The sun had climbed to its zenith, beating down on the Timblewhiff’s weathered deck.

  Heat shimmered off the wood, carrying with it the mingled scents of tar and sun?warmed timber.

  Edric had spent the late morning observing the ship’s operation. The Timblewhiff employed one or more oversized kite sails to pull the vessel forward. The kites could be steered with guide ropes at either side of a heavier tow cable mounted to the center of the kite. The configuration of kite sails were adjusted frequently to account for wind and desired course.

  Mira remained dutifully at his side, though she grew tenser as the day wore on. He noticed how she positioned herself with her back to a wall or railing, how her eyes followed certain crewmen, how she flinched when one passed too close.

  When a burly crewman with curved tusks jutting from his lower jaw deliberately brushed against her while fetching water, Mira’s composure finally cracked. Though she said nothing, her discomfort was plain.

  Edric's hand drifted toward his belt—an instinctive movement toward a weapon that wasn't there. Edric swallowed the immediate urge to intervene before he did something stupid.

  Luckily, Zylenaia caught the moment. Her expression hardened.

  “Attention!” she called, her voice slicing across the deck despite her small stature.

  The crew froze at their stations—some faster than others.

  “Let me be perfectly clear. Lady Mira is under my protection. She will be treated with the same respect you would show me.”

  The tusked crewman shifted uneasily, somewhere between abashed and resentful.

  Edric mentally counted the crew members. Eleven visible, probably more below. All of them armed—and comfortable with violence.

  “Anyone failing to grasp that simple concept,” Zylenaia added, her tone turning deceptively light, “will spend the night shivering to death, abandoned at the inversion line. Am I understood?”

  Murmured acknowledgments rippled through the crew.

  Edric glanced at Zylenaia, reassessing. Her ice magic was formidable—it was currently holding the entire ship aloft, crew and all. *But could she hold off a dozen armed men in close quarters? Possible. Too many unknown variables.*

  Kornic approached with a theatrical bow. “Crystal clear, *my lady*,” he said—his voice dripping mockery. “We’re all just overflowing with respect here.” He turned toward the crew, his volume rising. “You heard the Ice Queen! Best behavior for our distinguished guests. Wouldn’t want them thinking we’re just *common ruffians*, would we?”

  The crew’s laughter carried a dark edge. Kornic had technically obeyed the order while undermining her authority in the same breath.

  Zylenaia’s lips tightened, but she let it pass.

  The exchange had crystallized the nature of the situation in Edric's mind. Zylenaia needed Kornic's crew, and Kornic needs her magic. It was an alliance of necessity—remove either piece and the whole arrangement collapsed.

  “Good. Then that’s settled.” She turned to Mira and Edric. “The meal bell will sound soon. You’re welcome to join us below deck.”

  Edric watched her carefully as she left. Zylenaia walked political tightropes he didn’t envy—and Edric feared he’d soon be forced to step out onto it with her.

  The ship’s mess was little more than a cleared section of the lower hold where the crew could escape the sun.

  Cargo crates served as rough benches and tables. Lantern hooks dangled from the beams above. The air hung thick with old grease, sweat, and the damp mustiness common to ships.

  Lunch was a simple affair of hardtack—dense biscuits that could probably break teeth—softened with ladles of a perpetually simmering stew. It contained preserved meat, dried vegetables, and lentils. Nothing special, but someone had tried with herbs and spices.

  The crew arranged themselves with the unspoken hierarchy of long familiarity. Kornic sat to Zylenaia’s right; senior sailors claimed seats nearby.

  Conversation fractured into small clusters, low?voiced and wary. Laughter flared now and again—usually followed by glances toward Edric and Mira.

  *Maybe if I get them talking, it’ll lighten the mood,* Edric thought. *I might be working with these people a long time, best to try and get along.*

  He cleared his throat, forcing a casual tone. “So,” Edric said finally, breaking the awkward silence at their end of the table, “what sort of dangers should I expect in Galenmurk’s borderlands? I’ve heard talk of demon beasts, but not much detail.”

  The question drew interest. The reptilian man with mottled scales leaned forward, yellow eyes glinting.

  “You asking about beasties, Hero?” he said. “Plenty to choose from in Galenmurk. Twisters in the marshes’ll suck your blood dry. Thornbacks in the forests that blend with the trees till their claws are in your spine.”

  He gestured vaguely eastward. “And wyverns in the high country. Not proper dragons—smaller, no front limbs, just wings and back legs. Smart enough to be real trouble. Used to stick to the mountains, but lately they’ve been pushing closer to the towns. Mother wyvern’s been nesting nearer every season.”

  “Olin exaggerates,” Zylenaia said, though her face suggested not by much.

  “What’s it like, facing one? Have any of you encountered them personally?” Edric asked.

  A hush spread through the nearby crew.

  Eyes slid toward Kornic. The wolfish first mate’s jaw tightened.

  *Perhaps I stepped into the wrong topic,* Edric worried that his approach may have backfired.

  “Tell him about Snargrin,” someone farther down the table said.

  Kornic’s hand whitened around his cup. “That’s not mealtime talk.”

  “The Hero asked,” Olin countered. “He should know what he’s walking into.”

  Zylenaia sighed. “Snargrin is a wirehide grizzly—a particularly vicious demon beast. Huge, bear?like, with a hide tough as mail.”

  “We ran into it before joining the Timblewhiff,” Olin added, ignoring Kornic’s glare. “Back when we were just…” He hesitated, glancing at Zylenaia. “…traveling together through the borderlands.”

  “Scavenging and raiding,” another crewman supplied with a harsh laugh. “Call it what it was.”

  Kornic slammed his cup down. “We fought it off,” he said curtly.

  “Not before it tore Durnell and Kaska to pieces,” Olin replied, fingers brushing the scar that ran from jaw to collar. “Never seen anything so big move that fast.”

  “Kornic took its eye,” another man added. “Sank his axe clean through.”

  “Made it focus on us instead of the others,” Olin corrected. “Wouldn’t call that *fighting it off*. It came at us with everything it had. We ran. Some faster than others.”

  His words faded into a quiet heavy with loss.

  “Enough,” Kornic snapped, pushing to his feet. “Break’s over.”

  Edric let out a sigh. The story had provided some valuable insights—but it hadn’t earned him the goodwill he’d hoped for. If anything, he’d just added another name to the list of people who disliked him.

  “I’ve only seen the aftermath,” Zylenaia said softly. “A village near the eastern border, almost nothing left standing. It started with livestock—missing, then mutilated. Then storehouses were raided. Eventually, people, when he grew bold enough. It came through the village like a storm—tearing through walls, ripping roofs apart.” She shook her head. “The damage a single beast can do…”

  The crew began to drift away, a few lingering glances at Edric posing an unspoken challenge: *So, Hero—what can you do about monsters like that?*

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Mira leaned close. "Could your… inventions work against something like that?"

  Edric weighed the question. “A wirehide grizzly sounds formidable, but with the right caliber and muzzle velocity…” He paused at her confusion. “A .45-70 Government or .458 Winchester would drop it,” he said quietly, careful of eavesdroppers. “They were made for the largest and deadliest game back in my world.”

  Zylenaia, who had lingered nearby, caught the remark. “And how do your world’s beasts compare to ours?” Her tone was mild, but her eyes were sharp.

  Edric gave a small shrug. “Honestly? The beasts weren’t our biggest threat,” he said, a darker look passing over him. “The weapons were made for *us*. Not for animals—but each other.”

  A brief silence settled over their corner of the makeshift mess.

  Edric decided to change the topic. "Speaking of threats—what about Galenmurk's defenses? The crew's stories aren't exactly reassuring."

  Zylenaia's expression darkened further. “Our defenses are… inadequate. Larkenshire has walls, but they’re relics—meant for raiders on foot or horseback, not wyverns from the sky. Halflings make poor soldiers; we’ve always relied on others for protection. Why do you think I fought to claim a Hero—*even one the Queen deemed worthless*?” The bitterness in her tone was plain.

  Edric met her gaze but found no malice there, only weary pragmatism.

  "Beyond defending yourself, you'll need to establish a livelihood," Zylenaia continued. "Your… special knowledge aside, what else can you do?"

  “I’m good with tools—repairs, precision work, carpentry. Those kinds of skills were part of my craft,” Edric said.

  Zylenaia nodded thoughtfully. "We have craftsmen who'll value that. Maryn, our carpenter and bowyer, does fine work. As for wealthier patrons, you'll meet Dorin—the merchant Guild Master—once we reach Larkenshire. You should speak with him."

  Mira had been quiet through most of the exchange, but now she spoke up. "What about sleeping arrangements?" Her eyes flicked briefly to the stowed hammocks lashed to the beams above them, then back to Edric with visible concern.

  Zylenaia addressed Mira first. "You'll stay with me in the captain's lodge," she said. Then, turning to Edric, "You'll have a hammock in the crew quarters. Not ideal, but any other arrangement would invite more gossip than I can afford."

  Edric nodded, understanding the politics even if he didn't like the implications. "Understood."

  “Kornic knows there’ll be consequences if anything happens to you,” she added quietly. “Cold comfort, maybe—but enough.”

  Neither Edric nor Mira looked convinced, but there was nothing more to say.

  Later that night, Edric made his way below deck. The crew quarters occupied the same space as the mess hall—boxes and crates shoved aside to make room for a dozen hammocks swaying in the cramped gloom. It was exactly as uncomfortable as he expected: the air heavy with sweat, damp fabric, and cheap liquor.

  After an hour of sleepless listening—snores, shifting bodies, the creak of timbers—he gave up and climbed quietly to the deck.

  The night sky was a revelation.

  Without light pollution, the stars burned like shards of glass. The constellations were wrong, unfamiliar. A smaller, yellower moon cast pale light across the deck.

  Edric settled near the bow, away from the watch, back against the railing, and knees drawn up.

  “Sarah would have loved this sky,” he whispered. “I’m sorry you can’t see it.”

  The words vanished into open air.

  He rubbed his eyes, forcing composure. Self?pity wouldn’t help. *Sarah would tell you to move. Build something. Survive.*

  Right. A plan.

  He began cataloging: wood for the stock, strong yet workable; horn or layered composite for limbs; steel for the trigger; string capable of holding tension.

  Sarah used to tease his lists—*my little engineer.*

  *I’ll make you proud,* he promised silently.

  Two crewmen passed nearby during a watch change. One was Olin. His sidelong glance was wary but not hostile.

  “Excuse me,” Edric said softly. “Is there somewhere I can… relieve myself?”

  Olin snorted. “Privy’s at the stern. Follow me.”

  The “privy” proved to be a small wooden box with a hole opening directly to the sky below.

  *Not sure what I expected,* Edric thought, wryly.

  “Don’t fall in,” Olin warned. “Long way down.”

  As Edric made use of the primitive facility, he couldn't help thinking of the poor creatures far below that might be in for an unpleasant surprise.

  He remembered being hit by bird droppings once while walking through a park; this would be substantially worse. Despite that thought—*or maybe because of it*— Edric had no trouble at all relieving himself.

  In an odd way, it was nice not to hear any of the accompanying sounds of splashdowns he was accustomed to from Earth.

  If it wasn't for the wind, he might have even called the tinny closet-like space cozy.

  Edric was tempted to wish it wasn't so drafty… but decided to change his mind after taking in a long breath of the cool, fresh night air whiffing up through the simple round hole. Not a single hint of odor remained. None.

  As he stared down at the beautiful moonlit landscape passing through that wonderful round window he’d been sitting on, he couldn’t help feeling the experience in his old world was somehow inferior by comparison.

  He couldn’t help chuckling as he finished. *If only Sarah could experience this. Here, even the necessities are… exotic.*

  He made his way back toward the hammocks, ready to feign sleep if nothing else. Tomorrow, they’d reach Larkenshire—his new beginning.

  Dawn broke, painting the clouds in spectacular hues of gold and pink. An astonishing view.

  The otherwise tranquil vista was, however, *disturbed…*

  A screaming gale tore at the ship, howling through every rope and spar, while the violent wind whipped Edric’s pale hair across his face like a flag in a storm.

  During the night, the crew had hauled in the massive kite sail. It lay furled beneath taut tarps, replaced by two smaller steering kites jerking wildly on shortened lines.

  Zylenaia and Mira emerged from the cabin looking far more rested than Edric felt.

  “You’re up early,” Zylenaia managed to shout above the wind, handing him a cup of something hot that looked vaguely like coffee.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, accepting it gratefully as the gale ripped droplets from the rim.

  She led him toward the port side, where the morning light illuminated the land stretching to the horizon.

  Gone were the cultivated fields and ordered towns of Ayzelsted’s territories. Below them sprawled a wilder country—vast marshes threaded with dark forests and rolling hills.

  “Galenmurk,” Zylenaia said, pride evident despite the humble vista.

  “Named for its swamps and its winds.”

  “I can tell,” Edric said flatly.

  “It’s not usually *this* bad,” Zylenaia assured him, half shouting over a sudden gust.

  Edric studied the patchwork below, noting how water claimed much of the terrain. “Flooding must be a constant issue.”

  “In spring, when the mountain snows melt, nearly half the country turns to wetland,” Zylenaia explained. “The locals say we grow more mud than crops some years. By summer, it dries enough for grazing and farming, though the soil often stays boggy.”

  She pointed toward a darker patch beyond the hills. “That’s our largest forest—good oak and elm, some pine on high ground.” Her finger shifted eastward. “The borderlands begin there beyond the horizon. Where the trees thin out, it becomes demon?beast territory.”

  Edric followed her gestures, mentally mapping. “What about natural resources? Metals? Stone?”

  “Iron deposits in the bogs and lime in the northern foothills,” Zylenaia said. “We trade for most other metals. Stone’s scarce—some small quarries, but nothing like Ayzelsted’s mountains. Clay and peat we’ve got in abundance.”

  As they talked, the Timblewhiff descended gradually. In the distance, Edric made out a settlement—large by local standards, though nowhere near the splendor of Ayzelsted.

  “Larkenshire,” Zylenaia announced. “Our capital. Not the richest land, but it’s ours.”

  The morning passed swiftly as the Timblewhiff made its final approach. Crew coordination tightened noticeably as they neared home. Even Kornic seemed less antagonistic, attention fixed on guiding the descent.

  As they drew closer, Larkenshire revealed itself in full. The town clustered around a modest castle whose stone walls were weathered and cracked. Unlike Ayzelsted’s precise layout, Larkenshire had grown organically—its buildings pressed up against the old fortifications until the walls were half?hidden. Only the towers stood clear.

  Signs of ruin showed even from the air: fresh timber and new thatch contrasting with older work; scaffolds along a cratered tower; tents spilling into the outer districts.

  “The raid?” Edric asked quietly.

  Zylenaia nodded, face grim. “Just over a year ago. We’re still rebuilding.”

  Beyond the city, the fields gave way to irregular farms and orchards broken by reflective patches of standing water. A network of raised lanes connected these outlying holdings back to the main settlement, many little more than muddy tracks built on mounded earth.

  “At the ready, men!” Zylenaia bellowed, moving fast down the deck. She began calling each preparation check in turn, pausing only when a sailor’s “Aye, Captain!” answered the order.

  The kites were hauled in as the Timblewhiff drifted lower and lower toward the wind?torn meadows of Galenmurk.

  “Brace yourselves!” Kornic barked.

  Edric tightened his grip on the railing. Ahead, there was no quay, no port, no tower, only open ground.

  “Stand clear of the bow!” Zylenaia called above the gale.

  A crewman spun down a heavy crank. A man?sized iron anchor—massive and spear?edged—dropped away from the bow. Pulley lines screamed as rope whipped through the cleats. The “plunge anchor” slammed into the sodden earth with a distant thud; the rope snapped taut an instant later.

  The whole ship lurched.

  Coiled loops of anchor line unwound in controlled bursts, absorbing the shock. The Timblewhiff skidded forward before the anchor bit fully, soil heaping behind the embedded head until the vessel shuddered to a halt.

  “Lines out—legs down!” Zylenaia ordered from her post atop the rigging, one hand braced on the base of the ship’s ice beam.

  Wooden poles unfolded from the hull—like pairs of bird legs. They struck the ground and dug deep while sailors leapt down with tie?lines, boots sucking into ankle?deep muck. Edric watched in fascination as the ship steadied, secured to the earth.

  Zylenaia’s eyes flared blue, and the glacial beam above him began to contract, ice crystals collapsing inward under her command.

  Not only could mages conjure their element—they could dispel it. As the ice diminished, the ship’s full weight transferred to the landing stilts, which sank further into the soil. The lingering frost dispersed into the wind as she released her spell.

  Down the approach road, a group of villagers emerged—halflings muffled in cloaks, driving a wagon through rain?swept air toward the landing field.

  Edric drew a long breath, adrenaline easing.

  This wasn’t just arrival at a destination—it was the beginning of his life in this world. Whatever he built here—or failed to build—would decide everything that followed.

  Zylenaia didn’t bother climbing down. She vaulted from the side, a flick of blue light cushioning her fall as ice cracked and vanished beneath her boots.

  “Ready?” Mira asked, voice unsteady.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Edric answered—and followed her down the ladder.