deck, probably cleaning up from the night before. Bridget sits on the deck, gazing out at the endless expanse of the sea. She's still wearing her familiar armor, but now it's paired with a black cape that billows in the wind as the boat sails forward.
"There's a ship to the right," Bridget says suddenly.
I rush over to her, grabbing the spyglass to get a closer look. Through the lens, I see a colossal ship with reinforced metal padding along its wooden sides. At its peak flies a flag, unmistakably Rali's. It's yellow and black, featuring three yellow flowers at its center.
The ship appears near Disla, the stronghold of the UIK and the most vital island in the archipelago. From here, the UIK governs the scattered islands, making Disla its heart.
The ship holds steady in the water. Workers swarm its deck like tiny dots—hundreds, maybe even more, bustling about their duties with precise coordination.
"Does it look like it's seen us?" Sheila asks nervously.
"No," I reply, keeping my voice steady. "But we still need to be careful."
"Aren't we at war?" Bridget says calmly, her tone betraying no fear.
"Yes," John answers, his grip firm on the wheel. "But we're a sovereign vessel."
"There's always a chance," Bridget replies grimly. "With one battleship, there's usually more nearby."
Rali and the UIK have been at war for almost a decade. Although merchant vessels are recognized as neutral and not to be attacked, there's always a risk this far from land—out here, no one would know.
Rory steps onto the deck, wiping his hands on a dirty white rag. "What's going on?" he asks, glancing around.
"Just a little scare," Sheila says with a reassuring smile, though her eyes remain wary.
"Move the ship toward Pallas," I command.
John nods and begins steering the ship toward the Pallish coast. Slowly, the warship fades into the distance, its massive frame steady and unmoving against the horizon. The tension eases, but the crew stays alert, their eyes scanning the water.
As the day drifts into night, the ship grows lively again. The others gather on deck, returning to their duties or chatting quietly. Eventually, Bridget removes her famed helmet, setting it aside as we settle into the evening.
"This is an important mission," someone says.
"Yeah, so why didn't the Merchant King come with us?" another asks, leaning against the railing.
"He's too busy with Prescar," Bridget replies, her eyes glowing like emeralds in the fading light of the sea.
"How many years has it been now?" someone murmurs solemnly.
"Slightly more than a decade," John answers, his focus still on the wheel.
"I lost my father in Prescar," a voice adds, heavy with grief. "He was a general—one of the first sent there. He didn't come back."
"Prescar's just a death sentence," another mutters bitterly, their words hanging in the salty air.
The crew falls silent, the weight of their shared losses settling over them as the stars begin to dot the night sky.
"That's not true!" Sheila yells, slamming her hand on the table.
"And why isn't it?" Rory asks, his voice calm but laced with doubt. "I've seen war. No one wins."
"My brother is fighting in Prescar," Sheila says softly, sadness creeping into her tone.
"Have you heard from him recently?" I ask, leaning forward.
She shakes her head. "Not lately, no. But I have faith."
"Faith doesn't win wars," Rory mutters under his breath.
Rory is from Loret, a land notorious for its tribal infighting. He's seen people die for no reason, entire lives snuffed out without purpose. He doesn't know what became of his own family, either—whether they're alive or lost to the chaos of war.
When I first joined the crew, Rory had been so hopeful. "I know she's alive," he would say. "I know they're still there." But time and hardship have worn away that hope.
"And what about the War of Dios?" another crew member chimes in. "Do you really believe in Lion's Armor?"
"I do," Sheila says firmly, slamming her drink down on the table.
The crew laughs, one of them shaking their head. "And you chose to side with the Lion?"
"I did," Sheila snaps.
"I agree," Bridget adds, her voice steady. "I've wielded Lion's Armor myself. It's powerful."
The conversation dies down as the ship sails on, the sea illuminated by the soft, silver glow of the moon. The tension eases, and soon the crew starts to relax. Drinks are poured, instruments are played, and laughter fills the air. For a moment, we forget the weight of our mission as we dance and celebrate under the stars.
We pass Pallas and approach the waters near Loret. The faint sound of wings cuts through the night, so soft at first it seems like a trick of the wind. Gradually, it grows louder, commanding our attention. The music stops, and the chatter fades into silence as everyone listens intently.
CRASH!
The sound reverberates through the air, and almost instantly, a massive warship looms beside us, its hulking frame illuminated by the flickering light of its torches. Perched above, riding a dragon, is a figure in gilded black armor. The emblem of a single yellow flower adorns their chest plate, unmistakable in the firelight.
The dragon descends gracefully, its powerful wings stirring the air as it lands on the warship beside us. A plank extends from their vessel to ours, allowing a figure clad in silver and gold armor to step onto our deck. The dragon lands on the warship's deck, its weight rocking both ships briefly before settling.
"What are you delivering?" the general demands, his commanding tone causing my breath to hitch momentarily.
"We have spices, leathers, and other trade goods headed for Loret," I reply quickly, keeping my voice steady, "as well as some items bound for Wara."
The general gives us a dismissive, disdainful look before turning to his soldiers.
"Search them."
the dragon rider leaped down from the dragon's saddle. His fiery red hair gleams in the light, and in his hand—a small circle engraved with the image of a dragon at its center.
The general strides down the deck, followed by several soldiers. Bridget, who has been standing quietly, calmly puts her helmet back on. The silence aboard our ship is suffocating as the general and his men disappear below deck. Meanwhile, the dragon prowls the ship, circling Sheila and John like a predator stalking its prey. Sheila trembles, her fear evident as John wraps an arm around her protectively. The beast seems to revel in their unease, its glowing eyes tracking their every movement.
Moments later, the general returns, flanked by two soldiers. One of them carries a small chest, its surface adorned with intricate gemstone engravings.
"And what is this?" the general demands, his voice sharp.
"I'm not sure," I say honestly. "The Merchant King told us not to open it."
"Where is it headed?" the general presses.
"To Wara," I repeat firmly.
The general scowls but pries open the chest. A faint, swirling cloud emerges, and his face shifts from authority to a mix of panic and astonishment. The dragon let a sharp roar once the box was opened and the rider ran to snapping the lid shut.
"You may leave," the general commands abruptly, his voice unsteady.
The dragon rider whistles sharply, and the massive creature responds instantly, retreating to the warship. As the soldiers follow, the plank is pulled back, falling into the water with a splash. The warship begins to move away, its imposing figure shrinking into the distance.
John wastes no time, steering our ship away from the encounter. The tension lingers, but relief washes over us as the gap between our vessels grows.
"What's in that box?" Sheila asks, her voice trembling.
"I don't know," Bridget replies, her tone firm. "But it's best we don't open it."
Whatever lies in that box, I think to myself, even dragons tremble before it.