They had barely turned onto a wider thoroughfare, the faint scent of salt and sea breeze growing stronger, when a sharp whistle pierced the pre-dawn gloom. From the shadows of stacked crates and the dark recesses between buildings, a patrol of three Fae guards, their skin like polished sapphire, materialized. Their spears, tipped with a cold, metallic gleam, were instantly leveled, blocking their path to the docks.
"Halt!" one guard commanded, his voice sharp and resonant. His eyes, glowing with an inner light, fixed directly on Nott. "The wolfkin! There she is!"
"Run! Get to the docks!" Vidar bellowed, pushing Nott forward as he swung his war axe in a wide, defensive arc, trying to shield the smaller figures.
Nott didn't need to be told twice. The joy of moments before was replaced by a surge of pure adrenaline. She scrambled, her small legs pumping, towards the direction of the docks. Errin was right behind her, surprisingly fast, pulling Troth by the arm. The bovinekin, despite his bulk, lumbered with surprising speed.
The guards advanced, their movements fluid and precise, a blur of blue skin and glinting steel. Vidar met them head-on, his axe a shield, a wall of fur and muscle against their swift thrusts. But he was one against three, and the fae were relentless, their movements too swift, their spears too long. He grunted with effort, parrying a thrust, deflecting a sweep, but he was slowly being driven back.
Just as a guard's spear tip slipped past Vidar's guard, aimed for his chest, a blur of motion erupted from the deeper shadows behind the fae. The Silent. Four figures, moving like true shadows, struck with brutal, unseen efficiency. There was no sound, no cry, just the dull thud of precise impacts. One guard crumpled, another fell, and the third was disarmed, his spear clattering to the cobblestones, as the Silent seemed to simply absorb him into the dark. It was over in a heartbeat. Brutal. Unseen. Decisive.
Errin, already halfway down the street, skidded to a halt, her eyes wide behind her dark glasses. She hadn't heard them. Not a single sound until the fae guards hit the ground. A shiver ran down her spine, but it was quickly replaced by awe. "By Amalthius!" she whispered, utterly impressed.
From the deck of the waiting ship, Asha's voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the tense silence left by the ambush. She stood at the railing, her blade drawn, her face a mask of grim determination. Beside her, Stransa watched, her expression a mix of ancient weariness and focused intensity. Asha's eyes were fixed on the surrounding shadows, expecting more fae to appear at any moment. "Board the ship! Now! Before any more come! We've run out of time!" Her voice echoed with urgency across the docks.
Setting Sail on Nemos' Cradle
The dash for the docks turned into a scramble up the gangplank. Vidar, his war axe still clutched, pushed Nott, Errin, and Troth aboard, his eyes scanning the now-empty streets for more shadows. Asha, already at the railing with Stransa, barked orders at the crew: "Cast off! Move! Now!" Ropes groaned against the capstans, the gangplank was hauled up with a desperate clang, and the massive sails of the Nemos' Cradle unfurled, catching the nascent breeze. The ship, a sleek Nan du Tua merchant vessel, surged forward, its wooden hull cutting through the dark waters of the harbor, leaving Petirorin's dragon-bone walls swiftly behind them. The atmosphere on deck was a tense mix of relief and urgency, the crew moving with practiced speed, their faces grim, knowing the true stakes of this unexpected departure.
Quarters Aboard
Once the ship was well underway, slicing through the open sea, Asha was led by a quiet crew member to the larger, more spacious cabins, the kind usually reserved for high-ranking officials. The scent of salt and polished wood filled the air.
Meanwhile, Nott, Stransa, and Errin were directed to a shared cabin below deck. It was small but clean, with three bunks built into the walls, a sturdy wooden table bolted to the floor, and a single porthole showing only the churning, inky blackness of the sea. They deposited their meager belongings. Nott, exhausted from the day's ordeal and the emotional turmoil, barely registered the soft mattress before collapsing onto the lowest bunk. She was asleep almost instantly, the steady rocking of the ship a surprisingly comforting lullaby.
Stransa, with the ancient weariness that now seemed a permanent part of her, moved with practiced efficiency. She unrolled a small leather pouch, containing a few changes of simple clothes and a worn, familiar carving tool, and neatly tucked it under her pillow on the middle bunk. She ran a hand over the rough-hewn wood of the cabin, a stark contrast to the verdant comfort of Lima's grove, but a safe haven nonetheless.
Errin, always one for flair, pulled off her dark glasses and perched them on the small table. Her bright blonde hair seemed to deflate slightly now that she wasn't performing. From her surprisingly spacious satchel, she produced a kaleidoscope of soft, pastel-colored fabrics, an array of ribbons, and a small, intricately carved wooden bird that seemed to shimmer with faint magical light. She began to neatly arrange them on her bunk, a touch of whimsical chaos against the cabin's functional simplicity. She hummed a low, tuneless melody, her batkin ears occasionally twitching at the subtle creaks and groans of the ship.
Troth and Vidar, after ensuring the girls were settled, chose to room with the crew in the communal bunks, preferring the rough camaraderie and the immediate proximity to the ship's engine room and main deck. Their needs were simple, and their presence among the beastkin crew would be a silent, reassuring force. The ship hummed with the steady beat of the waves, carrying its precious, unexpected cargo further and further from the dangers of Petirorin and closer to the distant shores of Nan du Tua. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
The Sea Legs and Shifting Sands
The first week aboard the Nemos' Cradle was a lesson in adaptation. The constant, rhythmic sway of the ship, the endless expanse of gray-blue sea, and the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the hull became the new normal. For Nott, accustomed to solid earth and rapid movement, the sea was an immediate challenge. The first few days were a miserable blur of nausea, her small frame curled into a tight ball in her bunk, the green glow around her almost imperceptible amidst the pale cast of seasickness. Vidar and Stransa took turns sitting with her, offering what little comfort they could, while Errin tried distracting her with hushed stories. Slowly, agonizingly, Nott's body began to adjust, the rolling waves transforming from tormentors into a soothing rhythm, and by the end of the week, her sea legs had firmly set.
With Nott's recovery, her bond with Errin deepened rapidly. Hour after hour, they sat on the deck, or in their cabin, Errin's hands weaving tales from across Lore. She spoke of grand sagas, of heroes and villains, of ancient betrayals and unbreakable bonds. Nott's eyes, wide with wonder, never left Errin's expressive hands. Errin painted vivid pictures of her homeland, Phygiria, the "Home of the First Note." She described cities where magnificent structures were not built upon the ground, but nestled, grand and intricate, within the towering, aromatic, pale-barked trees that seemed to pierce the sky. Buildings of delicate ironwork and ornate carvings, with sprawling, glass-domed halls, clung gracefully to the ancient boughs, connected by intricate bridges and aerial walkways. It was a place where light filtered through leaves and glass alike, and the very air hummed with the echoes of unseen melodies. Nott, for the first time, truly glimpsed a world beyond her wild, isolated existence and the grim confines of Petirorin.
Echoes of Steven
Meanwhile, Asha, ever vigilant, observed Nott and Vidar as they found a small, clear space on the deck to practice their combat forms. Vidar moved with the heavy, grounded power of a natural fighter, his war axe a formidable extension of his will. But it was Nott's movements that caught Asha's eye. Her small, agile form, weaving and striking with surprising precision, held distinct elements. Asha recognized them immediately: Nan du Tuan combat styles. The subtle shifts in weight, the angular parries, the low, sweeping blocks, and the explosive bursts of speed in her strikes. These weren't innate wolfkin movements. This was Steven's influence, his training imprinted upon them. A bittersweet ache tightened Asha's chest once more. Even in death, her brother continued to shape the world around him.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, Asha made her way over to Nott and Vidar, who had just finished a sparring session, their fur slightly matted with exertion.
"Nott. Vidar," Asha stated, her voice calm but firm, her warrior's gaze sweeping over them both. "I've been watching you train. Steven taught you well. He would be proud." She paused, then continued, her purpose clear. "He left you with valuable skills, but there is still much to learn. This ship offers space. I intend to see that your training continues, here, as we travel. Where Steven left off. Are you willing?"
Aboard Nemos' Cradle: Training Begins
Nott and Vidar exchanged a quick glance. For Vidar, Asha's offer was a clear path to becoming a stronger protector, to truly honor Steven's sacrifice. For Nott, it was more. Her hands moved swiftly, "Yes! We're willing!" she signed, a surge of happiness bubbling within her. She bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, a spark of her old, boundless energy returning. Maybe Asha is warming up to me, she thought, a hopeful warmth spreading through her chest.
Vidar nodded to Asha. "We accept, Your Majesty. Thank you."
Asha's stern expression didn't soften, but a subtle nod conveyed her acknowledgment. "Good. We begin at first light. Be ready."
Dawn Drills
The first rays of dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of rose and gold, reflecting on the rolling waves. On the main deck of the Nemos' Cradle, a clear space had been set aside for training. Vidar stood opposite Asha, his heavy war axe clutched in his hands. Nott stood to the side, watching intently, a mix of excitement and apprehension swirling within her.
Asha, clad in light, practical training gear, held only a single, unadorned practice blade. Her posture was relaxed, yet every line of her body spoke of coiled power. "Vidar," she stated, her voice calm but with an underlying edge of command. "Attack me. With intent. Do not hold back. I need to gauge your true ability."
Vidar swallowed, his grip tightening on his axe. He respected Asha, he knew her reputation, but this was a daunting task. He let out a low growl, a challenge, and charged. His first swing was a powerful, overhead chop, meant to split an opponent to the navel. Follow the newest chapters on novelping(.)com.
Asha moved like flowing water. She sidestepped Vidar's powerful blow with effortless grace, the war axe whistling through the air where she had stood moments before. Before Vidar could even recover his balance, Asha's practice blade was at his throat, a light touch that was, nonetheless, absolute.
"Too slow," Asha murmured. She pulled back, allowing Vidar to recover. "Again. With intent."
Vidar roared, frustration mingling with determination. He unleashed a flurry of strikes—a wide horizontal sweep, a crushing downward chop, a lunging thrust. He poured all his strength into each attack, his muscles straining, his blows capable of felling a lesser foe.
But Asha was a phantom. She weaved, dodged, and parried, her movements so fluid and precise that Vidar's axe seemed to pass through air. Each of his furious, committed attacks left him open, off-balance. Asha would tap his knee with the flat of her blade, strike his exposed side, or hook his arm to pull him into an awkward position, always a control point, never a full blow. She didn't press her advantage, merely demonstrated his every flaw.
Vidar grew increasingly frustrated, his movements becoming more wild, more desperate, as Asha continued to dance around him. He grunted, he roared, sweat plastered his fur to his skin. He was strong, powerful, but against Asha's refined skill and battlefield instinct, it was like a lumbering bear trying to hit a hummingbird. Finally, after a particularly wide swing left him completely open, Asha flowed in close, her practice blade tapping him firmly on the forehead.
"You're open," she stated. Then, with a lightning-fast movement, she disarmed him, his axe clattering to the deck. She pressed the flat of her blade against his chest, pushing, and Vidar stumbled back, landing hard on his backside, panting, completely disarmed and utterly outmatched. It was embarrassing, a clear and undeniable display of the vast gulf in their abilities.
"Now, Nott," Asha said, turning her attention to the small wolfkin. "Your turn. Attack me. With intent. Do not hesitate."
Nott, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of awe and concern for Vidar, nodded, her small jaw set with determination. She clutched her twin hand axes, the familiar weight a small comfort. She lunged, her movements quick and agile, more so than her usual childlike speed. She threw a series of rapid strikes, mimicking the movements Steven had taught her, but lacking his strength and reach. Asha moved with the same fluid grace she had displayed against Vidar, effortlessly deflecting and evading Nott's attacks. Nott was simply too inexperienced, too small, and too predictable. She couldn't land a single blow.
Frustration began to simmer within Nott. She growled, her attacks becoming more frantic, fueled by her inability to connect. Her movements became a blur of raw, untamed frustration, faster than a normal wolfkin, but still unrefined. She darted around Asha, her axes a flurry of wild, uncoordinated swings. Asha, though slightly surprised by the raw, desperate speed Nott could summon, easily avoided the attacks.
Suddenly, as Nott's frustration mounted, the green light within her flared, becoming almost visible. Her speed surged, an unnatural, volatile burst of energy. Her small body moved with an impossible velocity, the twin axes becoming blurs. Asha's eyes narrowed. Nott was no longer merely fast; she was becoming a dangerous, uncontrolled force. Asha was forced to abandon her defensive posture, shifting into a fluid offensive to parry and deflect the uncontrolled onslaught. She moved with blinding speed herself, her practice blade a silver line, deflecting Nott's axes away from her own body, maneuvering to avoid a stray, power-enhanced blow that could genuinely cause injury. With a swift, decisive move, Asha sidestepped a powerful, wildly thrown axe swing and, with a precise tap, struck Nott's wrist, causing the axe to fly from her grip. A second, lightning-fast movement disarmed Nott of her other axe.
"Enough," Asha stated firmly, her gaze sharp. Nott stood panting, her fur slightly ruffled, her eyes wide with a mix of exhaustion and frustration. Asha observed her. Nott clearly had latent abilities, an unusual speed that flared with her emotions, but she didn't yet know how to access or control her powers. This meant any further combat training would need to be focused on discipline before raw technique.
From the edge of their training space, Troth had been watching the drills with rapt attention, his bovine eyes wide. Usually a gentle, peace-loving soul whose passion lay in the delicate art of music, he had been mesmerized by the fluid grace of Asha's movements and the raw, untamed power that had briefly radiated from Nott. He saw a similar artistry in Asha's defense as he did in the intricate melodies he wove with his lute. Hesitantly, he approached Asha, his large frame seeming to shrink slightly.
"Your Majesty," Troth began shyly, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "I... I was watching. Your movements... they are like a song. Would... would you ever consider... teaching me?