“Beneath the Trifelt’s iron skies,

Pirate sails made oceans rise.

Blood danced with spray, in storm-wrought cries,

Heroes forged where valor lies.

Through moon’s shroud, dark ships surged,

Black flags high, as terrors merged.

Lords of night, toward glory verged,

Eyes ablaze with songs unspurged.

From despair’s depths, dawn’s light was cast,

Concordate’s will bound waters vast.

In unity’s forge, fate held fast,

Strong as oak in ship and mast.

This tale weaves through the salt, the spray,

Of pirate kings now swept away.

In sailor’s hearts, their echoes stay,

Guiding our course, lest we stray.”

– Trifeltian Sea Shanty, “The Echoes of the Pirate Wars” (issued by the Concordate Admiralty)

Deep inside the belly of Limrod, within a raucous tavern filled with clinking mugs and bawdy laughter, Irthal granted himself a much-needed rest. The scent of stale ale and roasted meat clung to the air, thickened by pipe smoke. The heavy air was almost like an old friend, an intimate familiarity that offered a moment of respite from their adventures.

He had allowed their crew to roam free, encouraging the men and women to enjoy the city while they finished repairs. So only his close companions joined Irthal tonight. He leaned back in his chair, fingers dancing merrily over the weathered wooden table. The others sat around him, forming a semi-circle. The atmosphere and the ale had reinvigorated them, despite the weariness that still lingered on their faces.

They had come here and, for a while, just enjoyed the buzz of the tavern in a companionable silence. Mythas was the first to break the silence with a groan, landing somewhere between jest and grumble. “If I’d known being a sailor meant mending a ship every time a storm looked your way, I’d have gone for goat herding instead.”

“Herding goats?” Lurgon chortled. “I can just picture it now, Mythas—the goats would be herding you by the end of the first week!”

Laughter rippled around the table, with even Sam cracking a smile. Irthal raised his mug, signaling for another round. The ale arrived quickly on their table and continued its way into their stomachs with hearty gulps. The ease of the moment washed out a bit of the weariness in Irthal’s bones. As their laughter finally ebbed, Mythas shot Lurgon a lethal glare. Immediately, Irthal felt the tension rise again.

Yet before he could do something to defuse the situation, a figure detached itself from the crowd and strode toward them. High cheekbones framed by dark, curly hair, and a playful, almost predatory, smile danced on her lips. “My, what a gloomy table,” the woman cooed, hands on her hips. “Tell me, gentlemen, is there a cure for such long faces?”

Irthal glanced at his crew, a light-hearted grin blossoming on his face. “A round of ale might just be the remedy we need.”

His eyes returned to the lips of the woman. Such full lips. He must have said something funny because her silver laughter cut through the tavern’s cacophony. “We have a deal then, gentlemen. I’m Ocelia,” she said, eyes twinkling. Turning her gaze to Mythas, she added, “I do hope you’ll join us too, fair lady.”

Mythas glared at the intruder. “Of course,” she bit out frostily, “How could we resist such a generous offer?”

The tension immediately returned, now almost palpable, and Irthal tried to deflect it with a forced laugh. “That’s the spirit, Mythas,” he said, “We could always use some more merriment, couldn’t we?”

Ocelia’s melodious laughter rang out again, somehow making the chaos of the tavern fade a little, leaving only the seductive promise of a memorable evening. Or maybe more?

“I’ve can already see tales of your adventures in your faces.” Her voice was teasing, yet there was a hint of genuine curiosity. “Surely, there must also be some joy amidst the peril?”

As shared laughter and camaraderie warmed them, time began to weave its slow dance. Ocelia quickly made herself the center of attention, her frequent laughter charming her way through the crew, except for Mythas, perhaps. The tavern’s uproar seemed to vanish every time Ocelia spoke, her presence drawing Irthal into their own world, where only the two of them existed. He was not sure whether it was an observation or a wish, but he could swear that her attention lingered a fraction longer on him than on the others.

As the evening unfurled, Ocelia turned to Irthal. She leaned toward him, her lips brushing his ear, voice softening like a lover’s whisper. “Let me tell you,” she whispered into his ear. “Limrod’s theater district is a spectacle, unlike anything you’d find at sea. How about we explore it together, tomorrow?”

Irthal glanced at his crew, their eyes flicking between him and Ocelia, eyebrows raised. He felt a pang of unease, but Ocelia’s sweet smell—so close to his face—and the prospect of a pleasant distraction were enough to cast it aside. “That does sound like fun,” he admitted, the corners of his mouth curving upwards in a smile. Mythas’ scowl deepened, the grip around her mug tightening, but she remained silent.

And so it went, until Irthal woke.

He did not quite remember how he wound up in his bed at the end. Alone, as he noticed with a hint of regret. Given his pounding headache, maybe that was not the worst outcome, all things considered. Stretching, he rose and started to gather the others.

As the morning sun bathed Limrod in golden light, Ocelia waited for them at the city’s heart, accompanied by a roguish looking man. Irthal’s crew approached, their expectations raised after the promises of the previous night. Irthal noticed Ocelia’s delighted expression as she spotted them and was looking forward to an enjoyable day.

Ahead of them, Ocelia started to wave cheerily, “Good morning! This is my dear brother, Lurian. He insisted on accompanying us today. Lurian knows everything about the theater!”

With a mischievous grin that could have probably even charmed old Gelman, Lurian ambled over. “Ah, the adventurous seafarers I’ve heard so much about. It’s a pleasure.” Yeah, definitely siblings, Irthal thought as he marveled at the similarities between the two.

They entered the squares and streets making up the theater district. Ocelia and Lurian not only guided but also entertained them in their exploration of the district. They shared tales of the Limrod’s colorful past, the magnificent plays performed, and the eccentric personalities that had graced the stages over the years.

“See that theater?” Lurian pointed to an imposing edifice adorned with intricate carvings. “They say it’s haunted by a lovelorn actress’s spirit, after she took her own life on stage.”

Ocelia chuckled, pressing closer to Irthal. “And he believes every word,” she teased. Her touch was a warm, steady presence. Almost without Irthal noticing, her arm had looped through his.

“So, what do you think? Quite a sight, isn’t it?” she asked, barely audible over the cacophony. Irthal noticed her eyes, sparkling brighter than any gem he had seen. Not that he had seen too many gems, of course, but he knew his stories.

“It’s... lively,” Irthal managed, struggling to absorb the riot of colors and sounds. He dared to glance sidelong at Mythas, who maintained a stony façade, her eyes smoldering. Irthal quickly looked away again.

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

Ocelia seemed oblivious to the tension as they continued through the sprawling theater district. The vibrancy of the place shook Irthal, in its stark contrast to the monotonous sea-blue they had endured for so long.

“Admit it.” Ocelia exclaimed. “It is unlike anything you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?” The day had faded into evening by now. Instead of the bright sun, lanterns and bonfires now illuminated the theater district, casting playful shadows against the colonnaded buildings.

“It certainly is,” Irthal replied, absorbing the revelry around them. There was an infectious quality to it all—the laughter, the music, the sheer life that pulsed in the heart of Limrod. “This place. What does it mean to you as a citizen of Limrod?”

Ocelia turned him around and searched his eyes, deep pools of slate opening before Irthal. “It’s where dreams and reality dance together, where every emotion finds its voice,” she finally replied. “It’s where I hope to find my voice someday,” she added quietly.

Beside them, Lurian wildly gesticulated to the others about an ancient Limrodian street play, ‘The Masked Dance of Maros,’ that a group was performing before them.

“I have an idea,” Ocelia suddenly proposed, her fingers idly tracing the lines of his palm. “Why don’t we escape this crowd? I know a place nearby that’s a little bit more... private.”

Taken aback, Irthal asked, “But what about the others?” He felt sweat break out all over his body. Wait. That included his hand. The hand that was touching Ocelia’s hand. Damnit.

Ocelia merely shrugged and a wide smile spread on her face. “I’m sure they’ll manage without us. Lurian has this whole thing about street theater that incorporates local myths into their performances. Trust me, they’ll be busy for a while. Besides, I think you could use a break.”

That seemed like sound logic to Irthal. “Alright. Then lead the way.” He pretended to smooth back his hair, rubbing his hand dry, before clasping hers again.

“Good,” Ocelia purred and her face broke into a playful grin as she led him away from the others under the star-strewn sky. Giggling along the way, it did not take them long to reach a small house, nestled into a corner of the district. Ocelia seemed momentarily stumped by the mechanism of the lock, but it eventually yielded and they were inside.

In the silence of the dark room, Ocelia turned and leaned in close, her breath a tantalizing whisper against his skin. “I’ve got to say, you’re a fascinating man, Irthal,” she murmured, her eyes directly in front of his. The confidence in her voice sent a thrill down his spine, stirring excitement within him. And, belatedly, a weak voice of alarm at the back of his mind.

Yet Irthal found himself responding to her. Seems like it’s not only excitement and alarm in there, were some of his last coherent thoughts, before a swift kiss robbed him of anything else. “Well, thank you,” he managed. Something from their earlier conversation came back to him. “And you’re not just the damsel you made yourself out to be,” he added weakly, capturing her gaze with his, trying to sound confident.

Ocelia’s laughter, soft and teasing, filled the room as she gently pulled him toward the bed. “Is that so?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she slung her arms around his neck.

The hours that followed had no need for words, mostly. Instead, they were filled with the language of touch and shared breaths. Irthal found himself losing track of time, ensnared in the enigmatic allure of Ocelia. There was only room for darkness and desire.

Morning sunlight cascaded through the window, casting slender shadows across the room. As Irthal slowly gathered his senses, he realized that Ocelia was nowhere to be seen. Now where had she gone? Stretching languidly, his hand instinctively went to his shirt pocket, his daily little ritual. Only to find it lighter than it should have been. Irthal’s hands trembled as he patted his empty pocket repeatedly. His heart pounded in his chest.

The pendant was gone.

In a surge of panic, Irthal hurriedly put on his clothes, bolted from the room, left the house, and sprinted across the theater district, ran all the way to the harborside inn where they stayed. Panting, he staggered into the main hall where his friends were already having breakfast.

“Irthal!” Mythas called, relief warring with something else on her face, “We were wondering when you’d get up. Something wrong?”

“The pendant,” Irthal gasped out, struggling for breath, “Ocelia has taken it.”

The group fell silent. The jovial atmosphere that had enveloped the room just seconds ago evaporated instantly. “What? Are you sure?” Sevastian demanded with wide eyes. Beside him, Mythas groaned.

Catching his breath, Irthal nodded, pulling at his shirt to show them the empty pocket. “We need to find her. Now.”

So their planned day of relaxation turned into a frenzied manhunt, as they tore through the city in search of Ocelia and Lurian. Limrod, so inviting just a day ago, felt foreign and hostile now. Suddenly, every face in the crowd seemed to be a liar or thief.

Their pursuit, however, proved fruitless. Ocelia and Lurian had disappeared like ghosts. Their frustration was close to reaching a boiling point when an idea struck Irthal.

“Hey, listen up!” he called to the others. “There are lots of street children here, right? Especially in the market district. If this city is anything like Olban, this could be our rescue. You know these kids. They’re quick, perceptive, and always on the lookout for easy pickings. If anyone knows about the comings and goings of the city, it’s them.”

“Not too bad of a plan, if you ask me,” Lurgon agreed. The others nodded along and they started searching.

They quickly found a group of street urchins near the city center, sharp eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Mythas approached them, a gold coin gleaming in her palm. The children’s eyes widened, their wary skepticism vanishing at the sight of the coin.

“We’re looking for a woman and a man, both finely dressed. The woman has olive skin, curly hair, very pretty, and the man has dark, slicked-back hair,” Mythas described, keeping her voice calm. “Have you seen anyone like that today?”

The children exchanged glances. After a few hushed whispers, the oldest stepped forward. “Aye, seen ‘em. Headed toward the east side. The fancy district.”

For the first time this day, Irthal felt something like hope blossom within him. Mythas handed over the gold coin, and they dashed toward the east side of Limrod.

The eastern quarter, with its lavish estates and manicured gardens, contrasted starkly with the bustling market streets. With his not too clean linen shirt and tousled hair, Irthal immediately felt out of place. It still took them hours. But after searching an endless sequence of narrow side streets, they finally spotted Ocelia.

Their relief, however, was short-lived.

Huddled in a side-alley, they watched, hidden amongst reeking crates, as Ocelia and Lurian handed over the pendant to a man in a gray robe, his face obscured by a hood. Irthal hit the ground next to him with his fist. So close, so damn close.

Beside the strange man stood a group of hulking thugs with grim expressions on their faces. Ocelia’s soft voice wafted over to Irthal on the breeze, her tone unmistakably smug.

“Here it is, Gravell. As promised,” Ocelia said, revealing the pendant. “I believe we’re owed a reward?”

“That’s right,” the gray-robed man—Gravell—responded, his voice icy. “Euphemius never goes back on his word. Just don’t forget your place, girl.”

Irthal’s blood chilled as he listened to the exchange. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, jaw set in determination. If they did not do something now, the amulet was gone for good. Who knew where these bandits might bring it to?

Sevastian leaned over to him. “Irthal, this is your call. What do we do? If you want to have it back, now’s the time to act,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the pendant about to enter Gravell’s possession.

Irthal nodded, steeling his resolve. “And we will.”

Acting on pure instinct, Irthal charged. Fortunately, for him, his friends followed hot on his heels. Gravell’s guards reacted in an instant, unsheathing weapons with a steely hiss. The alley exploded into a chaos of shadows and echoes. The few stragglers huddling in distant corners scattered in every direction, fleeing over the rain-slick cobblestones.

“Ocelia!” Irthal roared, his voice tearing through the pandemonium. She turned, her eyes widening at the sight of him.

Beside her, Gravell motioned frantically, snapping, “What’s this? You foolish girl!” A blade from one of his strongmen swept through the air, a gleaming arc of steel aiming for Ocelia. Irthal lunged toward her, desperate to push her out of harm’s way.

But it was too far, too late.

Ocelia collapsed, her body crumpling to the cobblestones like a marionette with severed strings. The pendant slipped from her limp fingers, spinning and glinting in the dim light before it clattered onto the stone, forgotten in the ensuing fray. Lurian’s agonized cry echoed through the alley, the raw anguish in his voice sending a chill down Irthal’s spine.

Then Lurian flung himself at the thug swinging the blade, rage twisting his features. The man barely had time to react before Lurian’s fist connected with his jaw. But then Gravell moved, and the air around him seemed to shudder.

Suddenly, Irthal felt a force dragging him downwards. He struggled to stand, but his legs buckled under a weight that seemed to multiply with each passing second. His comrades seemed to experience the same; their movements hindered, their confused expressions filling with panic.

“That’s…” Lurgon gasped, his voice strained. “He’s Elevated… how can that be?!”

Gravell was closing in now, a cruel smile widening on his face as he watched their struggle. An instant later, Lurian, caught off guard, was hurled against a nearby wall with brutal force. He slumped to the ground, unmoving.

Irthal tried to push against the invisible pressure, failing to so much as lift his sword in an excruciating tug-of-war against the weight of the weapon. This was not a fight they could win.

“We need to retreat,” he shouted between clenched teeth. Even speaking was agony.

“Feels like we’re doing that a lot lately,” Mythas forced out against the suffocating pressure, each word punctuated by labored breaths.

The air around them was too oppressive, like wading through a sea of molasses. It made them easy targets for Gravell’s advancing men. From the corner of his eye, Irthal caught Lurgon’s gaze and subtly nodded toward the pouch at his belt. Even this tiny movement felt like lifting one of Bal’s heavy crates with his head. What was that?

Yet the burly man caught on immediately, his hand discreetly inching toward the satchel containing his array of concoctions. Beads of sweat speckled Lurgon’s brows as he pushed against the invisible barrier. Soon, the thugs would be close enough to dispatch them with their blades. Irthal silently prayed to his Elevated.

Then, before Gravell’s men could draw any closer, Lurgon finally managed to yank a small sphere from his pouch and hurled it onto the cobblestones. Or simply released it, depending on your viewpoint. It darted to the ground and shattered on impact, releasing a thick cloud of smoke that rapidly enveloped them and obscured their forms from the enemy. Even more importantly, it distracted Gravell. Suddenly, Irthal could move again. A little at least.

The smoke bought them precious moments. Enough to make their retreat. With great effort, Irthal started to move, pulling away from the alley, away from Gravell, and away from the still form of Ocelia. Every step weakened the powers that still held him down. Irthal exchanged looks with the others, making sure they all got away.

They ran.