Taking a steadying breath, Arlith reached for the door and stepped onto the ship’s deck, the salty breeze curling through her dark hair. The rhythmic creaking of wood and the distant cries of seagulls filled the air as she glanced around, her mind still clouded with remnants of the vision. She needed to find Sorvin—to understand what had happened.

  Her eyes landed on him a short distance away, speaking with the Irithil Magic user. Sorvin stood with his rifle in hand, explaining its intricacies with the patience of a seasoned soldier. Arlith lingered at the edge of the scene, listening.

  “This here,” Sorvin began, tapping the sleek barrel of the Scroll-lock Rifle, “guides the bullet. It’s crafted to channel the airflow created by the magic in the scroll—smooth inside to minimize friction. Some variants have rifling for precision.” He gestured to the scroll chamber. “This is where the scroll-wrapped bullet sits before firing, loaded by pulling this lever.”

  The Irithil Magic user, clad in traditional robes, nodded, his fingers tracing the rifle’s unfamiliar mechanisms. Though well-versed in the arcane, this fusion of magic and technology was new to him.

  Sorvin continued, pointing to a small, razor-sharp blade within the chamber. “This is the Scroll Knife. When you pull the trigger, it slices the scroll, releasing the magic that propels the bullet. It’s precise—no wasted energy, no error.” He then motioned to the air-channeling vents. “Instead of an explosive force like black powder weapons, this directs an enchanted gust of air, making the shot near-silent.”

  Arlith watched with interest, a faint smile tugging at her lips. It was rare to see magic users and soldiers exchanging knowledge so openly. Yet, as if sensing her gaze, Sorvin turned, his sky-blue eyes meeting hers.

  “Ah, Lady Arlith,” he said, stepping toward her. “Do you need something?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I—” She glanced toward the sea, grasping for the right words. “I woke up in the captain’s quarters, but I don’t remember getting there.”

  Sorvin’s expression shifted slightly, concern flickering in his gaze before he exhaled. “When we were ready to board, you weren’t responding. It was as if you were in a trance.” He crossed his arms, studying her. “We carried you aboard and let you rest.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A chill ran down Arlith’s spine. A trance? Was that what the vision had been? She forced a small laugh, attempting to mask her unease. “Perhaps I should sleep better instead of staying up all night.” The excuse felt hollow, even to her.

  Sorvin’s eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing something unsaid, but he let it pass after feeling a weird calming feeling emit from Arlith. “Maybe you should.”

  Hoping to change the subject, Arlith glanced at the rifle in his hands. “I’ve always wanted to fire one of those,” she admitted, her voice lighter. “Would you show me?”

  Sorvin raised a brow, then smirked. “I suppose,” he said, flipping the rifle stock down and unrolling a scroll with careful precision. The copper-ink glyphs gleamed under the morning sun. “This is no ordinary scroll,” he explained, running a calloused finger over the wax seal. “Chronith Magic—our way of binding magic into form. Copper dust traps the spell, wax seals it, and blood activates it.”

  From his belt, he pulled a slim, razor-edged blade, its surface reflecting the light like liquid silver. “Usually, the Scroll Knife in the rifle does this part, but I’ll show you up close.” With a practiced motion, he nicked his fingertip, a single drop of blood sealing the spell. Carefully, he wrapped the scroll around a bullet, then slid it into the rifle’s chamber before handing it to her.

  “Hold firm,” he instructed. “And aim true. The spell won’t wait once it’s set free.”

  Arlith took the rifle, feeling its weight settle against her shoulder. She inhaled deeply, steadied her stance, and pulled the trigger. A sharp crack echoed across the deck as the rifle kicked against her, sending a pulse of energy through her arms. She staggered slightly, wide-eyed.

  Sorvin chuckled. “Not bad.”

  Arlith let out an exhilarated breath, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ve seen them fired in ceremonies, but using one myself—it's incredible!” She handed the rifle back, but her smile faded slightly as a thought surfaced. “Still… doesn’t it feel too… destructive?” Her gaze dropped to the weapon. “I remember stories from the War of the Raging Flame—millions perished.”

  Sorvin took the rifle from her, his expression darkening as the Irithil Magic user stepped forward, finally speaking. “Aye,” the robed man murmured. “Historians estimate nine to twelve million lost in that war. But without the gods, we mortals have sought other ways to reach for power.” His fingers traced the rune-stitched patterns of his sleeve. “For some, that means magic. For others—” he gestured toward the rifle, “—it means ingenuity.”

  Before Arlith could reply, a low bellow echoed across the ship—the deep call of the docking horn.

  Sorvin turned, his eyes lighting up. “We’ve arrived.” He says with some enthusiasm, showing a hint of interest at the thought of seeing this city once again.

  Arlith followed his gaze to the horizon, where towering spires of white stone and silver bridges stretched above the emerald waters. The Elven port city of Aeorla stood in breathtaking contrast to the industrialized cities of Farcos. Here, nature and civilization intertwined seamlessly—homes built in circular patterns, open-air structures cradled by ancient trees whose branches wove into protective canopies. Lush gardens spilled over terraces, shimmering in the morning light.

  Sorvin smirked as he adjusted the strap of his rifle, making sure to holster it onto his back. “Get ready for a beautiful city.”

  Arlith, barely able to tear her gaze away from the sight, nodded as the gangway lowered. The moment her boots touched the wooden dock, she felt it—the pulse of something ancient in the air, a quiet hum beneath her skin. The magic here was different, woven into the very fabric of the city.

  And as she stepped forward, her heart quickened. The journey had truly begun.