The Cragling loomed over him, its jagged face a mask of hate, its serrated teeth dripping with venom as its taloned hand squeezed his neck. Zyren's vision blurred; the weight of the creature felt like an iron anvil pressing him into the charred ground. The other hand, gnarled and monstrous, raised a notched sword high into the air. The blade began its descent, glinting cruelly in the dim light.

  "No!" Zyren shouted, jolting upright in his bed, gasping for air.

  His chest heaved as he clawed at his throat, the phantom sensation of the Cragling's grip still lingering. It took several moments before he realized it was gone. Only the dim light of morning filtered through the shutters of the inn room. Sweat soaked his sheets, and his hands trembled uncontrollably.

  The burned forest had left its mark on him—physically and mentally. The Craglings, with their relentless hunger and savagery, had been the first real test of his mettle, and it was a trial that haunted him.

  Pulling off the covers, he swung his legs over the bed and pressed his fingers to the bruises lining his ribs. They were fading, but the memories weren't. His mind kept replaying the chaos: the Craglings' shrieks, the stench of charred wood, the sensation of his dagger slipping on tough hide. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself back to the present.

  "It's over," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "It's over."

  But was it? The Craglings weren't just a memory—they were a reminder of how unprepared he was for the dangers of the world beyond his home.

  The sun was shining outside now, golden rays cutting through the lingering shadows. Shaking off the dread clinging to him, Zyren decided it was better to focus on the present. He quickly washed up, dressed, and headed downstairs.

  The inn's common room was alive with activity. Travelers came and went, and the din of conversation mixed with the clatter of plates and mugs. Zyren's stomach growled as the smell of fresh bread and roasted meat hit him. He scanned the tables, spotting a small buffet set up near the wall and making his way toward it.

  "Hey, tourist!" called a familiar voice.

  Zyren turned to see the dwarf from the previous night waving at him from a table near the corner. With him were two others—a second dwarf, his beard streaked with grey, and a massive creature with skin that resembled cracked granite.

  "Join us!" the dwarf said, gesturing to the empty spot beside him.

  Zyren hesitated for a moment but decided the company was better than eating alone. He grabbed a plate and made his way over.

  "Thanks. Nice to meet you all," Zyren said, sitting down. "I'm Zyren."

  "Name's Durkil," the talkative dwarf replied between bites of bread. "This here's Groln." He jabbed a thumb at the older dwarf, who gave a curt nod, his sharp eyes studying Zyren like he was appraising a piece of armour. "And the big guy over there is Rennak."

  Rennak grunted in acknowledgment, his deep-set eyes fixed on the plate in front of him. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he were conserving energy. When Zyren glanced at him, Rennak raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  "What are your plans for today, kid?" Durkil asked, breaking the silence.

  "Not sure," Zyren replied, helping himself to some bread.

  "Maybe head further south. If there's not much to see, I'll probably leave Regismere. The walls make it feel…closed in." He glanced at Durkil. "What about you?"

  "Can't argue with that." Durkil said through a mouthful of meat. "As for us, we're bounty hunters. Came to collect a reward, and now we're headed for the docks. Got another target lined up."

  "Target won't wait forever," Groln muttered, his voice like stone grinding against stone. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table, each tap punctuating his words. "Clock's ticking. Gold's waiting. No time for idle chatter."

  "Relax, Groln. We're eating. Kid's just making conversation," Durkil said with a grin, unbothered by the older dwarf's irritation.

  Rennak shifted in his seat, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. "Talking's fine, but..." He paused, his words measured and few, each one seeming to cost him effort. "...unnecessary risks aren't."

  The conversation was interrupted as the door to the inn slammed open, and two guards strode in. Their armour gleamed, but their movements were sharp and aggressive. Without a word, they headed upstairs. Moments later, a loud crash echoed through the inn, followed by muffled shouting.

  Zyren froze. His instincts screamed at him to stay seated, to avoid drawing attention. When the guards came back down, they were dragging someone between them. Blood stained their gauntlets, and the figure they carried was barely conscious.

  "They have eyes everywhere," Groln muttered under his breath, his fingers drumming faster now, an anxious rhythm against the wood.

  "Innkeeper. Watches. Reports." Rennak's words came out in sparse, clipped fragments, his eyes never leaving his plate. "Always listening."

  Zyren's heart raced. The words of the hooded figure he'd met the previous day echoed in his mind: "—not what it seems—"

  The group finished their meal in tense silence. As the guards left with their prisoner, Zyren examined his surroundings thoughtfully.

  "I think I've seen enough of Regismere," he said quietly. "These walls... they're starting to feel like a prison."

  "Thinking of moving on?" Durkil asked, noticing Zyren's contemplation.

  Zyren nodded. "I left home to see the world, not to be trapped in a set of walls. I′ll check the ships leaving the harbour—they′ll head somewhere with more to offer than rigid streets and watchful eyes."

  "Ships aplenty," Groln confirmed, his fingers finally stilling. "South. East. West. Pick a direction, find a vessel." He gave Zyren an appraising look. "Better than staying here, where even the air feels... monitored."

  "We're heading to the docks ourselves," Durkil offered. "You're welcome to join us if you're curious about sea travel."

  Zyren considered for a moment, then nodded. "I'd appreciate that. The stories I heard growing up... sailors spoke of islands where the trees bear fruit sweeter than honey, and coastal cities where the markets never close. I'd like to see if those tales hold any truth."

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  "Some do," Rennak rumbled unexpectedly, his gaze lifting to meet Zyren's. "Some don't. Worth... finding out... yourself."

  The group stepped outside into the morning light. Zyren followed Durkil and his companions, grateful for their guidance. As they navigated the morning streets, he found himself taking a final look at Regismere's imposing walls. The city that had seemed so orderly and impressive upon his arrival now felt oppressive, its perfect streets and rigid control no longer a marvel but a warning.

  He pulled his hood lower, a habit formed from the previous day's caution. The streets grew more crowded as they approached the harbor district. The buildings changed too—sturdier, weathered by salt air, adorned with faded paintings of ships and sea creatures. Sailors and dockworkers pushed past them, their skin tanned and leathery from years under the sun. The scent of the sea grew stronger with each step, mingling with the aromas of fish, tar, and the sweat of labour.

  "First time leaving by sea?" Durkil asked, noticing Zyren's wandering gaze.

  "Is it that obvious?" Zyren replied with a small smile.

  "You've got that look—taking everything in like it might disappear if you blink." The dwarf chuckled. "Don't worry. The sea's not so bad once you get your legs under you."

  Zyren nodded thoughtfully. The idea of sailing across the waters to distant shores stirred something in him—a hunger for sights unseen, for stories untold. The tavern tales of his youth had painted vivid pictures of island kingdoms and coastal cities where the customs and cultures were as varied as the fish in the sea. Despite his apprehension, the prospect of experiencing these wonders firsthand quickened his pulse with anticipation.

  When they reached the edge of the hill overlooking the harbour, the sight nearly took his breath away. Ships of every size lined the piers, their masts stabbing the sky like a forest of wooden spears. Thousands of people bustled about—sailors, merchants, travellers—all weaving through the organized chaos. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries barely audible over the shouts of dockworkers and the creaking of ropes and wood.

  "That one's for getting in," Durkil said, pointing to a large building where a long line of travellers waited under the watchful eyes of guards stationed everywhere, their sharp eyes scanning the crowd. The tension in their posture was unmistakable, their hands hovering near their weapons; they were waiting for trouble.

  "How does this work?" Zyren asked, gesturing toward the bustling docks. "Do I just approach a ship and ask for passage?"

  "First you pick a ship from the boards," Groln explained, his words coming in rapid bursts. "Check destinations. Check prices. Check departure times." He pointed to several large boards where crowds had gathered. "Then clerks. Then payment. Then weapons. Simple process. Efficient."

  "The boards list all departing ships," Durkil added. "Once you choose one, you take your tokens to the clerks, who'll give you a ticket and return your weapons."

  Zyren followed the group closer, weaving through the thickening crowd. The boards near the docks displayed ship names, destinations, and travel durations. People crowded around them, arguing over choices. Zyren paused at one, his eyes skimming the names. He spotted a ship heading south—a journey of just one week. That was perfect.

  Suddenly, shouts erupted from the entrance line. A burly creature had lunged at the guards, brandishing a massive sword. The guards scattered, drawing their swords. As it charged forward, several others joined the scuffle, and a cacophony of steel clashing on steel filled the air.

  More guards rushed to help, horns blaring across the docks. One guard, racing toward the commotion, slammed into Zyren, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  "Out of the way!" the guard barked, not even looking back as he drew his sword and joined the fray.

  Zyren stumbled back, heart racing as the violence escalated mere feet away. The guards overwhelmed the attackers with brutal efficiency. Some guards were injured, but none fell. The bodies of the defeated were dragged away, leaving dark smears on the cobblestones.

  Durkil shrugged, seemingly unfazed. "Happens more often than you'd think." He turned back to Zyren. "We're taking the Selkie's Resilience. Month-long voyage. If you're interested, tag along."

  Zyren hesitated, glancing at the annoyed expressions of Groln and Rennak. While he appreciated Durkil's offer, the thought of a month-long journey felt overwhelming for his first sea voyage. Besides, the Swift Breeze would take him to new shores faster, allowing him to experience more of what the world had to offer beyond Regismere's walls.

  "That's too long for me," he said finally. "I'll take the Swift Breeze. Just a week's journey."

  "Good choice," Rennak said with a slow nod. "First voyage... shorter... better."

  Durkil grinned. "Good luck, then. Maybe we'll cross paths again someday."

  "I'd like that," Zyren replied, surprised to find he meant it. Despite their brief acquaintance, there was something reassuring about the dwarf's straightforward manner.

  He joined the line for the clerks, gripping his tokens in his pocket. Around him, caravans ferried luggage to the ships. Clerks processed travellers with mechanical efficiency, while guards stood watch with grim expressions.

  "Next!" barked the clerk. Zyren stepped forward, determined to keep up the pace he remembered from his first encounter with this bureaucracy.

  "Which ship?" the human didn't even raise his head.

  "The Swift Breeze," replied Zyren.

  "Accommodation?"

  "The cheapest room."

  "Tokens?"

  Zyren handed them over, the clerk scribbled something onto a slip and delivered it to a colleague. "Seven gold coins, plus the token for one night."

  Zyren paid, receiving a token for his weapons and a ticket for the ship. He moved to wait by the caravans, watching the methodical loading and unloading of cargo. There was order here too, but unlike Regismere's rigid control, this was the practical efficiency of people who worked together daily, a rhythm born of necessity rather than enforcement.

  When his turn came, the driver extended his hand for the token, then rifled through the wagon before handing him his gear. "Bow, quiver, daggers, sword." Zyren strapped on his weapons, feeling more complete with each familiar weight settling into place. The bow across his back, the sword at his hip, the daggers against his chest—they were extensions of himself, returned after a brief but unsettling absence.

  He headed for the Swift Breeze, studying it as he approached. The ship was modest compared to others, its sails patched but sturdy. The wood of its hull bore the marks of many journeys, weathered but well-maintained. It wasn't impressive, but it looked seaworthy, and that was all that mattered.

  "Not often we get elves aboard," a deep voice called from behind him. "Most of your kind prefer solid ground under their feet." He gestured toward the gangplank.

  Zyren turned, startled that someone had identified him despite his cloak. Before him stood a tall man with a weathered face and salt-streaked beard. His captain's uniform, though clean, showed signs of frequent wear—a working sailor's garb rather than a ceremonial outfit. His eyes, sharp and assessing, took in Zyren with a single glance.

  "Just exploring," Zyren said, his hand instinctively went to the fabric of his cloak. He hadn't realized it was so distinctive.

  The captain scratched his beard, a half-smile forming. "That bow gives you away—elven craftsmanship is unmistakable. And that cloak..." He gestured toward Zyren's deep green garment. "Forest-woven fabric, faded but still holding its colour after what must be years. Only elven weavers manage that particular shade. First voyage?"

  "Is it that obvious?" Zyren asked.

  "The way you're eyeing my ship—like she might bite." The captain chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "She's sturdy enough, been through worse storms than most captains have tales about."

  Zyren nodded, relaxing slightly at the man's easy manner.

  "Came through the Burned Forest to get here, didn't you?" the captain asked, his tone casual but his eyes suddenly more focused.

  Zyren tensed, then gave a single, tight nod, his eyes dropping to the deck. The memories of that place—the charred trees reaching like skeletal hands, the constant fear, the Craglings' hungry growls—were still too fresh, too raw.

  "And the Craglings? Did you see any?" the captain pressed, his voice lower now, genuinely curious.

  Zyren nodded again, unable to meet the man's gaze. His hand unconsciously moved to his side, where the bruises from that encounter were still fading.

  The captain studied him for a moment longer, then seemed to understand Zyren's reluctance to speak of it. "Well then," he said, clapping a calloused hand on Zyren's shoulder, "welcome aboard the Swift Breeze. I'm Captain Harrick. We sail with the evening tide—find yourself a bunk below and get settled in."

  As the captain walked away, shouting orders to his crew, Zyren felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation wash over him. The Swift Breeze would carry him to new horizons, new experiences. Whatever awaited him across the water, it had to be more honest than what he was leaving behind.

  With a deep breath of salty air, he stepped onto the gangplank, the wooden boards creaking beneath his weight. Each step carried him further from Regismere's oppressive walls and closer to the unknown adventures that lay beyond the horizon.

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