As far as the sea ahead stretches on our journey, emptiness. A vast expanse of nothingness. Besides the island Charlie sunk, it’s been a comfort. I can almost tell myself I’m not being dragged by my bootstraps into a generational blood-feud’s warzone. A potent culmination of hatred, malice, and vendetta.

  How massive are their armies? How strong is their prophet? For centuries the Ministry has occupied Minitrysa’s treacherous mountains of snow, and for centuries they’ve simultaneously carved through armies, sending the corpses of their fallen agents and enemies alike over the edge, into the sea.

  I tighten my grip on my halberd, as I notice something chilling in the distance.

  The tiniest smudge on the horizon. From here, it’s the size of a pebble. I stick my thumb outwards into the clear skies, closing my right eye.

  The faintest outline of Minitrysa. We’re here. On that tiny little speck, likely thousands will lose their lives. It’s ironic how something so seemingly tiny can cause so much devastation. Here we are, in the crossfire of it all. An obstacle in our path. An obstacle that, for others, is their final destination.

  A hand grips my shoulder firmly. I can tell it’s Antarc’s by the overwhelming scent of lavender. The odor of ash and charred corpses is briefly alleviated. I turn. He stares at me for a second, without saying a word.

  “It’s not your fault, Zadahn. We’ll make things right together. We’ll make it to Celtor.”

  I smile.

  “We will, Ant. No matter what.”

  I embrace him in a hug, and for once, his perfume doesn’t smell so bad. Antarc and I immediately return to a shoulder-to-shoulder, noticing the Chief approaching us.

  “Antarc. Retrieve Sevilla and meet me in the lower decks. Time is scarce. Winds are even stronger than anticipated. We make landfall in hours.”

  “Yes, Chief,” he says, running off. Raeis shifts his gaze towards me.

  “I deeply apologize that our lessons have been cut short. Fate has its way of impinging on my endeavors.”

  “No worries, Chie—”

  “Your face is painted with anxiety. Surviving this war is your test. You’ve done it before—now do it for a cause you truly believe in. I see potential in you, Zadahn Vali. Something… unbridled—that neither I nor the Elders can recognize entirely. Chief Bazaar is a man who far exceeds anyone I know in knowledge of the song and history. He will ensure the last of your preparations.”

  “Will I truly be ready?”

  “Only you can make that decision for yourself, Zadahn.”

  The Chief turns around, leaving to the lower deck. I stand still for a while, pondering his words. Potential. Potential. Potential. It’s all I’ve heard since Instructor Jericho in the legion. It’s about damn time I realize it.

  Heading downstairs to change into my war-garments, my anxiety is replaced with adrenaline.

  I push past countless Navaen soldiers in preparation, each deck I pass through bustling with chaos. The not-so-calm before the storm.

  Groups of Elite Nomads cluster around maps of Minitrysa, using a bucket of ink to pinpoint vantage points, while others scarf down as much food as they can in the dining halls. Glancing into the kitchen, I’m dumbfounded. Bowls of food keep appearing on the counter, but I don’t see anyone inside.

  I move closer to get a better look, noticing Sevilla with a look in her eyes I’ve never seen before. An utter focus—a focus that if anyone dared to interrupt, they would face wrath. Her hands bleed as she utilizes her arms like an eight-limbed octopus, cutting chunks of meat while simultaneously gutting a fish and maintaining several boiling pots of soup.

  How long has she been doing this? Where’s Antarc—wasn’t he supposed to retrieve her?

  I’m used to seeing Sevilla cook for five people, so I often forget that she once was the head chef of the greatest restaurant in Lumen, which cooked for likely thousands daily. Even at her age, she still maintains her grace and fluidity.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Sevilla hasn’t noticed me. Or maybe she has, but doesn’t care.

  She moves like clockwork, her bleeding hands a blur, dancing over knives, fire, and boiling broth with terrifying intensity. Not a word. Not a glance. The steam masks her face.

  “Don’t just stand there gawking,” she exclaims without looking up. “There’s an apron on the left hook. Grab it.”

  I hesitate.

  “I would, but Raeis—”

  She slams a pot lid down. “Now, Zadahn.”

  I obey.

  We cook in silence. Not the calm, peaceful silence I remember from our meals back at the guildhouse, but the strained, war-sick kind that fills the lungs with salt and memory.

  “You know,” she says eventually, after twenty minutes of me chopping vegetables and observing her flow-state, “when I left the Lord’s Tavern, I told myself I’d never cook for soldiers again.”

  “Wait, why? I’m a soldier.”

  “You guys are different, but it’s because they never remember the chef,” she says. “They remember the generals. The martyrs. The ones who draw blood—the Maestro Evangardes, Akira Azeos, and Klaris Llfiends. Not the ones who fuel their violence.”

  Her motions become more aggressive, while somehow maintaining her grace.

  “But nobody fights well on an empty stomach.”

  She stops momentarily and shifts her eyes to mine.

  “Feed someone before their last battle, and they die remembering their humanity. That’s all I can offer now.”

  I swallow. I don’t know what to say. So I don’t.

  “And if anyone dies out there, I want it to be with a full belly and something warm in their gut along with the cold steel.”

  All I can do is nod in agreement and respect. I finish dicing a Browncap, tossing it toward Sevilla.

  Antarc bursts into the kitchen.

  “Sevilla.”

  She finishes up her last bowl, placing it on the counter. It disappears subsequently.

  “I thought you were in the quarters or training. Why are you still in the kitchens? You don’t need to work right now.”

  “There’s no such thing as being too full before a war, Antarc,” she says, unfastening her apron. “Thanks for the help, honey. Just wanted some company.”

  Reaching the door to the quarters, I enter to see Charlie applying a layer of chainmail armor and Alexandria fastening her bootstraps. Her orange and black Voidwalker suit isn’t the most protective, but it gives her the agility she needs. Makes sense. It was designed for assassinations.

  The room is tense, but warm at the same time. The calm before the storm.

  A low rumble echoes from above deck. The ship creaks as the sails adjust for landing. It jolts all of us into action.

  “Your first war, Alexandria. Probably not your last either.”

  She chuckles, grabbing her flintlocks from her bag and holstering them. “I’ve left bodies before.”

  “It’s a lot more than bodies, Alexandria,” Charlie says in a serious tone.

  “I’ll manage.”

  We sit in silence for a while. Hours feel like seconds, as we embrace each other’s presence while we still can. Antarc and Sevilla burst through the door, both drenched in sweat.

  Antarc pants as he changes into his garments, while Sevilla collapses flat onto her bed. I suppose time moves fast when war is on the horizon.

  “What’d he teach you guys?” I inquire.

  “You’ll see soon.” He smiles, equipping his Iron Cestus onto his calloused hands.

  We’re all jolted up from our beds.

  The war horn blares. It’s time.

  The chill of the upper deck is sharper now, the wind whistling with a pressure I hadn’t noticed before. The ocean has darkened—no longer the silver-blue calm of open water, but a violent gray stew of swirling clouds and whitecaps. In the distance, Minitrysa no longer looks like a speck. It’s a stain. Black cliffs serrated with snow. Peaks like crooked fingers jutting from the sea, stabbing the heavens themselves. I see bastions carved into mountainsides, riddled with thin spires and long-forgotten towers.

  Everyone’s already assembled. Elite Nomads in rows of disciplined silence. At their head is Raeis, the four Elders, and a line of what looks to be five of his strongest warriors—his generals. Behind our Ironclad is our vast fleet, and more rows of Navaens than the trained eye could hope to count. The island grows larger and larger every second, as Alexandria, Antarc, Sevilla, Charlie, and I blend in with the crowd. Raeis slams his spear into the floor.

  “Our goal is simple—reach the landmass’s peak and claim the Ministry’s most vital fortress.”

  He goes silent, taking a beat.

  “The one I failed to capture—Outpost Anumbra. This fort is the beating heart of the Ministry’s forces. Claiming it… will be easy. Reaching it will not. My generals will lead garrisons from multiple angles. Our fleet will entirely surround the island, and each general will enter the island from a separate shore along with an army. I will lead our main vanguard, which is everyone on this ship. Spare no Ministry agent, and rescue any prisoners you see within the fortress.”

  As the island gets closer and closer, I see something ominously floating in the sky in the distance—much closer than Minitrysa. A bat. The same eight-eyed bat from that day. It seems to be holding some kind of envelope.

  “Chief!” I point. “Look up there!”

  The bat quickly zips toward our ship, doing a full rotation around it before dropping the letter onto the helm of the ship. It tries to scurry away, but one of Raeis’s generals sends his spear flying into the bat’s head, killing it instantly. I hear the splash as its body is swallowed by the sea. What’s in that letter?

  An anxiety-inducing dread coats the atmosphere, as the Chief walks slowly to pick up the letter, bending down to reach it. He opens it. His eyes widen as he grabs a letter and something else that makes my stomach sink. A strand of hair.

  He holds the letter in the sky. It reads, written in dried blood,

  “Welcome.”