As Kyle disappeared into the shifting tides of the plaza crowd, his coat fluttering behind him like a banner of mischief, the clamor of the tourist district swallowed his presence whole. Laughter, music, the bark of merchants and the clash of wooden swords in a street performance—all merged into a blur behind him.
But Emil's path had diverged.
Somewhere else, somewhere quieter, the second fugitive had begun walking his own trail through the island's winding veins.
What he had done since parting ways with Kyle… well, that's another story.
And it begins now.....
*****
In all honesty, Emil had a truly abysmal sense of direction.
Not the kind one could joke about in polite company—no, Emil's directional instincts were the stuff of legend. The kind of legend where a man could get lost on a straight road if you spun him around twice.
Thankfully, he had his powers. With his innate senses, he could stretch his awareness like a net, scan the surrounding area, and detect landmarks, people, movements. Usually, this worked like a charm.
Usually.
But today, standing amidst an island city that seemed intentionally designed to mock spatial logic, Emil realized something disturbing. His senses weren't helping much.
Every street felt eerily similar. Every winding alley curled like a mirrored echo of the last. Buildings had the audacity to be identical in design, and signboards bore strange script he couldn't read. Even the air smelled the same—warm spices, sea salt, and sweat. It was like someone had copy-pasted the entire district a dozen times.
"How the hell am I supposed to get around this place?" Emil muttered aloud, spinning in place for the third time in five minutes.
More importantly, how was he supposed to find the fountain again, let alone the obscure little alley they were meant to regroup in later? And weren't there specific patrol routes he was supposed to avoid?
His face darkened. "That selfish, smug bastard," he growled.
All this chaos, all this wandering, and it all traced back to one man's insufferable refusal to share a map.
He considered buying one from a nearby stall—except that would mean speaking to the locals in a language he barely understood. His last attempt at asking for directions had ended with a merchant handing him a shoe and pointing north. He still had no idea why.
And now, to top it all off, his stomach rumbled with the fury of a forgotten beast.
Great. He was lost, confused, linguistically crippled, and hungry.
With a sigh that could flatten crops, Emil gave up on plans, logic, or pride. He would wander. Maybe fate would be kind. Maybe food would find him. Maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't end up in jail or a sewer.
And so, muttering curses under his breath with every step, Emil set off down another identical street in yet another probably-wrong direction… fully resigning himself to the madness of the day.
*****
He walked for what felt like an eternity.
The ridiculous stick he'd been limping on—his once-clever disguise—was now just a burden. With a grunt of annoyance, he tossed it aside and abandoned the limp altogether. What was the point? He was too lost to fool anyone and too tired to care.
Just as he was about to give up, ready to collapse into a ditch and curse both the heavens and Kyle one more time, the heavens finally looked down on his pitiful soul.
There it was.
A small food stand, tucked between two crooked buildings like a gift from the gods. The scent hit him first—fresh seafood, grilled and seasoned, warm steam curling through the air like an embrace.
His eyes lit up like a starving wolf spotting prey. He rushed over, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The vendor was a young woman—her skin a faint ocean-blue, eyes gleaming with opalescent fins that fluttered subtly as she blinked. A few decorative scales shimmered along her jawline. She watched him with the calm wariness of someone used to strange customers… but maybe not this strange.
Emil barely glanced at the prices. He couldn't read them anyway.
He jabbed a finger at the array of sizzling dishes and, reaching deep into his exhausted brain, summoned one of the only Velisari words he knew:
"Everything."
The woman blinked. "I… pardon?"
He pointed again, more forcefully. "Everything."
His stomach snarled in agreement.
She tilted her head, unsure whether he was joking, confused, or dangerous. Emil scowled at her hesitation, then pulled out three gleaming gold coins and thrust them forward.
Her eyes widened. That was more than enough for her entire inventory twice over.
She began to stammer something—probably trying to explain it was too much—but to Emil, it may as well have been birdsong. He couldn't understand a word, and his patience had evaporated with the last trace of his self-control.
"I say everything!" he barked again, louder this time, his accent mangling the syllables.
He shoved the coins into her hands, gritting out in broken Velisari:
"Keep money. Give food. Now."
There was a beat of silence. Then she gave him a slow, wary nod… and began frantically plating every item she had.
*****
One by one, the plates came. And just as quickly, one by one, they vanished.
Grilled squid skewers, seared reef crab, fragrant shellfish stew, crispy kelp cakes—all devoured with primal determination. He ate like a man possessed. A man wronged. A man on a mission to erase his frustrations, bite by delicious bite.
Around him, onlookers began to gather. Some watched in amusement, nudging each other and laughing at the sheer absurdity of the scene. Others frowned, lips pursed in quiet judgment, as if personally offended by the bottomless pit that was his appetite.
The vendor herself had gone from bewildered to mildly horrified, now simply staring in awe. Did he have a void where his stomach should be? Was this some kind of magical punishment? She dared not interrupt.
Emil didn't care.
Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let them gasp and gossip and try to make sense of him.
They could all choke on their own opinions.
He didn't slow. Didn't pause. Didn't even glance up between mouthfuls.
He would keep going—keep eating—until he was good and truly satisfied, so he could return to his aimless wandering with at least a full belly and zero tolerance for nonsense.
And maybe, just maybe, the taste of fire-grilled fish would help him forget, if only briefly, that he was utterly lost on a cursed island… because of one selfish bastard with a map.