43rd Day of Fall, Year 13,499– City of Rhoda
Morning arrived without a sun.
A thin, reluctant light seeped through the cracks in the bathhouse roof—gray and half-hearted, as if the sky itself hadn't decided whether waking was worth the trouble.
Doran stirred.
No jolt. No sharp inhale.
He simply opened his eyes, like a man who had never fully fallen asleep.
Cold stone pressed against his cheek—cracked, damp, veined with moss. A shallow puddle had gathered beneath his head during the night, but he didn't move away from it. He lay still, letting the ache in his body speak first.
After a moment, he closed his eyes again.
Tried to sink back into the quiet.
It didn't take.
Something pulled at his senses.
Not danger.
Just… wrong.
The air smelled like boiled rice.
His brow tightened.
Slowly, he lifted his head, the stiffness in his body dragging behind the motion.
Then—
"Doran, sir!"
He turned.
Amela sat a few feet away, knees tucked beneath her, shoulders shaking. Tears ran freely down her face. A small bowl of rice rested between them, steam curling faintly into the cold air.
Doran's body moved before his thoughts caught up.
His hand shot behind him—reaching for a sword that wasn't there.
His fingers closed on nothing.
He froze.
Then his eyes found hers.
Recognition settled in.
"It's you," he muttered, voice rough. "What're you crying for now? Thought I told you to cut that out."
Amela didn't answer.
She hurled a small, heavy sack at him.
It struck his chest with a dull thud.
"He sold himself!"
Doran caught it instinctively, frowning as he pulled the drawstring loose.
"What—"
Gold spilled into his palm.
Heavy coins. Clean. Too clean.
His eyes sharpened.
"My brother!" Amela's voice cracked. "He sold himself! They came this morning—with that—" she pointed at the coins, her hand shaking, "—thanking us for the sale!"
Doran stared at the gold.
"…What?"
Amela surged forward and struck him across the jaw.
The hit landed clean.
His head barely moved.
"He's a slave!" she shouted. "He sold himself!"
The words hung there.
Heavy.
Doran looked back down at the coins.
Not payment.
Proof.
A number someone had decided a life was worth.
"Why would he do that?" he asked.
No anger.
No disbelief.
Just… a quiet, hollow question.
"I don't know," Amela whispered. "He left in the middle of the night. Said he was going to the bathroom—but he snuck out."
Her voice wavered.
"Just like I did."
Her fists clenched.
"But you—" she stepped closer, forcing the words out, "you're strong. You survived falling from the sky. You can save him."
Her voice broke.
"Please."
Silence filled the bathhouse.
It pressed in from every side, heavy enough to bow the warped beams overhead.
Doran looked at her.
Not just the tears.
The way her shoulders trembled.
The way she held herself upright anyway.
Like if she didn't—no one would.
He felt something twist.
Sharp.
Ugly.
He hated it.
Not her.
The universe that demanded this kind of courage from someone so small.
"Look, kid—"
Doran's gaze dropped back to the sack, weighing it in his hand, eyes scanning the coins with practiced ease.
"This is… what. Two hundred gold?" he muttered. "Enough for a decent blade. Not enough for everything else."
Amela wiped at her face, dragging the tears away so she could see him clearly.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't have my swords," he said. "No ship. And I'm running on fumes."
Her breath caught.
"A ship…?"
Her eyes flicked from the gold to him, something in her expression tightening.
"That's what you're thinking about?" she said, her voice lowering. "A sword? A ship?"
Her jaw clenched.
"He's my brother."
Doran didn't flinch.
"What, you expect me to find him empty-handed?" he said. Not harsh. Just direct. "You don't walk into something like that unprepared."
Amela recoiled slightly—but didn't step back.
Doran exhaled, rolling his neck until it cracked.
"I'm not saying no," he went on. "I'm saying I don't walk blind into things that get people killed."
He adjusted the strap across his shoulder, tightening it with a firm pull.
"The slave trade doesn't sit on the surface. We take a job. Build coin. Get equipped. Then we move."
Amela's voice cut through him.
"I'm coming with you."
The words landed fast. Final.
Doran didn't react to the volume.
He turned away, moving toward the wall where his armor had been laid out in a careful line—the only sign of order in the entire place.
"Why," he muttered, slipping his arm through a strap, "would I bring you along?"
He glanced back at her.
"You'd slow me down."
Amela didn't move.
Her fists stayed clenched at her sides, knuckles pale. Her eyes were still red, still wet—but steady now.
Locked on him.
"I can help you," she said.
Doran paused mid-motion.
"…You know where they took him?"
A flicker of hesitation.
Then—
"Not exactly."
Her gaze shifted, quick, uneasy—like the walls might be listening.
"But I have something," she added, lowering her voice. "A secret."
A dry smirk tugged at Doran's mouth as he fastened his chest plate.
"Yeah?" he said. "Let's hear it."
Amela didn't hesitate this time.
"I know you're not actually alive."
The room went still.
Doran stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head toward her.
"What did you say?"
"You don't have a soul," she said. Quiet. Certain. "So you're not really alive."
Something in his expression tightened.
His eyes narrowed.
"…How do you know that?"
His hands curled slowly into fists.
Amela flinched at his tone.
But she didn't step back.
She held his gaze—trembling just enough to show she felt it, but not enough to break.
"I can see it," she said quietly. "Where your soul should be…"
Her voice dipped lower.
"It's empty."
Doran didn't move.
"Everyone has something," she went on. "Different colors. Different shapes. Different sizes."
She swallowed.
"But you—there's nothing."
Silence.
Doran watched her.
A muscle in his jaw twitched—not anger, not fear.
Something else.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, then let his eyes drift upward, toward the fractured ceiling. A thin beam of gray light cut through the dust above them.
"…You're not wrong," he said.
A beat.
"But you're not right either."
Amela frowned slightly—but didn't interrupt.
Doran exhaled through his nose.
"It's not simple," he said. "I died."
Another beat.
"The first time."
Her expression shifted—just slightly.
"They gave me a way back," he continued. "Came with a price."
He lifted his hand, flexing his fingers slowly, like he was checking they still belonged to him.
"A Soul Bind."
Amela leaned in without realizing it.
"It tied me to something else," he said. "Not my soul. Someone else's."
His hand lowered.
"They chose it. Not me."
A pause.
"But borrowed life doesn't come free."
His gaze unfocused slightly, drifting somewhere distant.
"And a few days ago…" he added quietly, "that deal broke."
The words settled between them.
"So when you say there's nothing there—" he glanced at her again, "you're right."
"For now."
Amela stayed quiet.
Not doubting.
Just… assembling it.
Then—
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Wait," she said. "You said the first time."
A step closer.
"You've died more than once?"
Doran tightened the last strap across his armor.
"Yeah," he said. "And the last one almost stuck."
She stared at him for a moment longer.
Then—
Without warning—
She grabbed the bowl of rice and scooped a mouthful into her mouth.
Doran blinked.
Once.
"…I thought that was for me."
She chewed, completely unfazed.
"That doesn't sound real," she said through a mouthful. "You told me people lie."
She swallowed.
"How do I know you're not?"
Doran stared at her.
"…You little shit."
Amela smirked, scooping another bite.
"You shouldn't leave food sitting around."
Doran lowered himself to the floor across from her, armor half-fastened and hanging unevenly from his shoulders. He leaned back on his hands with a quiet grunt.
"I didn't think I'd have to fight a child for breakfast."
"You already lost," Amela said, chin lifting. "And you didn't even swing. Impressive."
A small stretch of silence settled between them.
Then—
He laughed.
Short. Rough. Like something unused.
But real.
"…Thank you."
Amela blinked. "For what?"
"For making me feel human," he said, a little quieter now. "Gets harder than it should."
Her expression shifted.
She glanced down at the nearly empty bowl, then back at him.
"You don't seem like a monster," she said. "Just… kind of grumpy."
Doran straightened slightly. "I'm not grumpy."
A beat.
"And I'm not old."
"Oh?" Amela tilted her head, squinting at him like she was inspecting damage. "Could've fooled me. You look at least forty."
Doran pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended.
"That's a fatal blow, kid. I'm only twenty-three."
"Mm." She nodded thoughtfully. "Tragic."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
Amela pushed herself to her feet, brushing dust from her skirt.
"So," she said, turning back to him, "what's the plan?"
Doran exhaled as he stood, rolling his shoulders until the armor settled into place.
"I told you already," he said. "I need a sword. And more coin."
He glanced at her.
"Then I go get your brother."
Amela hesitated for just a second.
Then held out her pinky.
"You promise?"
Doran looked at it.
Then at her.
"…Yeah," he said. "I promise."
She didn't lower her hand.
"Pinky promise."
He frowned slightly. "That's not a real—"
"It is," she cut in. "And if you break it, you get bad luck."
A quiet breath left him—half sigh, half laugh.
"…That sounds like a terrible system."
"Do it."
He shook his head, but there was no resistance left in it.
Slowly, he hooked his pinky around hers.
Their fingers locked.
No ritual.
No power.
No binding force beyond the moment.
Just—
a man who had died too many times
and a girl who still believed promises mattered.
"Alright," Doran said, letting go and pushing himself fully upright. "Let's get a sword before I change my mind."
Amela grinned. "You won't."
He glanced once at the empty bowl, then back at her, a crooked smirk forming.
"…Guess I'm skipping breakfast."
"Should've woken up earlier," she said, already heading for the door.
They pushed through the bathhouse doors and stepped into the waking port city of Rhoda.
The streets still held the night.
Mist clung low to the ground, turning the cobblestone slick beneath their feet. The light filtering through it was dull and colorless, barely enough to separate shapes from shadow.
The city woke slowly.
Crates cracked open. Wood scraped against stone. Voices carried in low, irritated bursts—vendors arguing over space, someone already shouting about fresh fish to anyone who would listen.
Rhoda's buildings sat squat and stubborn along the road. Thick walls. Narrow windows. Built to last—but not to impress.
Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and constant as they circled the harbor's broken towers.
The wind carried salt.
And something heavier beneath it.
Metal.
"You ever been down to the docks?" Doran asked.
Amela shook her head. "No. But I know where the shops are. Sister Renka always told us to stay away from that side of the city." She made a face. "Said it was full of drunkards and thieves."
Doran glanced down the street.
"…Sounds about right."
They turned onto a narrower road.
Lantern posts leaned at odd angles, rust eating through their bases. Storefronts sagged, wood warped and darkened with age. A few rough-looking workers sat on overturned crates, watching the two of them pass.
Their eyes lingered.
Too long.
Amela shifted closer.
Her fingers caught the back of Doran's shirt—not tight, just enough to anchor herself behind him.
He didn't look at her.
"Hey," he said quietly, eyes forward. "Tell me more about that thing you do. Seeing souls."
She hesitated, then nodded slightly.
"If I focus… I can see them," she said. "All around people."
"What's the difference?" Doran asked. "Between them and me."
A faint edge crept into his voice.
"I figured I'd be the scary one."
Amela shook her head.
"It's not like that."
She glanced toward the men watching them, then back to him.
"I see their shape first," she said. "Like a shadow… but not cast by light."
Her hand lifted slightly, hovering near her chest.
"And then there's a flame. Right here."
She tapped lightly over her heart.
"Most people's are small. Flickering. Like they're about to go out." She paused. "Some are stronger. Brighter. Those people feel… heavier. Harder to move."
Her eyes drifted to Doran's chest.
"You should have one like that."
A beat.
"But you don't have anything."
Doran's expression tightened—just slightly. Easy to miss if you weren't looking for it.
Amela continued, quieter now.
"Bad people feel different," she said. "Cold. Even before I look."
Her voice softened, almost thoughtful.
"And… there's not much warmth around here."
She glanced up at him.
"Except you."
Doran didn't react.
Didn't look at her.
His gaze stayed fixed ahead, scanning the street.
"Everyone's scared of something," he said.
They reached the end of the narrow street and started down the stone steps toward the docks.
The air changed first.
Colder. Damp.
Thick with salt—and smoke.
Morning light bled across the water in thin, uneven streaks, broken apart by the silhouettes of ships and the constant motion of cargo shifting from deck to dock.
The place was already loud.
Men shouted over one another, voices stacking and colliding. Wood groaned under weight. Engines rumbled low and steady, building toward something louder. Ropes strained. A gull dove, missed, and shrieked its frustration back at the sea.
Doran scanned the movement, then stepped toward a dockhand hauling a crate up a gangplank.
"Hey," he called. "Who do I talk to about a ship to Furrow?"
The man adjusted the crate on his shoulder, eyeing Doran through strands of sweat-dark hair.
"Depends," he said. "You paying, or working?"
"Working," Doran replied. "Don't have the coin. I'll cover both of us."
He jerked his head slightly toward Amela.
The dockhand followed the gesture.
Amela stood just behind Doran, fingers hooked lightly into the back of his armor. Not gripping—just… holding on.
The man looked between them once.
Then shrugged.
"…Alright. Come on."
He shifted the crate higher and turned down the pier.
Doran followed, boots thudding against wet planks.
Amela stayed close—close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm every few steps, like she was matching his pace without thinking about it.
They moved through a clutter of crates and coiled rope, sidestepping workers and narrow gaps between stacked cargo. Ships loomed on either side—metal scarred, paint peeling, hulls stained from too many crossings.
Voices rose and fell around them. Deals made. Deals broken. Somewhere ahead, an engine coughed hard, then caught, spilling a low cloud of smoke across the water.
"There," the dockhand said, nodding ahead.
At the end of the pier, a mid-sized ship waited.
Its hull was a worn gray, dulled by travel, streaked with grime and dust that clung stubbornly to its surface. The plating was patched in places—older metal welded into newer scars.
The name carved into its side was rough, weather-beaten, letters worn down by years of crossings:
Estelle's Promise
A gangplank stretched from the pier to the ship's deck.
At the top, a woman sat perched on a barrel, dragging a whetstone along the edge of a knife in slow, even strokes.
Steel whispered.
Her hair was tied back with a strip of faded red cloth. A long coat hung open over a plain tunic, shifting slightly in the wind. One leg bounced idly, heel tapping wood in a steady rhythm—unhurried. Unbothered.
"Captain," the dockhand called, lowering his crate with a grunt. "Got a pair here heading to Furrow. Says he'll work for both."
The knife paused.
She looked up.
Her eyes passed over Amela first—quick, dismissive—
Then stopped on Doran.
They lingered.
On the scorched armor. The burn marks. The empty space where a blade should've been.
"That so?" she said.
Her gaze shifted lazily back to the dockhand.
"You telling me my crew's not enough, Martin?"
Martin stiffened.
"N–No, Captain, I just thought—extra hands—"
"Relax." A smirk tugged at her mouth. "If I wanted compliments this early, I'd visit a chapel."
She slid off the barrel in one smooth motion, flipping the knife once before guiding it into the sheath at her hip.
Up close, the lines on her face showed—cut in by sun, smoke, and time more than anything soft.
Her attention returned to Doran.
"Furrow," she said, stepping closer. "Entertainment capital of the Azule Sovereign."
Her eyes flicked to Amela.
"And you're bringing a child."
"Yeah," Doran said. "Problem?"
She tilted her head, studying him properly now.
The armor.
The stance.
The girl behind him—trying not to hide, failing just a little.
"Is she yours?" Yara asked.
A beat.
"Or is she property?"
Doran's gaze hardened instantly.
"No," he said. "She isn't."
Amela flinched at the word—but stepped forward anyway, slipping out from behind him before he could block her again.
"I'm not anyone's," she said. Quiet—but steady. "He's helping me get my brother back."
"Brother," Yara repeated, eyes narrowing slightly.
Her attention shifted back to Doran.
"So. You take jobs like that for free?"
Doran didn't answer.
Just held her stare.
Flat. Unimpressed.
Something in her expression sharpened—interest replacing amusement.
"Hm." A faint smile touched her lips. "Either you're stupid… or you're expensive when it counts."
She tapped a thumb lightly against her chest.
"Yara Estelle. This is my ship—Estelle's Promise."
She gestured once toward the deck.
"You step on board, you work. You haul what I say, sleep when I say, and keep your feet when the deck decides it hates you."
Her eyes flicked to the crates.
"You want passage? Start earning it."
Doran glanced at the stack, then back at her.
"That's it?"
Yara raised a brow.
"You expecting more?"
A beat.
"If you are, say it."
Silence stretched.
Then—
Doran shifted slightly, rolling one shoulder as if testing it.
"There's something you should know," he said. Quiet. Controlled.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Amela.
"Somewhere with fewer ears."
Yara held his eyes for a moment longer.
Then nodded once.
"We'll talk when we're moving."
She jerked her chin toward the crates.
"For now—move."
Doran didn't argue.
He turned and stepped toward the cargo without another word.
Amela moved to follow—
"Hey."
Yara's voice softened just a fraction.
Amela paused, glancing back.
Yara tilted her head slightly, studying her with a different kind of curiosity now.
"You like maps?" she asked.
A beat.
"Star maps."
Elsewhere
Martin set the crate down and wiped his brow, glancing around to make sure no one was watching.
Satisfied, he crouched low and pulled a small flask from his pocket.
He took a long drink.
The burn hit all at once.
He winced, exhaling through his teeth as it settled in his chest.
For a moment, he just stared upward.
Ships drifted down from the upper atmosphere in slow arcs. Gulls wheeled and shrieked in messy circles. Clouds slid across the sky like something half-asleep.
"I'm sorry, Dad," he murmured, taking another sip. "Hope you and Mom are doin' alright."
"Let's use this one."
The voice came from above him.
Martin froze.
Then looked up.
They hovered in the air.
A woman—and a man.
The woman descended first.
Graceful. Controlled.
Her dark violet hair drifted as if suspended in water, framing a face too composed to be kind. Her eyes matched—deep, unreadable, wrong in a way he couldn't name.
Her armor was thin silver plate, edged in brass, shaped too perfectly to be forged by hand. A long coat trailed behind her, its inner lining etched with faintly glowing runes that shifted as she moved.
Beside her hovered a man.
Silver-white hair slicked back. Eyes an unnatural green. A smile stretched too wide to belong to anything sane.
He wore a black tank and loose gray pants—
—but his left arm wasn't human.
Armor wrapped it entirely. Not polished—grown. Ribbed plates layered over one another, dull and scarred, with thin seams of green light pulsing beneath like veins under skin.
A matching band circled his throat.
It hummed.
Soft.
Constant.
Martin stared.
The flask slipped in his grip.
"What's your name, mortal?" the man asked.
His voice tightened the air—like something pulling too hard on a wire.
"Oh, you're scaring him, Theryn."
The woman drifted down the rest of the way, boots touching wood without a sound.
She crouched slightly and pinched Martin's cheek.
"Come now," she said softly. "Tell us your name."
"M–Martin," he stammered. "My name's Martin."
"There we go," she murmured. "See? That wasn't so difficult."
Her fingers were cold.
Not just cold.
Draining.
The warmth left his skin where she touched him.
Theryn dropped beside them with a dull thud. The dock creaked under his weight, like it wasn't sure it wanted to hold him.
"Why're you bein' nice, Neyta?" he muttered. "Could've pulled it straight outta his head."
Neyta smiled.
No teeth.
"Because I enjoy asking," she said. "You'd be surprised how often they give."
Martin tried to stand.
His body refused.
His heel slipped against the damp wood, and he caught himself on one hand. The flask clattered beside him.
His breathing quickened.
"H–How can I help you?" he blurted.
Neyta brightened.
"There it is. Much better."
Theryn snorted. "You like toys."
"That too."
Her hand slid from his cheek to his shoulder.
Light.
Almost nothing.
Martin's body locked in place.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't even lean away.
She extended her other hand toward Theryn.
"Go on."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a set of cards, adding them to the ones already in his hand. He shuffled them slowly.
The sound wasn't right.
Not wood.
Not paper.
Something harder.
Something older.
"You met a man named Doran," Neyta said.
Her voice had flattened.
No warmth. No playfulness.
"Kill him."
Theryn stepped forward and fanned the cards out.
Six of them.
Bone.
Polished smooth.
The backs etched with spiraling lines—circles broken by jagged cuts, like paths that refused to stay straight.
"Choose three," he said.
Not a suggestion.
Martin's hand trembled as it hovered over them.
His fingers landed.
One.
Then another.
Then a third.
The Whispering Seed — for those who give growth but receive none.
The Roar of Dawn — for those who raise others, even when they fall alone.
The Fifth Shadow— to be haunted by your almost-self.
And after that moment, Martin would never be the same.