Morning rolled in with salt on the breeze.

  Beyond the last rows of Azure Wind’s tents, the southern sun crept over the dunes, gilding the canvas rooftops and turning the merchant flags into colored fire. The camp, no longer just a stop along the road, had bloomed into a living marketplace.

  Ocean Tide’s people had come.

  They arrived in groups—on foot, in wagons, atop finely bred horses. Nobles draped in embroidered cloaks mingled with traveling mages and wide-eyed townsfolk. They came for spice and metal, for maps and rumors, for stories of monsters and songs from distant shores.

  And the Azure Wind Caravan gave them what they came for.

  The market was a clash of cultures—cinnamon from the Eastern Reaches, tapestries woven in the cliffs of Seradel, smoke-bottled dreams sold by a one-eyed woman in black, artifacts carved from beastbone, and music boxes that sang in forgotten tongues.

  Aromas twisted through the air—grilled root-meats, sizzling oil, fermented plum drinks. Kivas strode between stalls like a general, barking prices and pinching coin pouches like they owed him blood.

  Ysar leaned over a fruit cart from a local trader, arguing about whether a “goldberry” was worth its name.

  “This isn’t even gold. This is like… bronze at best. Look, your berry’s oxidizing—”

  The man sighed. Loudly.

  Karin, meanwhile, stood beside Elsha near a rack of flame-infused pendants—her job was to not set anything on fire. She’d nearly failed twice already.

  A noble girl in soft blue lace pointed to one. “Is this real fire?”

  “Yes,” Karin replied.

  “Will it hurt if I touch it?”

  “Yes.”

  The girl touched it.

  Karin watched her yelp and fall backward into her escort’s arms. “Told you.”

  Elsha didn’t smile. But she came close.

  Kivas passed by just then, arms full of scrolls, voice booming. “Someone tell Ysar if he used caravan coin to buy himself fruit, I’m putting him on stall duty all week.”

  “I heard that!” Ysar called.

  “You were meant to.”

  It was chaos. Organized, glorious chaos.

  —

  At the edge of the market, Zafran stood by a lantern-post hung with silver chimes. His cloak fluttered gently in the breeze, sword at his waist. This was his post—silent, watchful. He’d once tried helping as a vendor, but Kivas removed him after too many customers complained about his pricing.

  He was a swordsman, not a merchant. He trained the young warriors, patrolled the perimeter. And now, he watched.

  His eyes drifted lazily across the crowd—

  Then stopped.

  A man stood across the bustle. Not in armor. Not in robes. But something in the way he held himself—straight-backed, still, a quiet tension to his frame—betrayed the truth.

  Zafran’s eyes widened.

  The man turned, just slightly. Their eyes met.

  Zafran turned immediately, walking away into the crowd.

  Behind him, the man froze for a heartbeat—then moved.

  “Zaf!”

  A shout, carried over the stalls.

  And he followed.

  Zafran didn’t walk fast—but every step was deliberate.

  Through the market’s din, past colorful cloth and spice-laden air, he moved like someone trying not to be seen, though his cloak was plain and his sword dulled. He hadn’t expected the voice.

  “Zafran!”

  He stopped.

  Turned—slowly.

  The man stood a few paces back.

  No armor. No crest. Just a brown traveler’s cloak and that familiar sharpness in his stance—rigid, composed, too precise for a common man. The sword at his hip was regulation-length, worn smooth at the grip. But the decoration on it was clear—he held a position of high esteem.

  Zafran exhaled through his nose. “Ealden. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Neither did I,” the man—Ealden—said. He studied him quietly. “You’ve changed.”

  Zafran didn’t respond.

  “You’re with Azure Wind, then?”

  “For a long time.”

  Ealden gave a shallow nod. “I figured.”

  Silence stretched between them. The noise of the bazaar rolled on—muffled, distant.

  “You shouldn’t be near the city,” Ealden said eventually, voice low. “It’s still… not safe.”

  “I haven’t set foot inside,” Zafran replied, almost automatic. “No law broken.”

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  Ealden nodded again. “Still. You know how delicate things are.”

  Zafran’s jaw shifted, but he didn’t reply.

  Ealden’s voice softened. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

  Zafran’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  More silence.

  Then Ealden added, “She still asks about you.”

  Zafran’s gaze flicked upward, wary.

  “The princess,” Ealden clarified. “She never forgot.”

  Zafran said nothing.

  “I won’t say more if you don’t want me to,” Ealden said gently.

  Zafran’s tone stayed cool. “I didn’t ask.”

  Ealden took a slow breath. “Still… it’s good to see you.”

  Zafran didn’t answer. Not yes. Not no.

  Ealden stepped back—just a little—giving space.

  Then turned.

  And walked away.

  Zafran stood still a moment longer.

  Across the plaza, half-hidden behind a display of colored silks, Karin had seen the exchange.

  She couldn’t hear them. But something in Zafran’s posture held her gaze—

  Like a weight that never left.

  The rhythm of hoofbeats cut through the low hum of twilight.

  Deliberate. Regal. Echoing.

  From the east road, riders emerged—not dusty travelers, but knights of Ocean Tide, clad in ceremonial armor that caught the dying light like burnished silver. Every movement was deliberate, silent save for the soft clink of reins and boots. Their tabards bore the sigil of the royal line—sea-stag over sun-disc.

  At their head rode a woman.

  Not armored like the others, but commanding all the same.

  She wore riding leathers laced with ocean-blue silk, trimmed in platinum thread. Her posture was perfect—not stiff, but balanced like a blade resting at peace. A silver circlet nestled in her midnight hair, catching what little sunlight remained.

  And her eyes—

  Clear as sea-glass. Deep as storm-tide.

  They swept the camp in one slow, discerning glance.

  It was not arrogance.

  It was weight.

  Presence.

  The kind that shifted the air.

  No words were spoken.

  Yet the camp fell silent.

  Stall keepers stopped mid-call. Musicians let their notes trail off. Even the children paused in their play.

  One by one, they bowed.

  Kivas moved first, lowering his head with the respect of a seasoned leader—pragmatic, measured, but unmistakably deferent. “We weren’t told to expect Ocean Tide tonight.”

  Ealden dismounted, helm tucked beneath one arm. “We’re not here on royal command.”

  He glanced toward Zafran.

  The Princess didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

  Her gaze locked with Zafran’s—and held.

  He didn’t bow.

  Didn’t flinch.

  But something in his eyes darkened. A distant tide rising.

  “We’re looking for Zafran,” Ealden said simply.

  Kivas cleared his throat. “He’s right here.”

  Zafran exhaled through his nose. “Of course I am.”

  “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?” the Princess asked, her voice quiet—but it carried like water over stone.

  Smooth.

  Measured.

  And cold at the edges.

  Kivas nodded once, clearing his throat again. “Leader’s tent, near the center. No one’s using it tonight.”

  She gave a small nod in return, nothing more.

  Kivas turned to Zafran. “Lead the way?”

  Zafran said nothing.

  But he moved.

  Slowly. Precisely. Each step like crossing some unspoken threshold.

  Ealden and the Princess followed. The knights remained behind, forming no wall, only a respectful boundary.

  As the three walked, the camp parted for them.

  And then closed again, like a breath being held.

  —

  From across the rows of carts, Karin watched.

  She hadn’t moved in some time.

  The lanternlight caught the edge of her cheek, but her eyes never left the trio’s backs.

  The tent flap opened.

  Zafran stepped inside.

  Then the Princess.

  Then Ealden.

  The canvas closed behind them—soft, final.

  The silence didn’t break.

  Not right away.

  Karin let out a slow, shallow breath.

  “…Well,” she muttered, “there goes that plan.”

  Beside her, Elsha’s arms moved a little too quickly as she folded the last cloth.

  Neither of them spoke again.

  But the air between them was no longer still.

  The tent seemed smaller now, the canvas walls pressing inward with each quiet breath. Golden dusk seeped through the fabric, washing the space in muted hues. Outside, the market had grown distant, a faint murmur that belonged to another life.

  Zafran stood near the cot, arms crossed. His sword lay deliberately set aside—not out of fear, but to keep conflict at bay. He had left such things behind, or had tried to.

  A soft rustle broke the silence.

  Princess Seren entered first, calm and poised, though tension lingered in her careful movements. Behind her, Ealden remained by the tent entrance, silent and reserved.

  Seren paused, watching Zafran carefully, a faint smile touching her lips. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Ten years,” Zafran answered quietly, unreadable. “Give or take.”

  Her smile faded gently. “You’ve changed.”

  He looked away briefly. “We all have.”

  She hesitated again, fingers gently clasped. “Zafran, I… came here to ask for your help.”

  He let out a breath edged with quiet irony. “You have knights. The royal court, your mages… anyone.”

  “Not for this,” Seren said softly. “I need someone who can move freely—someone without my name behind them. Someone easily overlooked.”

  “Convenient,” Zafran murmured, bitter edges sharpening his voice. “Ten years forgotten. Now, suddenly, I’m useful again.”

  Ealden shifted uncomfortably at the doorway but held his silence.

  Seren took a slow, careful breath. “It’s about lord Balin.”

  Zafran froze at the name. For a heartbeat, the world inside the tent halted. A decade of silence wrapped itself around the single word—his father’s name, Balin.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

  Seren stepped closer, lowering her voice as if even now someone might overhear. “That night in Fyonar, your father didn’t betray us. He saved my life.”

  Zafran remained silent, waiting.

  Her voice softened further, tinged with old grief. “I still remember clearly… your father stood outside my chamber, wounded, sword in hand. He begged me not to speak, even when alarms rang—calling his name, branding him an assassin.”

  Ealden spoke then, quietly. “That was when I arrived.”

  Zafran’s gaze shifted, suddenly colder. “And killed him, your master.”

  “He was already dying, Zafran,” Ealden said, voice gentle but firm. “He asked—no, commanded—that I end it quickly. He knew there would be no peace otherwise. It was his final order. I had no choice.”

  “He’s like a father to me too,” He said.

  Seren continued softly, her voice strained. “Fyonar presented evidence—letters, seals, all crafted to prove Balin guilty. If we’d challenged them openly, war would’ve followed. I… accepted the lie, let the world tarnish his name, and yours. For peace.”

  The air thicked, heavy fills the room.

  “But peace didn’t last. Soon after, Fyonar’s throne fell, nobles took power, the royal family became puppets… It was all carefully planned, all linked to that night.” Ealden said.

  Another pause, heavy and oppressive.

  “And you waited ten years to tell me?” he said, bitterness threaded through quiet words.

  “I spent ten years gathering pieces quietly,” Seren replied, steadying herself again. “Now, finally, we have a lead. An informant uncovered something—a group within Fyonar, hidden behind nobles. The ones behind your father’s disgrace and the attack on me. They’re still in power, Zafran.”

  Zafran’s gaze flickered briefly toward the floor, tension drawn tight across his features. “And what do you expect from me?”

  She hesitated, then slowly, deliberately knelt down before him.

  Zafran stiffened in shock. “What are you doing?”

  Ealden, silently, knelt behind her.

  Seren looked up at Zafran, her voice quiet, pleading. “I’m here, first, to beg forgiveness. I let you bear a dishonor you never deserved. I let your father’s name become a lie, and yours along with it.”

  “Seren—stop,” Zafran moved forward quickly, taking her arm, trying to lift her gently. “I’m not holding any grudge.”

  She resisted gently, eyes unwavering. “No. But that doesn’t erase what I’ve done.”

  He released her arm slowly, face unreadable, eyes troubled.

  She rose gracefully, gathering herself with quiet dignity. “You deserve the truth, Zafran. If not for Ocean Tide, or even for your father, then for yourself. The people behind this—they’re still hidden, still dangerous. Someone must expose them.”

  Zafran’s shoulders rose and fell slowly, a weight returning he’d once thought left behind. “If I do this… it won’t be for Ocean Tide. Not even for him. It will be because I have to know.”

  Seren nodded gently. “That’s all I could ever ask.”

  He stepped away, turning partly aside as if the weight had become too great. “Send me what you have.”

  “I will,” she said quietly, moving back toward the entrance. She paused at the threshold, looking back one last time, sincerity deep in her eyes. “Thank you, Zafran. You were always—and will always be—my dearest friend.”

  She stepped out silently. Ealden followed, sharing one last respectful glance, heavy with regret and understanding, before disappearing into the night.

  Alone again, Zafran stood unmoving as the twilight darkened further, shadows growing deeper.

  Yet somehow, in the silence, a quiet clarity had begun to take shape. It wasn’t peace—perhaps never peace—but it was something. And for now, it was enough.