Hans blamed himself for getting into this mess. He, of all people, should have known it was a trap. To be honest, he felt betrayed. As he thought about it more, it became clear: Murray had been planning this from the start. The smaller paychecks, the dark circles under Murray's eyes—all of it should have been a warning. It had all led to this day. Hans felt a mix of anger and reluctant admiration.
Murray had never been the dishonest type. He’d never been a trickster, Hans thought, which only made the situation more puzzling. Could he really take this favor seriously? Knowing Murray, he’d probably call the whole thing off if Hans didn’t want to go through with it. But being a Seeker had always been Murray’s dream. To cling to such a lofty goal at his age spoke volumes about his passion. Hans remembered the sharp glimmer in Murray’s eyes when he’d asked him to meet at the store that morning. Hans hadn’t seen that kind of fire since Murray’s graduation ceremony. He also remembered the defeated look that followed the very next day.
Even so, Hans had decided to turn down the offer. He had too much to leave behind. Jumping onto a ship and sailing into dangerous seas for something so uncertain was madness. What if he returned empty-handed, disappointed? Or worse, didn’t return at all? The risks were too great.
The cold metal road under his feet reminded him of the life he had chosen. Even with shoes on, the chill seeped through. His hair itched, a sign of his neglect. He rarely bothered with self-care. On good months, he’d spend his earnings on cheap liquor instead of saving like the other fishers. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he liked having it stored away for the bad days—days when forgetting seemed like the only escape. His mother’s disdain for alcohol always haunted him during these moments. He shook off the thought of her frail smile that once brightened his darkest days.
He checked his watch: 8:24 AM. Still plenty of time before curfew. As he walked toward his house, he passed a group of schoolchildren in pristine white uniforms. Their town’s insignia stood out against the fabric. He couldn’t help but think of the dusty, yellowed uniform buried in his bathroom shelf. Maybe if he’d worn it a little longer, his life wouldn’t have turned out like this.
Hans caught sight of his reflection in a window. His black, unruly hair poked out from under his hat. He hated the sight of his teeth—yellow and dirty, a stark reminder of his poor hygiene. His oversized clothes draped awkwardly over his frame. The shirt’s hem almost reached his knees, and the sleeves would have completely concealed his hands if they weren’t unusually long. His trousers hung on by the mercy of a cheap belt, their hems tucked into mismatched boots. His pale skin revealed the toll of a terrible diet, and his dull yellow eyes stared back at him, empty and defeated.
He hated what he saw.
Growing up, he’d never had grand dreams like the other kids. While they fantasized about mansions and heroic careers, Hans had already seen the cruel nature of reality. The memory of his mother being dragged out of their house haunted him. He could still hear her cries as officers beat her with batons in the market square. His own screams of "She’s sick! She’s ill! Stop!" were ignored as officials held him back. That image never left him.
Shaking his head, Hans quickened his pace. He tried to think of something else but failed. His life had led him to fishing for many reasons. Unlike others, he hadn’t had parents to teach him skills or send him to the nearby towns for better opportunities. He’d never even considered the Capital—a land of dreams for many but perilous to reach. The journey there was fraught with rough seas and dangerous beasts, making it nearly impossible for people like him.
Ydgar, his hometown, had few opportunities. It wasn’t a priority for anyone. Even neighboring towns like Meeds had more security. With Dictator Francis leaving, Ydgar’s security would drop by 70%, leaving it practically defenseless. Unlike larger cities with robust trades and protections, Ydgar only offered work on farms, in hospitals, schools, or stores.
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When Hans finally reached his house, he froze. The door was slightly ajar. His heart raced as he stepped inside. The table was bare—the fish he’d stored there were gone.
“Scumbags,” he muttered, kicking off his mismatched boots. His gaze shifted to the table. Panic set in as he moved it aside, revealing the hidden drawer behind the knob. It was empty.
“No… No, no, no!” he shouted, slapping a hand over his mouth. The drawer had held forty thousand Jounans—his monthly earnings. Stolen.
Taxes were due soon. His mind spiraled. Why couldn’t it be the other neighbors? Why me? Why this street? Why now?
His fishing hooks lay untouched by the door, a small mercy. They would have been nearly impossible to replace. Still, the loss of his money was devastating. He tried to calm himself, to think of something positive, but all he could picture was finding the thief and chucking a knife down his throat. He lay down, his breath ragged, trying to distract himself. His father’s old clothes, now little more than rags, hung in the corner. He’d have to replace them soon—but with what money?
Hans tried desperately to shrug off the deafening urge to think about bills—bills, and more bills. He lay on the cold, bare metal ground, his back freezing against its surface. His troubled mind refused to rest.
The thief had been after food and money. Clearly inexperienced in the trade, they left the door open—careless, amateurish. They could have at least pushed the door back, but they didn’t. The haphazard placement of the table hinted at desperation rather than skill. Hans recognized it; he’d been in that place once.
In his early years, he had stolen out of necessity, never getting caught. But when his mother passed, he decided to quit for good. He remembered the constant fear that someone might catch him in the act—the anxiety, the guilt of taking too much. The memory brought an odd comfort now. He let that train of thought lull him to sleep.
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Hans woke early the next morning, his stomach growling with hunger. He hadn’t eaten dinner the night before and felt especially weak as he made his way to Murray’s shop.
Murray sat at his usual spot, a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of fish in front of him. Hans dropped into the chair across from him.
“Morning, Moor,” Hans mumbled.
“You look terrible.”
“Stop stating the obvious.”
Murray slid the coffee across the table. “Here, take this.”
“Thanks,” Hans muttered, drinking it in one gulp.
Murray leaned forward. “About that trip I mentioned—the favor I asked you for…”
Hans set the mug down, meeting his gaze. “What about it?”
“You’re not taking it as a joke, are you?”
Murray’s expression shifted into a small, knowing smile.
“I wasn’t joking, Hans. I know it’s dangerous, and if you want to back out, I won’t stop you.”
Hans paused, considering his answer carefully. He’d thought about his choices long before this conversation. He couldn’t pay his taxes, and who’s to say that thief would be the last one to cross his threshold? Life in this town felt like a prison, and the chance to escape—even if it was dangerous—was tempting.
“I’ll follow you on the expedition.”
“You will?”
Hans nodded. If the worst that could happen was death, he’d rather die on a ship than rot away in this stifling town.
“Of course.”
Murray’s smile widened. “But what about the necessities? How will you get them?”
“Oh, those…”
Murray leaned back, his confidence almost smug. “Hans, you do realize a good ship needs more than two people on board.”
“What does it need?” Hans asked, skeptical.
“A good ship needs a navigator, a cook, a hunter, a seeker, a captain, and a sailor. And food. And gear.”
“That’s at least five people,” Hans pointed out.
“I know what a good ship needs,” Murray retorted. “I’ll be the cook, the captain, the sailor, and the seeker.”
Classic Murray—always a cheapskate.
“You’ll be the navigator,” Murray continued.
Hans frowned. He wasn’t exactly skilled at navigating. His mother, a retired navigator, had only taught him the basics in case of emergencies.
“And the gear? Where’s the money for that?”
“Dictator Francis kindly solved that problem yesterday.” Murray gestured toward his empty spice cabinet.
Hans grimaced. He hadn’t even begun to consider the hunter. Surely no one would risk their life for free.
“What about the hunter? You can’t afford one.”
“Oh, the person I’m getting will definitely work for free.”
Hans raised an eyebrow. “Who’s stupid enough to be a hunter for free?”
Murray grinned, a sinister edge to his expression. It was the kind of smile that belonged on a carnival mascot—the unnerving kind.
“You don’t mean him, do you?”
“Of course.”
Hans felt dread creeping up his spine. He didn’t need to hear the name to know who Murray meant.
“Who else would I mean if not…” Murray let the silence drag out, milking the dramatic pause.
"Alfie"