"She never quite escapes me," he replies, sliding the package into a worn leather satchel resting on the table. "And I don't intend to let her." Mero looks up, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, his fingers brushing the satchel whose tired seams, marked by months of travel across dusty roads and rough seas, tell silent stories. The office where he stands, nestled in the west wing of the Imperial School of Mor, is a refuge of calm amidst the tumult of reconstruction. The walls, paneled in dark oak polished by decades of use, exude a scent of wax and old leather, while shelves groan under leather-bound volumes and rolled maps with yellowed edges, their faded inks tracing distant shores. A tall mullioned window, framed by rough stone, overlooks the inner courtyard where the cobblestones still glisten from the morning rain, its slightly fogged panes filtering a pale light that illuminates the table cluttered with parchments—work reports, building sketches, resource lists. A black stone fireplace, where embers crackle softly, casts dancing shadows on the walls, warming the cool air that seeps through the gaps in the poorly fitted windows.
A servant enters the room, his boots clicking discreetly on the polished floor. Dressed in a sober livery in the school's colors—gray and silver—he carries a tarnished silver tray holding an envelope sealed with a familiar wax emblem: the golden trident encircled by a stylized crown of spices, the emblem of Mero's spice import-export business. "A missive from your affairs, Your Highness," he announces with a respectful bow, placing the tray on the table before retreating, his figure fading into the shadow of the cold stone corridor.
Mero carefully breaks the seal, unfolding the thick parchment whose black ink, slightly blurred by the humidity of a long journey across seas and muddy roads, bears news that darkens his gaze. The snake-headed pirates, those plunderers he thought had been eradicated by his stepfather's efforts, have ravaged his trading post in the Sable-Gris archipelago, a series of islands with sparkling beaches and dense jungles nestled north of the Bloody Mountains. The trading post in the Shadow Mountains, despite a chaotic start, has finally established itself thanks to laboriously negotiated trade contracts. As for the trading post with the Kingdom of Grosbill, a mysterious realm in the heart of the Loriwirien continent, diplomatic discussions remain pending, the Empire having little information about this enigmatic people.
The Sable-Gris trading post, a commercial jewel of his enterprise, was situated on a main island bordered by beaches of gleaming white sand under a relentless sun, where palm trees with slanted trunks cast moving shadows on the golden ground. The buildings, constructed of wood bleached by salt and heat, stood along a worn stone quay, their thatched roofs sheltering warehouses with thick walls piled high with rare spices—cinnamon with woody aromas, shiny black peppercorns, saffron with golden threads shimmering in the dim light. Robust-framed hangars, their beams reinforced with braided ropes, lined the water, their arched doors opening onto interiors resonating with the cries of merchants and the clinking of scales weighing cargo. Narrow alleys, lined with taverns whose facades were faded by sea spray, hummed with the murmurs of boatmen and the laughter of women in colorful tunics selling dried fish on rough wooden stalls. But the snake-headed pirates, their ships with prows carved into reptiles with dark green painted scales, reduced everything to ashes—the warehouses are now smoldering carcasses, the quays littered with charred beams and burned ropes, the beaches sullied by the debris of their plunder. This setback, a harsh blow to his commercial ambitions, rekindles a bitterness that Mero struggles to conceal, his fingers tightening on the parchment.
In contrast, the Shadow Mountains trading post offers a glimmer of hope. Nestled at the foot of dark, jagged peaks, this outpost rises in a valley where winds howl like tormented spirits, sweeping over rocky slopes streaked with veins of black ore. The buildings, constructed of rough stone quarried from nearby cliffs, line a steep path, their flat roofs covered with thatch blackened by torrential rains that cascade down the heights in muddy waterfalls. The warehouses, with thick walls reinforced by knotted wooden beams, house bags of less exotic but robust spices—earthy cumin, brown coriander seeds—protected by rusty iron doors corroded by constant humidity. The narrow alleys, lined with low houses with gray stone facades, echo with the voices of local merchants, their thick tunics woven from raw wool protecting them from the biting cold of the heights. The beginning was difficult—storms pouring torrents of water that flooded the paths, tensions with tribes whose faces were tattooed with ochre and whose lances were adorned with white feathers—but months of patient negotiations, conducted under tents of stretched skins above smoky fires, resulted in trade contracts signed by torchlight, securing a stable presence in this wild region.
The trading post with the Kingdom of Grosbill remains a more complex mystery. Located in the heart of the Loriwirien continent, this realm stretches across an ochre plain where towers of red clay bricks rise like giant sculptures under a scorching sky, their facades adorned with complex geometric patterns—spirals, diamonds, intertwined lines—carved into the baked earth by artisans with precise gestures. Covered markets, with adobe roofs supported by massive pillars, resonate with the voices of merchants draped in tunics of earthy hues—ochre, brown, deep red—their stalls overflowing with unknown spices of pungent aromas and vibrant fabrics woven on carved wooden looms. Wide streets, lined with houses with thick walls pierced by narrow windows, come alive under an unforgiving sun that gilds the dust kicked up by caravans of camels with tinkling bells. The Empire knows little about these people—a blend of flourishing trade and ancient rituals, where the guttural chants of griots mingle with the rumble of drums in courtyards with clay walls. Diplomatic discussions, conducted by envoys in vaulted rooms where clay incense burners smolder, remain pending, a veil of mystery making each advance uncertain. The success or failure of this agreement could open new routes for his spices or leave this elusive market out of reach, a heavy consideration in Mero's thoughts.
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These news plunge him into reflection on the fragility of business in a world where the winds of the sea and the whims of men can overturn months of work in a single night. The city of Mor, with its cobblestone streets lined with houses of light-colored stone still under reconstruction, its quays animated by the clatter of ropes and the cries of boatmen, and its squares where residents gather under faded canvas awnings, seems far removed from the ravaged trading posts and enigmatic kingdoms that now occupy his mind. The buildings of the riverside neighborhood, with their ochre stone walls and red-tiled roofs, take shape under the efforts of artisans, their robust frames rising like beacons of hope in a landscape still marked by ashes. The wide, winding river sparkles under a pale sun that pierces the gray clouds, its waters reflecting the silhouettes of wooden cranes and patched-up ship hulls, while recently planted weeping willows along the banks add a soothing touch of greenery to the reborn city.
Mero then decides to do something he rarely undertakes: write to his stepfather. This day, marked by an impulse born of troubling news, seems fitting for such a gesture. Seated at his desk, surrounded by paneled walls where the shadows of flames dance on the dark wood, he takes a quill and pens a careful missive, the black ink flowing in precise lines on a slightly yellowed, thick parchment. The room, bathed in the pale light filtering through the mullioned window, exudes a scent of warm wax and old leather, while the fire in the hearth crackles softly, warming the cool air that seeps through the gaps. The shelves, laden with bound volumes and rolled maps, frame the table cluttered with parchments—commercial reports, reconstruction plans, and now this letter taking shape under his quill with clear intent.
He begins with sincere words of gratitude, expressing his appreciation for everything his stepfather has done for him. He promises with restrained fervor to make Mandarine the happiest person in the world, a vow that resonates deeply within him and one he knows will echo in the mind of this man with a stern gaze but a tender heart for his daughter. Then, he addresses the darker news, his words carefully chosen to avoid undue alarm. He mentions that the snake-headed pirates, these hereditary enemies his stepfather believed to have eradicated, are wreaking havoc in the Sable-Gris archipelago, their ships with prows carved into reptiles with dark green painted scales ravaging his trading post and his hopes for commercial expansion.
He touches on a personal loss with a hint of regret—their presence prevented him from bringing a gift he intended for Mandarine—a rare shell that glows with a phosphorescent light at night. He imagined it transformed into a delicate bracelet, its silver gleams dancing against Mandarine's skin under the flickering lanterns of her pirate city, a symbol of their bond forged in storms and silences. This loss, though minor compared to the ruin of the trading post, adds a personal note to his missive, a truth he shares with calculated restraint, his words gliding over the paper like a whispered confidence in the shadows.
He concludes the letter on a calm and diplomatic tone, avoiding dwelling on the incident or explicitly requesting help. He knows that his stepfather, a man of influence whose ships crisscross the seas of the Green Ocean, could offer assistance. But he prefers to leave this possibility hanging, an implicit murmur in his carefully crafted lines. Before sealing the letter with a wax seal marked with the trident of Sel, he reads it over attentively, his eyes scanning each word in the flickering light of the candles, the scent of warm wax filling the paneled room. He does not want to appear weak—his royal heir's pride prevents it—but he wishes for his stepfather to know that he approaches these challenges with wisdom and strategy, all while keeping Mandarine and their future at the forefront of his thoughts.
The streets of Mor stretch beyond the office windows, their cobblestones glistening under a fine rain, lined with houses of light-colored stone still under reconstruction, their red-tiled roofs sparkling in the pale light of the fading day. The quays, animated by the clatter of ropes and the cries of boatmen, come alive under warehouses with ochre walls and robust frames, while the river reflects the silhouettes of patched-up ship hulls and wooden cranes standing like sentinels. The squares, where residents gather under faded canvas awnings, resonate with the voices of merchants and children playing near weeping willows, their leaves rustling in the breeze from the water. But in Mero's mind, these places blend with the white sand beaches of Sable-Gris, the smoldering ruins of his lost trading post, the red clay towers of the Kingdom of Grosbill under a scorching sky, and the challenges that loom like dark clouds on the horizon.
