“The intricate web of alliances that ensnared the Trifelt left smaller nations with impossible choices. None exemplifies this more than Taris, whose desperate grasp at neutrality slowly slipped as the tides of power shifted. When Duchess Thraina finally bent her knee to the ascendant Duke of Ustil, it was less a choice than a surrender to inevitability—a political gambit that would prove both her salvation and her shackles in the years to come.”

– Sarai Valtair, From Tricorn to Trifelt: A comprehensive history

A window overlooking the ocean. The sun bathing the waves in a golden glow, choreographing a mesmerizing display of twinkling lights. Soft string melodies harmonizing with the distant cries of seagulls and the soothing rhythm of the surf. At the center of it all a woman, wearing a billowing white dress, intricately patterned to weave a story of its own. Loose brown hair cascading onto her shoulders, swaying gently with her every movement. Her profile revealing warm gray eyes, directed toward the ocean as if seeking something, just out of sight.

Irthal rushed toward her, chest filled with emotions he struggled to name. He sank into her comforting embrace, a sense of familiarity and belonging enveloping him like a warm blanket.

They remained entwined for what felt like an eternity. The world around them receded into irrelevance. Time seemed suspended, each fleeting moment an invaluable treasure. A precious memory.

Yet time is a fickle, and often cruel, mistress.

Eventually, she gently pushed Irthal away, her smile remaining tender. The sort known only to those born of sea-faring folk, affectionate and as infinite as the horizon. Her touch was feather-light as she brought up her hand to caress his cheek. Her eyes, the color of the stormy sea, gazed deeply into his, as if attempting to communicate a message words would not—could not—express. When she finally did speak, her voice was like the sweetest melody.

And he could not comprehend a single syllable. Irthal’s eyes traced her moving lips, mind aching to decipher the meaning of her words, to unlock the mystery of their connection. But he could not understand.

His brows knitted, a silent growl emerging from his throat. Hands clenching into fists at the impalpable barrier between them. He stretched out his hand, desperate to hold onto her, but she slipped through his fingers like wisps of smoke, smile persisting even as she faded away, embraced by the licking flames.

Irthal woke, heart pounding in his chest, the lingering emotions of the dream still clinging to him like his drenched shirt.

But the night around him seemed still, the only sound being the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves caressing the ship, the only tangible connection to his dream.

Through his porthole, Irthal saw the firmament. Stars twinkled in the sky, almost as if to reassure him that, no matter what happened, everything would be fine. Strangely, he felt content. Even more so when he touched the pendant around his neck, its smooth surface laying still in his palm.

Irthal gazed outwards for a long time, thoughts soaring across the water. Beyond the horizon, to that distant city. To ruins and revelations. Eventually, without him fully realizing, the sea had lulled him into sleep—and into his dreams—once again.

To say the day was beautiful would have been an atrocious dishonesty. It was gorgeous. Not a single cloud marred the sky, its brilliant blue rivaling the deep hues of the ocean around them. High above, pristinely white birds shrieked loudly, as if to underscore the natural spectacle with an orchestra.

Through it all, ocean waves lapped against the hull of the ship, with the occasional ambitious wave reaching up to spray the embossed name of their vessel. Gelman17. Irthal was unsure whether to laugh or be angry at the disgruntled old man for choosing such a ridiculous name for their ship.

Mythas chuckled beside him, as if she could read his thoughts. “You think he’s trying to compensate for something?” she asked with a sly grin.

Irthal arched an eyebrow but could not quite stifle his own amusement at the remark. “Perhaps we should go back and take a ship with a better name,” he quipped.

Mythas shrugged casually. “As long as it gets us to where we’re going, I don’t care what it’s called.”

Eyes drawn to the horizon, Irthal nodded in vague agreement, only half-listening, his thoughts already turning toward their journey. He had it all mapped out. First Taris, then Limrod, then… well, he had actually only planned as far as Limrod. The sailors in Olban had not been particularly forthcoming with information about the routes leading around the northern shore of Lycar. Stingy bastards. But how hard could it be to follow along coasts? Not like one could lose those in a pinch.

Mythas broke the silence, “So, what’s our next move, captain?” she asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Captain. The title would take some getting used to. Hard to believe that, a few short weeks ago, he had just been a dockhand. Not even a particularly good one at that. This new job was less strenuous for his back but, as he fingered the healing cut on his cheek, likely worse for everything else in his body.

“We need to lay low for a while,” Irthal released a sigh. “We can’t just sail into the next port with a ship like this and expect not to be noticed. If the tides are with us, we’re likely running ahead of news, but I’d still like to avoid giving our pursuers quite such an obvious trail to follow.”

“Ah yes, the legendary exploits of the great Gelman17,” Mythas said with a chuckle, “We’ll have to change the name then.”

“Yes,” Irthal said and then shook his head. “But it’s not just about the name. We’ll need to switch sails, perhaps even paint the hull a different color. And we’ll need new documents too, just in case, so we can avoid any awkward questions from the port authorities.”

“I can take care of that.” Lurgon called out from across the deck, joining their conversation. “I have a cousin in Taris who can help with that sort of stuff. Should be just a day or so away by now at worst. If we need to, we could always lie low on one of the smaller islands until things cool down. The Red Lobsters managed an entire season like that without getting caught!”

“Are you comparing us to pirates, Lurgon?” Mythas asked, eyebrows raised in feigned shock. “Surely, we’re the heroes here.”

Their new crew had not particularly liked the fact that they had been chased out of Olban by armed guards. Heated discussions had followed soon thereafter. In the end, they had managed to convince them of the corruptness and greed of Gelman and his thugs. Irthal was not sure how long they could keep that story up. Watching Sam instruct some of their youngest sailors on gathering sail, he slowly nodded. “Yes, I agree. With both of you, actually. We’re on course for Taris anyway. We’ll need to replenish our supplies before we make the crossing to Limrod.”

He turned to look at Mythas and Lurgon. “So, anyone having a brilliant idea for naming our proud vessel?”

Lurgon stroked his stubble-covered chin, thinking for a moment. “What about ‘The Wandering Spirit’? I think that has a nice ring to it.”

“Nice ring for a children’s tale, you mean,” Mythas snorted dismissively. “I think we should go with something that represents our journey,” she proposed with a smug smile. “How about ‘The Escape’?”

After taking a swig from his flask, Lurgon cleared his throat loudly. “Yeah, why not paint a bullseye on our sails while we’re at it, screaming ‘come after us’ at the top of our lungs. Might get us some applause.”

“Oh, come on, Lurgon.” Mythas grinned in return, her eyes gleaming with a good measure of playful defiance and a dash of irritation. “You know as well as I do that we’ve always thrived under pressure. A sprinkle of danger only sweetens the taste of triumph, afterwards. It’s simply who we are. Besides, it’ll make for a great tale, once we’re done outrunning our pursuers.”

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Irthal saw Lurgon roll his eyes and sensed the burgeoning tension. He pretended to ponder the name. “Hmm. I suppose it has a certain ring to it,” he finally conceded, “but I also worry it might be a bit too flashy.”

“Who cares if it’s flashy?” Mythas replied swiftly, seizing the opportunity. “It’s not as if we’re trying to be subtle anymore.”

Watching Lurgon mouth You bet, Irthal laughed, “Point taken,” he declared with what he hoped sounded like a captain’s finality. “The Escape it is then.”

“The Escape, eh?” Sevastian said, emerging from behind one of the masts with a smirk. “I like it; fits what we’re about to do, I guess.”

Mythas nodded in agreement. “It does have a touch of style to it, doesn’t it,” she added complacently, daring Lurgon to contradict her.

Irthal crossed his arms and grinned. He had to admit to himself, he liked the name too. It sounded mysterious and exciting, and it did fit the kind of journey they had embarked on.

Noticing their conversation, one of the younger sailors spoke up, her voice timid but enthusiastic. “We could also make our own flag,” she suggested hesitantly.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Irthal remarked, turning toward her with a supportive smile. “Rickel was the name, wasn’t it? What kind of design do you have in mind?”

The young sailor, beaming with pride, paused for a moment before responding. “Perhaps something with a ship on it, sailing toward the horizon. Or a phoenix rising from the ashes, you know, with escape and rebirth and all that.”

Mythas clapped her hands in delight. “A phoenix rising from its ashes, I like that!”

As Rickel elaborated on her flag idea, growing increasingly animated, more and more of the crew gathered around her, each newcomer voicing their own suggestions and ideas. Irthal watched as they worked together, their eyes practically gleaming with excitement. His crew. It was moments like these that he now lived for. That, and Sevastha.

As the wind guided them toward Taris, the crew did their best to ready their ship for its new identity. They had already masked the old name with a fresh coat of blue paint, yet the embossed letters continued to shine through, like a half-forgotten memory. They had even added a new emblem onto the sails—a bird in mid-flight. That’s the freedom we fought so hard for, Irthal thought. With a bit of imagination, a generous squint maybe, one could even mistake it for a phoenix.

Finally, Taris came into sight. And not a day too soon. While the crew’s morale was at an all-time high, Irthal could feel their eagerness for rest and resupply. He could hardly fault them for it. As the Escape neared the harbor, the easternmost city of the Trifelt gradually revealed itself, nestled between a rugged coastline and rolling green hills. Taris was an old city, steeped in history and molded by its strategic location at the crossroads of nautical trade routes, serving as the natural link between the Trifelt and Limrod on the continent.

The harbor itself was a testament to the city’s rich heritage, overflowing with colorful buildings, embellished with ornate wooden sculptures and mosaics. Where Olban had felt stocky and stifling to Irthal, Taris seemed storied and alluring. Along its waterfront, lofty watchtowers stood guard, overlooking the surrounding seas, while twin stone lighthouses—bookending the port—loomed over the harbor, casting their guiding light across the waters.

As if to advertise its position between continents, Taris’ architecture was a blend of various cultural influences that had left their mark on the city over the centuries. As if conjured by tales Irthal had heard, majestic domes and spires rose above the rooftops, mingling with traditional Trifeltian slanted wooden roofs decorated with clay tiles. Ornamental gardens dotted the urban landscape, providing lush havens of green amid the stone and timber structures. Irthal could hardly decide where to fix his gaze, discovering more and more details as they approached.

Just as he could barely spot the faintest hints of figures walking on the docks—not more than black dots really—Lurgon’s voice reverberated across the deck, tense and alarmed. “Captain, we’ve got company!”

Alarmed, Irthal rushed to Lurgon’s side and squinted into the distance. There, trailing their ship, another vessel swiftly cut through the waves. Irthal swallowed hard. He saw immediately why Lurgon was so alarmed. The ship flew Gelman’s flag, crimson like spilled blood against the pale sky.

Lurgon produced his spyglass and scrutinized the pursuing ship. “It’s a frigate. Looks like they’ve got a few cannons on board, but their speed is similar to ours.”

Cursing under his breath, Irthal drew a deep breath and started shouting orders toward the crew. “Change course! We need to shake them off if we want to make port!”

Mythas dashed to the wheel, her hands firmly gripping the wood. “Are you even sure they’ve spotted us? It could be a coincidence.”

“No chance,” Irthal vehemently shook his head. “They’re after us. And they won’t stop until they’ve got us.” He swung toward Lurgon. “How far are we from Taris?”

Lurgon surveyed the map. “About an hour away. Maybe less, depending on the wind.”

With a troubled look, Irthal considered the city ahead of them. “We’ll have to outmaneuver them,” he finally declared, spinning around to focus on the advancing ship. “At least to give us some time to find a cove to hide near Taris or something.”

Sam started to translate his decision into orders and the crew moved as one, silent save for the rustle of canvas and creak of rope, scrambling to catch every gust of wind available. As the Escape accelerated, a tense silence enveloped the ship, every now and then pierced by an anxious look cast back at the pursuing vessel. They still remained within sight.

“This isn’t working, damn it, do something!” Irthal shouted to Mythas. She immediately steered the ship to the right, hands firmly gripping the wheel, veering away from their pursuers and into the wind. Sails billowing, the Escape surged forward.

They tried everything to shake their pursuers—sharp turns, even feints toward the rocky shoreline. Irthal had to admit to himself that he had underestimated Mythas. As she expertly navigated the Escape through a narrow chasm between two rocky outcrops—the hull barely grazing the jagged rocks on either side—he could not have wished for a better helmswoman. Yet to Irthal’s dismay, their pursuers did not falter, charging right after them through the treacherous passage, mirroring their every move as they continued along the coastline.

The winds, seemingly undecided in their allegiance, shifted capriciously. A sudden gust filled the sails of the frigate behind them, allowing it to almost close the gap between the two ships.

Suddenly, Irthal could spot figures on the other vessel, armed and standing at the ready. Lurgon, wide-eyed and alert, scrambled up the rigging to unfurl the topsails, frantically adding the last bit of extra speed to outpace their pursuers. For now. Irthal watched sweat stream down Lurgon’s face as he toiled relentlessly, the threat of falling secondary to the fear of being caught by Gelman’s thugs. Of being made into an example.

As the chase dragged on—the initial adrenaline rush long past and their pursuers showing no signs of relenting—the crew of the Escape grew increasingly weary. This was where things got truly dangerous. Each second was a sharp note in the symphony of their flight—their freedom the elusive melody, danger the relentless beat. The outcome, on either side, now hinged on a single mistake, a gust of wind, or even a plain stroke of luck.

Lurgon approached Irthal, a grim expression on his face. “We need a plan, Irthal. We can’t just keep running forever. They’ll get us in Taris.”

The Escape cut through the water with all the speed they could muster, a trail of white foam in their wake. Despite their fatigue, the crew remained steadfast, knowing that failure was not an option. Not here, not now.

Irthal scanned the horizon, his mind racing as he weighed their options. He knew the frigate would eventually catch up—sooner rather than later—and there was no chance of victory in a fight. He had seen how many men they had on that other ship. So, he had to think of another way to get them safely away from here. His hands gripped the railing, like he could crush the thick slabs of pine if he just tried hard enough.

At last, Irthal turned to Lurgon. “You’re right, we can’t reach Taris like this. And they’ll follow us to any other port,” he said. “There is no choice. We’ll have to abandon our course and head for the open sea.” He took one last breath before he set their fate. Then he continued. “Take course for Limrod. Full speed ahead.”

“No!” Sam, alternating between adjusting the sails and hoarsely barking commands, had glanced up at his decision, a horrified expression on her face. “We don’t have enough water, Irthal, probably not even enough food. We need to resupply!”

“Not now, Sam.” Irthal flicked his hand in dismissal, brows knitted with impatience. “We need to get away from here.”

Irthal began to instruct one of the sailors to aid Lurgon with the sails and was already turning toward Mythas at the helm when Sam spoke again. “No, you don’t understand, Irthal! Taris is just over there, I can see it. We can resupply. I’m sure we can negotiate some kind of solution with Gelman’s people.”

Something within Irthal snapped.

In one movement, he whirled around and began to stride toward his friend. “We. Have. No. Time.” Every word punctuated by another step, until he was looming over Sam, his face a mask of rage and desperation. Sam visibly recoiled, hands trembling at her sides.

“You think I don’t know that supplies run low? That there’s a port right in front of us?” Irthal’s voice became low and dangerous. “We’re in a tight spot, and we need to make tough decisions. But we cannot let them catch us, Sam. We cannot allow them to take us back to Gelman. This is no discussion.”

Sam’s eyes flickered around the deck, looking for support, her discomfort apparent. Nobody spoke up. “They’re exhausted,” she said, “and we’ve been on the run for days, Irthal. We need to stop and rest.” Now she sounded more plaintive than trying to convince him.

Irthal’s gaze softened slightly, knowing he had won. “I know, Sam.” He placed a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I know it’s not easy. But we’ll find a way. We always do.”

Keeping his eyes on Sam, Irthal roared over his shoulder, “Do it, Lurgon!” Lurgon grunted, seemingly agreeing with Irthal’s decision for once. With a series of curt orders, the burly man set the crew into motion, steering them toward the open sea before their pursuers could catch up. Undeterred, the other ship followed.

Turning her back on Taris, the Escape surged forward, leaping through the waves as they raced toward freedom, yet again.