1222-02-06
"We're here," a voice called from above deck.
"Good work, John… Sheila," I said, nodding to each of them in turn.
"What can you tell us about Tafari?" one of the bridgemen asked, turning his gaze toward Rory, who was busy scrubbing the top deck.
Rory hesitated, pausing mid-swipe. "I was once a prisoner of a man named Loret," he began slowly. "And… Ronan freed me from him."
"Loret?" Sheila echoed.
"Yes, Loret," Rory confirmed, his voice tinged with bitterness.
"What happened? How did Tafari emerge?" John pressed, leaning forward with curiosity.
"I'm not sure," Rory admitted, shaking his head. "When I left, there was no one by that name. I've never heard of Tafari before now."
In the distance, a city emerged, appearing modest at first. But as we drew closer, the scale and majesty became undeniable.
This was Loret, the country without dragons.
The mountainous shores made docking a challenge, but soon a sprawling town came into view: New Miso, the City of Prosperity. It was a testament to Ghar's might, a beacon of wealth, commerce, and military power. Stone and brick dominated the landscape, replacing the simpler mud and wood structures of smaller towns. The city's architecture was a marriage of practicality and grandeur, its fortified walls standing firm as both a defense against invaders and a statement of dominance.
As we neared the massive docks, Bridget appeared above deck, clad in her familiar armor, her helmet in place. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword—ready for anything.
The dock itself was bustling, filled with ships flying flags from across the known world. To our right, a smaller vessel displayed the red-and-white cross of Pallas. It felt strange to see so many nations converge in one place, all in awe of New Miso's might.
At the end of the dock stood a man with commanding presence. His dark skin gleamed in the sunlight, his black eyes sharp and calculating—eyes that reminded me of Rory's. He wore an eyepatch over his right eye and was adorned in polished silver armor. Draped over his shoulders was a flowing blue taji covered in hundreds of red dots, each one meticulously embroidered. His muscular frame seemed almost regal, his movements exuding authority.
Behind him stood soldiers in similar blue tajis, though theirs bore far fewer red dots than the man before us.
"Is this Tafari?" I wondered, my heart pounding.
Our boat docked, and as the crew began unloading crates of spices and other goods, I stepped onto the dock. In my hand was the letter Ronan had entrusted to me—a missive meant for Tafari. Bridget walked by my side, her hand never straying far from her sword, her watchful eyes scanning for any threat. Rory was on my right, wearing a plain orange taji that seemed to pale in comparison to the finery of the man ahead.
I stood before him, trying to mask my nerves.
"I'm sorry for being late," I said, bowing respectfully.
"There's no need to bow," the man replied, his voice steady. "And no need to apologize to me."
Bridget spoke up, her voice firm. "Are you Tafari?"
The man shook his head. "No, I am Kellan. But you may call me Kell."
"It's nice to meet you, Kell," Rory said, bowing low.
"It's good to see you again, Rory," Kell replied with a warm smile.
He turned toward the city. "Let us hurry. Tafari doesn't take well to tardiness."
"We apologize," I interjected quickly. "We were delayed in UIK."
Kell snorted. "You'd better hope Tafari tolerates such excuses," he said, beginning his ascent up the steps leading into the city.
If Tafari's reputation was accurate, this could very well be the end of us.
But surely Tafari wouldn't make a mistake like that—not with merchant protections in place. Surely Ronan's ties with Loret, or at least with its leadership, would protect us.
At least, I hoped so.
We walked through New Miso, leaving John and Sheila behind at the boat as they waved us on with the rest of the crew. The streets bustled with life, and people adorned in tajis like Rory's lined the cobblestone paths, their gazes fixed on us. The air was thick with murmurs and the faint clang of metal from blacksmiths' forges.
The buildings here loomed tall and imposing, constructed from dark clay and stone. Each structure seemed built to last centuries, with flat roofs and intricate carvings depicting scenes of triumph, trade, and war. Vendors filled the streets, their stalls overflowing with spices, woven goods, and polished metal tools. The sharp tang of exotic herbs and freshly cooked meat lingered in the air.
Bridget walked beside me, her hand hovering over her sword's hilt. Her unease was palpable, heightened by the soldiers trailing us. Rory, on the other hand, seemed to shrink under the weight of their stares. It made sense. Loret had a reputation as a land of strife and lawlessness—a place where alliances could change with a whisper, and violence was never far behind. Bridget, being the newest addition to our crew, was determined to ensure we made it out alive.
Ahead of us rose the palace, a massive structure of clay and stone that dominated the skyline. It was a marvel of engineering, reminiscent of the ancient pantheons but built with an eye for defense. Its walls were lined with ornate carvings, and massive statues of past leaders stood guard at its gates, their weathered faces staring down at those who entered.
The market square surrounding the palace was a frenzy of activity. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking goods from every corner of the region.
We climbed the steps leading to the palace entrance. Kell marched ahead of us.The soldiers stayed close behind, their footsteps echoing against the stone.
The giant Ance doors at the entrance swung open with a low groan, revealing the grand interior of the palace. The foyer was cavernous, its walls lined with torches that cast flickering shadows across the clay and stone. The room opened into a vast space with staircases on either side, spiraling upward toward the left and right wings of the palace.
To the left, a hallway led to what appeared to be a library—its entrance marked by shelves overflowing with scrolls and thick tomes. Beyond it, the faint clang of pots and the savory aroma of cooking revealed the palace kitchens.
To the right, another hallway stretched into a row of bedrooms, five in total, their ornate wooden doors carved with intricate patterns. Further down, another room seemed to function as an armory, judging by the glint of weapons visible through the open door.
At the center of the grand hall stood a massive Ance door encased in purple and red gemstones. It was the entrance to the throne room.
Kell led us to the meeting room, just off the central hall. It is a spacious chamber with a long wooden table that could seat twenty people comfortably. At each end were two larger chairs, their backs encrusted with gemstones.
"Sit," Kell commanded.
We hesitated for a moment before obeying. The tension in the air was thick As we settled into the meeting room, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever awaited us next would determine whether we walked out of this palace alive—or not at all.
"I'll alert Tafari of your presence," Kell said, walking out into another room.
I sat at the head of the table. My hands rested on the polished wood. Bridget and Rory sat down beside me.
"Are you nervous?" Rory teased, smirking.
"Of course I'm nervous!" Bridget snapped. Her hand trembled on her sword hilt.
"Don't be," I interjected. My voice was steadier than I felt. "We'll be fine."
Silence.
The wait stretched on. Minutes felt like hours.
Footsteps.
Sharp. Rhythmic. Each step tightened the knot in my stomach.
The door creaked open.
A boy walks in. He can't be older than eight. His black hair is neatly cropped, and a purple gemstone earring dangles from his right ear, set in light bronze—a Tethambian design. His eyes gleam purple, like gems.On his finger a ring made of silver Ance. A scar marks the skin around his left eye.
There was something different about this boy. Untrusting and tyrannical, he seemed every bit as unhinged as the whispers of his father.
He wore a purple taji, nearly hidden beneath countless black dots. Tall for his age, he carried himself with unsettling confidence. His sharp eyes scanned the room, sizing us up.
Kell followed him. Behind Kell was a girl, maybe a few years older. Her purple taji was simple, elegant. She didn't speak, just took a seat beside the boy. Around her neck a juvenile dragon slept like a scarf. Kell stood behind him like a sentinel.
The boy sat at the opposite end of the table.
"Where are the rest of you?" His voice was calm but commanding.
"They're waiting at the boat, your majesty," I said. My words tumbled out too quickly.
"No need to call me that," he replied, brushing it off.
"My name is A but you may call me Tafari," he continued.
"A?" Rory echoed, confused.
I leaned forward. "I wasn't aware Tafari had a son?"
His expression tightened. "I am Tafari. "
Tafari wears an evil smile, his gaze sharp and cutting. The girl beside him shifts nervously, her unease almost palpable.
"You can't be Tafari," I say, my voice firm, "unless all those rumors are lies."
He raises an eyebrow, his tone cold. "What rumors do you believe are false?"
I meet his gaze, unflinching. "That a dragon rarely appears here after your birth."
He doesn't flinch, his reply as frigid as his expression. "And?"
"That you slaughtered Loret's entire royal court in a single day."
His lips twitch into a cold smile. "And?"
"That you killed your own father and renamed Ghar to Loret just to mock him."
"Do you still doubt I am Tafari?"
Bridget laughs, her tone light but defiant. "Yes."
Tafari's smile deepens, an edge of menace glinting in his eyes. "Then I will allow you to witness my soul."
In an instant, a spear materializes in his hand. It shines with blinding brilliance, as if crafted from pure ice and wind—a force of nature given form. The air in the room shifts violently, candles snuffing out as the gust seems to pull at the very life within us. The chill seeps into my bones, a terrible power radiating from the weapon.
Yet, Bridget stands unaffected, an invisible force surrounding her like a shield. The girl beside Tafari also remains steady, but even Kell stumbles, barely staying upright as his breath grows ragged.
Tafari chuckles darkly. "Lion's Armor," he says with a hint of mockery, before the spear dissolves into nothingness. The suffocating air lifts, leaving only silence in its wake.
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
Tafari waved away the sentiment. "I'm aware you have something for me."
"Yes." I jumped, fumbling as I placed the letter on the table.
Kell stepped forward. He picked up the letter, inspecting the seal before handing it to Tafari.
The boy drew a small knife from his belt. Its blade gleamed as he twirled it between his fingers. With a swift motion, he sliced open the envelope.
He read in silence.
His face was unreadable. No anger. No surprise. Just stillness.
But as he read further, his expression began to shift.
We sat frozen. Watching. Waiting.
SNAP.
I jumped at the sudden sound. A guard stepped into the room, his boots thudding against the stone floor. He leaned in and whispered something to Kell. For a moment, Kell's eyes flicked toward the boy.
Silence blanketed the room as the guard exited.
The boy shifted in his seat, his small frame straightening. He sat like a king on a throne.
Before the boy could reply, the doors creaked open again. One by one, the rest of my crew was led into the room by guards.
John and Sheila avoided eye contact, their nervous expressions betraying their unease. Bridget's hand hovered near her sword
"How many days late are they, Kell?" the boy asked, his gaze boring into us.
"Five, your Highness," Kell replied curtly.
The air grew icy. It felt as though the room had been drained of warmth. Even Bridget, usually unshakable, looked taken aback.
"Because of you," the boy said, leaning forward, "I had to cancel the banquet planned for the first."
Then, to my surprise, he laughed.
The laugh was sharp, unnatural.
The boy finally calmed, the grin lingering on his face. "But you are servants of the Merchant King, Ronan, and I am indeed in his debt."
"What will happen to us?" one of my crewmates blurted out.
The boy leaned back, studying us like a cat toying with its prey. "You will stay in my city. In my palace. You will eat my food during the celebration of King Ronan and his daughter, Ad…Rose."
King Ronan and Rose, I thought.
"And you will leave," the boy continued, "with treasures from Loret and more Var than you could ever spend."
I stood, bowing low. "Thank you, Tafari."
"No," he said, smiling. "Thank Merchant King Ronan."
He paused, his tone growing wistful. "It's a shame he and Rose couldn't join us."
The tension in the room began to ease. The boy invited us to share stories of our travels. We spoke of distant lands, strange customs, and our adventures with Ronan and Rose. Tafari's eyes lit up whenever we mentioned Rose. He leaned in closer, his interest genuine, the earlier malice replaced by curiosity.
After hours of conversation, Kell rose and gestured for us to follow. "Come," he said. "Your rooms have been prepared."
We left the meeting room, stepping into the dimly lit hall. The moon hung high, its silver glow streaming through the palace windows.
Our rooms were unlike anything I'd ever seen. Pillars framed the space, each wrapped in dark blue fabric embroidered with gold.
The beds were draped in silken sheets.
Lanterns hung from the ceiling.
A balcony stretched out from one side, offering a view of New Miso under the moonlight.
It was clear this was Loret's finest.
I lay down, staring up at the carved ceiling. Sleep would not come easily tonight.