Morning rolled in with salt on the breeze.

  Beyond the last rows of Azure Wind’s tents, the southern sun crept over the dunes, gilding the canvas rooftops and turning the merchant flags into colored fire. The camp, no longer just a stop along the road, had bloomed into a living marketplace.

  Ocean Tide’s people had come.

  They arrived in groups—on foot, in wagons, atop finely bred horses. Nobles draped in embroidered cloaks mingled with traveling mages and wide-eyed townsfolk. They came for spice and metal, for maps and rumors, for stories of monsters and songs from distant shores.

  And the Azure Wind Caravan gave them what they came for.

  The market was a clash of cultures—cinnamon from the Eastern Reaches, tapestries woven in the cliffs of Seradel, smoke-bottled dreams sold by a one-eyed woman in black, artifacts carved from beastbone, and music boxes that sang in forgotten tongues.

  Aromas twisted through the air—grilled root-meats, sizzling oil, fermented plum drinks. Kivas strode between stalls like a general, barking prices and pinching coin pouches like they owed him blood.

  Ysar leaned over a fruit cart from a local trader, arguing about whether a “goldberry” was worth its name.

  “This isn’t even gold. This is like… bronze at best. Look, your berry’s oxidizing—”

  The man sighed. Loudly.

  Karin, meanwhile, stood beside Elsha near a rack of flame-infused pendants—her job was to not set anything on fire. She’d nearly failed twice already.

  A noble girl in soft blue lace pointed to one. “Is this real fire?”

  “Yes,” Karin replied.

  “Will it hurt if I touch it?”

  “Yes.”

  The girl touched it.

  Karin watched her yelp and fall backward into her escort’s arms. “Told you.”

  Elsha didn’t smile. But she came close.

  Kivas passed by just then, arms full of scrolls, voice booming. “Someone tell Ysar if he used caravan coin to buy himself fruit, I’m putting him on stall duty all week.”

  “I heard that!” Ysar called.

  “You were meant to.”

  It was chaos. Organized, glorious chaos.

  —

  At the edge of the market, Zafran stood by a lantern-post hung with silver chimes. His cloak fluttered gently in the breeze, sword at his waist. This was his post—silent, watchful. He’d once tried helping as a vendor, but Kivas removed him after too many customers complained about his pricing.

  He was a swordsman, not a merchant. He trained the young warriors, patrolled the perimeter. And now, he watched.

  His eyes drifted lazily across the crowd—

  Then stopped.

  A man stood across the bustle. Not in armor. Not in robes. But something in the way he held himself—straight-backed, still, a quiet tension to his frame—betrayed the truth.

  Zafran’s eyes widened.

  The man turned, just slightly. Their eyes met.

  Zafran turned immediately, walking away into the crowd.

  Behind him, the man froze for a heartbeat—then moved.

  “Zaf!”

  A shout, carried over the stalls.

  And he followed.

  Zafran didn’t walk fast—but every step was deliberate.

  Through the market’s din, past colorful cloth and spice-laden air, he moved like someone trying not to be seen, though his cloak was plain and his sword dulled. He hadn’t expected the voice.

  “Zafran!”

  He stopped.

  Turned—slowly.

  The man stood a few paces back.

  No armor. No crest. Just a brown traveler’s cloak and that familiar sharpness in his stance—rigid, composed, too precise for a common man. The sword at his hip was regulation-length, worn smooth at the grip. But the decoration on it was clear—he held a position of high esteem.

  Zafran exhaled through his nose. “Ealden. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Neither did I,” the man—Ealden—said. He studied him quietly. “You’ve changed.”

  Zafran didn’t respond.

  “You’re with Azure Wind, then?”

  “For a long time.”

  Ealden gave a shallow nod. “I figured.”

  Silence stretched between them. The noise of the bazaar rolled on—muffled, distant.

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  “You shouldn’t be near the city,” Ealden said eventually, voice low. “It’s still… not safe.”

  “I haven’t set foot inside,” Zafran replied, almost automatic. “No law broken.”

  Ealden nodded again. “Still. You know how delicate things are.”

  Zafran’s jaw shifted, but he didn’t reply.

  Ealden’s voice softened. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

  Zafran’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  More silence.

  Then Ealden added, “She still asks about you.”

  Zafran’s gaze flicked upward, wary.

  “The princess,” Ealden clarified. “She never forgot.”

  Zafran said nothing.

  “I won’t say more if you don’t want me to,” Ealden said gently.

  Zafran’s tone stayed cool. “I didn’t ask.”

  Ealden took a slow breath. “Still… it’s good to see you.”

  Zafran didn’t answer. Not yes. Not no.

  Ealden stepped back—just a little—giving space.

  Then turned.

  And walked away.

  Zafran stood still a moment longer.

  Across the plaza, half-hidden behind a display of colored silks, Karin had seen the exchange.

  She couldn’t hear them. But something in Zafran’s posture held her gaze—

  Like a weight that never left.

  The rhythm of hoofbeats cut through the low hum of twilight.

  Deliberate. Regal. Echoing.

  From the east road, riders emerged—not dusty travelers, but knights of Ocean Tide, clad in ceremonial armor that caught the dying light like burnished silver. Every movement was deliberate, silent save for the soft clink of reins and boots. Their tabards bore the sigil of the royal line—sea-stag over sun-disc.

  At their head rode a woman.

  Not armored like the others, but commanding all the same.

  She wore riding leathers laced with ocean-blue silk, trimmed in platinum thread. Her posture was perfect—not stiff, but balanced like a blade resting at peace. A silver circlet nestled in her midnight hair, catching what little sunlight remained.

  And her eyes—

  Clear as sea-glass. Deep as storm-tide.

  They swept the camp in one slow, discerning glance.

  It was not arrogance.

  It was weight.

  Presence.

  The kind that shifted the air.

  No words were spoken.

  Yet the camp fell silent.

  Princess Seren, the heir to Ocean tide royal family.

  Stall keepers stopped mid-call. Musicians let their notes trail off. Even the children paused in their play.

  One by one, they bowed.

  Kivas moved first, lowering his head with the respect of a seasoned leader—pragmatic, measured, but unmistakably deferent. “We weren’t told to expect Ocean Tide tonight.”

  Ealden dismounted, helm tucked beneath one arm. “We’re not here on royal command.”

  He glanced toward Zafran.

  The Princess didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

  Her gaze locked with Zafran’s—and held.

  He didn’t bow.

  Didn’t flinch.

  But something in his eyes darkened. A distant tide rising.

  “We’re looking for Zafran,” Ealden said simply.

  Kivas cleared his throat. “He’s right here.”

  Zafran exhaled through his nose. “Of course I am.”

  “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?” the Princess asked, her voice quiet—but it carried like water over stone.

  Smooth.

  Measured.

  And cold at the edges.

  Kivas nodded once, clearing his throat again. “Leader’s tent, near the center. No one’s using it tonight.”

  She gave a small nod in return, nothing more.

  Kivas turned to Zafran. “Lead the way?”

  Zafran said nothing.

  But he moved.

  Slowly. Precisely. Each step like crossing some unspoken threshold.

  Ealden and the Princess followed. The knights remained behind, forming no wall, only a respectful boundary.

  As the three walked, the camp parted for them.

  And then closed again, like a breath being held.

  —

  From across the rows of carts, Karin watched.

  She hadn’t moved in some time.

  The lanternlight caught the edge of her cheek, but her eyes never left the trio’s backs.

  The tent flap opened.

  Zafran stepped inside.

  Then the Princess.

  Then Ealden.

  The canvas closed behind them—soft, final.

  The silence didn’t break.

  Not right away.

  Karin let out a slow, shallow breath.

  “…Well,” she muttered, “there goes that plan.”

  Beside her, Elsha’s arms moved a little too quickly as she folded the last cloth.

  Neither of them spoke again.

  But the air between them was no longer still.

  The tent felt smaller somehow, the canvas drawing tighter with each heartbeat. Golden dusk filtered softly, casting elongated shadows and catching dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Outside, the muffled noises of the market felt impossibly distant.

  Zafran stood by the cot, his arms crossed, sword unbelted and deliberately out of reach. It wasn’t that he feared using it—rather, he wanted nothing here to speak of conflict. He’d left those days behind, or so he’d hoped.

  The tent flap stirred quietly.

  Princess Seren stepped in first, her entrance quiet but unmistakably regal. Behind her, Ealden lingered by the entrance, deliberately distant. Seren’s riding leathers whispered with her movements; she seemed too calm for someone who’d come bearing secrets.

  She offered a gentle smile. “It’s been a long time, Zafran.”

  He kept his gaze fixed, unreadable. “Ten years, give or take.”

  She hesitated a moment, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her gloves. “You’ve changed.”

  “We all have,” he said quietly.

  Her eyes softened. “I didn’t come lightly. But I need your help.”

  Zafran’s mouth curled slightly, humorlessly. “I’d imagine the royal guard would serve you better.”

  “Not for this.” Seren paused, carefully choosing her words. “I need someone who doesn’t carry my family’s banner. Someone… overlooked.”

  “Convenient,” he murmured, the edge of bitterness unmistakable. “Ten years in exile, and now my usefulness has suddenly resurfaced?”

  Ealden stirred slightly but said nothing.

  Seren drew a measured breath. “I came here because it’s about Balin.”

  Zafran froze at the name. For a heartbeat, the world inside the tent halted. A decade of silence wrapped itself around the single word—his father’s name.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

  The princess met his gaze directly, her voice steady, careful. “Your father never betrayed Ocean Tide. He saved me.”

  Zafran remained silent, waiting.

  “Ten years ago,” she began softly, “you know we traveled to Fyonar for peace negotiations. My father, the king, wanted peace. Fyonar… we believed they did, too. That night, assassins attacked our chambers. My guards fell quickly—almost too easily.”

  She hesitated, then continued quietly, “Balin was the last to stand, guarding my door. When I awoke, he was already wounded. He fought them off long enough for me to escape, but it was too late for him. He knew it, too.”

  Her voice wavered only slightly. “Fyonar claimed he betrayed us. Their knights showed ‘proof’—convenient letters, seals. Your father said nothing to refute them. He insisted we accept the lie.”

  Zafran’s voice hardened. “Why?”

  Ealden finally spoke, voice low and careful. “Because the truth would’ve meant war. The king was already furious, suspicious. Balin feared the revelation that Fyonar had betrayed us would lead Ocean Tide back into a conflict it couldn’t win.”

  “So my father died branded a traitor,” Zafran murmured, bitterness simmering beneath calm words. “To keep the peace?”

  Ealden met his eyes squarely. “He chose peace over honor. And yes, it was my blade—but at his command.”

  Zafran said nothing. His eyes closed briefly, tension visible at his temples.

  Seren gently continued, “I’ve spent years quietly gathering evidence, hoping to someday clear his name without igniting war. Recently, I uncovered a possible lead: a faction in Fyonar who orchestrated that attack. They’re still active, pulling strings in shadows. I need someone discreet. Someone I trust.”

  He exhaled slowly. “Why me?”

  “Because you deserve the truth more than anyone,” she said simply. “But also because you know what it means to be forgotten. You won’t be seen coming.”

  He shifted slightly, still guarded. “You’re asking me to walk back into the fire.”

  “I’m asking you,” Seren said carefully, “to help me prove your father’s honor. Not for my sake, nor even for Ocean Tide—but because it’s the truth. And perhaps because the people who framed him are still out there, waiting.”

  The tent filled with silence once more.

  Finally, Zafran spoke, his voice soft. “If I do this… it’s not for Ocean Tide.”

  Seren nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t expect it to be.”

  He looked away for a long moment, as if weighing the decade of exile against the truth he’d just learned.

  “Very well,” he murmured. “Send me what you have.”

  “I will.”

  Seren stepped back, pausing once more at the entrance. “Thank you, Zafran.”

  He didn’t respond—but he didn’t need to.

  Ealden met Zafran’s eyes briefly, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them. Then, following Seren, he slipped out quietly into the darkening night.

  Zafran stood there alone, feeling the weight of the world resettle itself once again.

  But this time, at least, it felt different.