“Dust. The word itself carries weight, and still. Not only do we not know how it works, we also do not even understand what it is. The only thing we do know is that the sole, known, places of extractions cluster exclusively around the region commonly known as the ‘Isles of Dust’—though whether the substance derives its name from the location or vice versa is lost to history. To summarize, we know that dust is partly resistant to Elevated power, standing as perhaps the sole check against their dominion, but not how or why. Yet I have a theory…”
– Ixval Celost, Unexplained mysteries and their explanations
“You’re doing what?!”
They were back in the tavern, lively chatter filling the air with conversations that only partly concerned mysterious assassins or men manipulating metal. A waitress bustled past them, heavy tankards balanced precariously. Irthal marveled at the tavern’s patrons, already returned to their old conversations and ale, as if the dockside had not just been obliterated before their very eyes. Yet there was a cautious hole in the tavern around Vann, the occasional hidden glance or hushed whisper. Still, people had this remarkable knack for simply dismissing any situation if it did not directly involve them.
“Ustil,” Vann shouted over the din of the tavern. “I’m heading to Ustil.” His words were barely audible to Irthal, even though he was seated just on the opposite side of the round table. Vann’s shimmering silver arm, still an uncanny sight, grabbed his tankard and guided it upwards until he took a deep gulp.
“Ustil,” Irthal echoed, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “But why? What’s in Ustil?”
Vann set his drink back onto the table and turned to him. “Well, the Grand Admiral, for one,” he replied nonchalantly and wiped his mouth with the back of his new hand, leaving a trail of foam on its smooth surface.
Irthal noticed that Vann himself cast occasional curious glances toward his new limb, when he thought nobody was looking. The point where metal met flesh was seamless, the grievous wounds already healed by some handy time manipulation from his companion. “Lavelle here is supposed to escort me to Grand Admiral Burn and make sure that I start my new assignment,” Vann continued. “Seems like those guys from earlier didn’t like that idea very much.”
“Yeah, who were they?” Irthal leaned forward, eager to learn more about the world outside of Olban. They would need every bit of information on their journey.
“Assassins,” Vann grunted. “Keep it quiet but we’ve been seeing more of them lately. They seem to target Elevated, but no one knows who they are or where they’re from. At least not that they’d tell me. These guys are good at what they do, too. Maybe they figured a newly Elevated would be an easy mark, huh?” Vann shot a glance at Lavelle, who swirled her wine casually before taking a measured sip. “And damn it, they would’ve been right, if it weren’t for Lavelle here. Seems like they can’t handle a Delegate.”
Lavelle smirked and offered a sarcastic bow. Irthal watched her furtively. A flesh-and-blood Tetrarchy Delegate. A figure worshipped by tens of thousands. The closest their world could come to a god. Yet she looked so human. Irthal’s own assigned Elevated, a man named Grave, seemed much more divine than that, more awe-inspiring, in his imagination.
“And what will you do in Ustil, uncle?” asked Sam, still visibly uncomfortable, caught between the familiarity of the man she knew from childhood and the alien being who had transformed himself into living metal before their very eyes. The god-like entity who was now revered by people he would never meet. Theirs was a strange world, sometimes.
“Serving the Concordate, as we all must,” Vann began, looking at Sam with a blend of fondness and sorrow. “I’ll join Burn’s Elevated corps and be dispatched as he sees fit. There are rumors of unrest near Dregal, I might be sent there. Besides, I’m not a slave. I might visit Olban again soon!”
An uneasy silence followed. How could you casually converse with a god?
“But enough about me, what are you lot up to these days?” Vann asked, playfully nudging Sam, who instinctively recoiled from the cold touch of the metal. Irthal noticed a flicker of pain behind Vann’s eyes, despite his cheerful façade.
“We’re off on an adventure!” he announced, partly to break the tension.
“Ah yes, of course,” Vann nodded, a twinkle in his eye, visibly relieved by the change of subject. “That’s what you do when you’re young, after all. And where might this adventure be taking you?”
“We’re sailing to Sevastha,” Irthal replied, eyes shimmering with anticipation. “And the Glimmering Shore,” he added belatedly.
For the first time in their conversation Lavelle seemed mildly interested. “Sevastha?” she asked and tilted her head, evaluating Irthal. “That’s an unusual choice.” Lurgon and Sevastian exchanged glances, evidently unnerved by the Kelian woman’s scrutiny. She could probably obliterate them and the entire inn without breaking a sweat. They had seen it for themselves, out there on the docks.
Still. Nobody in Olban found the notion odd. For the young, it was common to set forth into the world with ambitious goals—making their mark—and Sevastha was a typical destination pursued by many. A classic, one might say.
“So, you’re heading for Sevastha, eh?” Vann noted, reclining in his chair and folding his arms. The metallic limb creaked slightly, the sound slicing through the ambient chatter. “You’ll be needing a ship for that journey. A good one.”
“Yes, we’re thinking of buying one,” Irthal replied, nodding excitedly. “We’ve got gold.”
“Well, as it happens,” Vann mentioned, “I know a man with a small fleet. He might be willing to let go of one.” His expression clouded momentarily, lines of thought creasing his forehead. “Or, he might not. It all depends on his mood. And on whether he’s still alive. Look for an old man named Gelman at the docks tomorrow, near the fishing boats. Tell him Vann sent you. And don’t be discouraged by what he says.”
Before Irthal could ask any more questions, Lavelle intervened. “Alright, we should really get moving,” she announced, emptying her glass. “We have an early start tomorrow and have wasted enough time already.” With a curt wave of her hand, she summoned a pair of Kelian soldiers from a nearby table. “We’ll be departing shortly,” she commanded.
The soldiers saluted crisply and made a half-turn, patiently awaiting their superiors’ departure. Irthal’s eyes narrowed slightly, then softened, as he watched Lavelle dominate the room. He had never witnessed someone wield such authority so effortlessly. So that was what it meant to be a Delegate.
With an inviting glance at Vann, Lavelle rose, quickly followed by the older man. Vann looked at them and was just about to speak when Sam interjected. “I’ll miss you,” she declared, finally shedding her hesitation and hugging Vann tightly.
“Take care, everyone!” With a bittersweet smile, Vann patted Sam’s head, his gaze resting fondly on the group before him. “I hope you succeed with your adventure. But, if not, you’re still always welcome in Ustil. I’m sure the Concordate could use a bunch of young sailors.”
Lavelle seemed content to leave the farewells to Vann and had already walked toward the tavern exit, trailed by her soldiers. Extricating himself from Sam’s embrace, Vann hurried to catch up, his parting gesture a grin over his shoulder and a hearty wave.
Irthal watched them leave, feeling a strange mix of awe and apprehension rush through him. The man they had known as children had been profoundly changed by the Belt, and they could only guess at what he would become, there in lofty Ustil. And, somewhere deep inside, maybe they recognized Vann’s transformation as a reflection of their own worries about the changes they would undergo, the people they would become, in the years to come.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
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The next morning, nursing vicious, ale-fueled headaches, Irthal and Mythas made their way to the docks to find this mysterious Gelman. They had agreed the night before to split up for the day, with the others securing provisions and recruiting a crew for their ship at the taverns. There were always sailors lounging about the harborside places.
The morning breeze was brisk, thoroughly ruffling Irthal’s hair. Despite the strange events of the previous night, Mythas’ excitement was palpable next to him. Or perhaps it was because of last night? Mythas was special in that way.
At the docks, it did not take them long to notice an old man sitting alone at the edge of a pier, busily scribbling in a leather ledger on his lap. “Gelman?” Mythas called out hesitantly.
The scribbling slowed momentarily as the man glanced up. His wrinkled face deepened into a frown, “What’s yer business?” And down his gaze returned, his writing picking up its angry pace again.
Gelman sported a long, bushy beard over a faded blue shirt. Skin sun-kissed and wind-roughened. The embodiment of a seafarer’s life. Stepping up, Irthal cleared his throat and offered up their names, “We’re after a sturdy ship. Vann said you’re the man to see.”
Finally laying down his quill, Gelman squinted at them, sizing them up. “Vann sent ya, did he now?” he asked gruffly.
“Aye sir, that he did,” Irthal confirmed hesitantly, not sure whether that was a good thing or not.
“Thought that old salt might be sleepin’ with the fishes by now. We was shipmates in the navy back when people knew port from starboard,” he said, glaring as if Irthal and Mythas were the sum total of a lost generation.
“Actually, he’s very much alive,” Mythas interjected, standing her ground. “We saw him just yesterday. He’s heading to Ustil.”
Gelman seemed to consider this for a moment before cracking a grin, revealing a shining gold tooth. “Well, that’s fine by me,” he nodded gruffly, “Can’t say I ever took a likin’ to him.” With an impatient gesture, he motioned for them to follow. He led them through a nearby warehouse stacked high with crates and barrels. Irthal recognized some of the crests on them. The striking blue of Demis, Ustil’s three masts, Limrod’s thorny vines, and even some from beyond the Belt.
As they walked, Gelman began talking—it was hard to tell whether it was directed at them or himself. “Don’t get what you young’uns are after with a ship though. Likely too wet behind the ears to steer ‘er right. But once yer coin’s in me pocket, she’s yer headache, not mine.”
“We’re actually quite skilled,” Mythas retorted with a faked cheerfulness. “Crewed ships on every off-season to learn the ropes.”
Gelman might not have noticed it but Irthal could feel the seething anger in Mythas, only thinly veiled by her forced delivery. Mythas hated being underestimated. Seemingly innocuous, Irthal quickly inserted himself between her and the old man. Fearing a potential clash, he intervened, diverting Gelman’s attention with questions about his own sailing days—a topic the old sailor clearly enjoyed.
Eventually, they reached their destination. Moored to one of Olban’s countless wharfs was a wooden ship, visibly past its prime. Square-rigged, three-masted, the ship would have blended into any port, if not for its apparent state of neglect. “There she be,” Gelman nodded toward the vessel with an unreadable expression. “She ain’t the Queen of the Seas, but she’ll do for yer little jaunt.”
Before they could say so much as a word, the old man grunted, turned on his heel, and hobbled away. Attention torn between the receding man and, what might become their vessel, Irthal and Mythas exchanged a glance and proceeded to inspect the ship. While its dilapidated state was evident, flaking paint and rusty fittings everywhere, the thrill in Irthal’s chest was undeniable. He just knew it. This ship would carry them to Sevastha—nothing else mattered.
As he surveyed the deck, he mentally jotted down more details: ragged sails, worn ropes. Yet the ship itself appeared sturdy enough. Mythas was already busy inspecting the rigging, her fingers tracing the ropes, checking for any weaknesses. Observing her, Irthal remarked, “We’ve got our work cut out for us,” grinning broadly. “I suppose we’ll need to make some repairs and get this ship cleaned up before we set sail. A few weeks at most, if everyone pitches in.”
Mythas nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. “Then let’s get to it,” she said, grabbing a coil of rope and securing some loose lines. Irthal joined her. They spent the remainder of the day inspecting the ship and starting their repairs. It felt so natural that buying it had almost become an afterthought by then.
As the sun embarked on its westward journey, Lurgon and Sevastian joined them, having successfully enlisted a crew they deemed trustworthy. Fortunately, labor was cheap in Olban (a situation they themselves had bemoaned constantly these past years) and the standard fare for expeditions like theirs was a simple share of the profits of all spoils. After a brief discussion, they all agreed on the ship. It would do. As the crew came along, more and more people swarmed across the deck: scrubbing, repairing, and loading their new vessel with the supplies Sam bought earlier in the day.
While the crew hammered the last nails and tightened the final ropes before nightfall, Irthal made his way back to Gelman’s office to complete their purchase. Gelman sat behind his desk, engrossed in yet another massive ledger. On noticing Irthal, he wore a cunning smile, “Ah, like what ye see, do ye?” He retrieved a sheet of parchment and a quill.
“Let’s get this over with.” Irthal nodded, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore Gelman’s gruff demeanor. This was it. The culmination of years of work, years of practice, selling almost all their belongings. All for this.
After a brief pause, Gelman scribbled a few lines on the parchment. “Ye lookin’ at 500 gold doubloons for her, not a coin less,” he proposed, eyeing Irthal. Irthal’s heart sank—they did not have 500 gold pieces. Not even close. The jingling pouch at his belt suddenly felt a lot lighter. Had it all been for nothing?
His disappointment must have shown on his face, because Gelman gave him a knowing nod, eyes flicking over some columns in his ledger. “Got somethin’ else in mind for barter, eh?” he trailed off, his eyes coming to rest on Irthal’s pendant.
A cold shiver ran down his back. He always wore it around his neck. An inheritance from his family, handed down since generations. A gift from his mother. Essentially the last piece of her that he still possessed. “What do you want with that?” Irthal whispered, protectively.
Gelman shrugged, “It be worth its weight in doubloons, that much I can tell ye.”
Irthal hesitated, staring at the pendant. “That old thing? It’s just a pretty stone my mother gave me.”
An uncanny twinkle spread through the eyes of the old man. “Aye, I’ve sailed all the seas, been to every rickety tavern a sailor can stumble into. Ye, me, and scarce few others truly see what hangs ‘round yer neck. Know well what it’d fetch from the right collector, we do.”
Irthal looked down again. His purpose for going to Sevastha lay nestled against his chest. But they needed this ship and he suspected—knew—that his group of friends might not survive the dashing of their dreams at this stage. It would be at least another year until they could come up with that amount of gold. He could not wait this long. What to do then?
Suddenly, like a brief, vivid flash of sunlight on a mackerel’s silver scale, an idea struck him. It was a gamble, sure. But it offered a path, and that was all he asked for. He composed himself, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
With a heavy heart, Irthal unfastened the pendant and handed it to Gelman. “Agreed,” he said in a deadpan voice. “We’ll take the ship.”
Gleefully, Gelman snatched the pendant. “Fair trade, then. Good dealin’ with ye,” he gloated, smug satisfaction written across his face. Irthal’s eyes lingered on the pendant, its familiar glint now captured within the grasp of Gelman’s coarse hands.
“Sign yer name where the X marks the spot,” Gelman instructed. Irthal took the quill and signed his name. Despite the disorienting loss of his heirloom, he felt a sense of excitement and release wash over him. He had to focus on that, to not lose himself. As he handed the parchment back, Gelman leaned in, “Listen up lad, ye ought to know somethin’ ‘fore ye weigh anchor,” he warned, his breath reeking of onions.
Intrigued, Irthal leaned forward, missing the familiar weight of the pendant around his neck as he did so. “Yeah? What might that be?”
Gelman looked around furtively, making sure no one else was in the room. “Yer lass told me where yer goin’. Sevastha ain’t yer run-o’-the-mill port,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Dark magics, ancient secrets, that sort o’ thing. Ain’t no soul comes back from there.”
A chill coursed through Irthal. “What do you mean?” he asked breathlessly.
Gelman leaned back in his chair, a sly grin on his face. “Ye heard me right. Sevastha’s a cursed place, messes with powers most don’t dare whisper. Watch yerself.” His gaze bore into Irthal’s, until Gelman shifted expression as if he suddenly recalled something. “Oh, and one more tidbit—pirate waters, those be. So, keep a keen eye, lad.” With that, he rose and gestured toward the door. “Now shove off, got me own fish to fry. Ye’ll need all the luck ye can muster.”
Anyone watching as Irthal left Gelman’s office that day would have sworn the boy shuffled along, head sunk and eyes downcast. But, with every step further from that old man’s gruff disdain, a renewed vitality sprang into his steps. His frustration slowly gave way to eager anticipation. And, if a keen observer had paid attention, they would have seen a spark ignite in Irthal’s rising brown eyes—a smile budding on his face—as he exited the warehouse into the setting sun of this late Olban afternoon.