Octuplets upon octuplets, They took on names, sounds that spoke of stars and dust and life.

Bor – the Light – set Them off, with the knowledge that the Fertile Blackness was Theirs upon to grow.

They made Kyr Vera and the elesvium, but with a drop of Sim’s blood the all-sight was occluded.

Churned, the winds of war.

“Do you feel His love?”

Answerless, Heror glanced at Thaeolai.

The waters of the Publaic shivered silently in the early morning hours. Rogue waves sloshed at the edge of the docks, driven in by a cool breeze. Far in the distance, where the ocean touched the sky, droplets of amber pooled as the Sun eclipsed the horizon – its outer edge sending a weak beacon of light up into the sky, until it mixed and dissipated in the fields of stars above.

As Thaeolai looked up at the night retreating, the light of the young morning caught her eyes, mingling with emerald embers. Then she met Heror’s glance. She smirked only for a second, let out a ‘hmph’, and lowered her head.

“I don’t.”

Heror’s eyes fell back to the ocean’s edge. His feet hung just above the ripples around the dock supports. He dipped his toes into the surface waves, feeling the cool rush of the water against his skin. He thought for a moment, then brushed his thoughts away with a quick sigh. His eyes lifted toward the Sun. He nodded to himself.

“Today’s the day, Thaeolai. Today’s the day I leave to find my mother.”

He dipped his toes in farther, letting the waves roll across the balls of his feet.

“Today’s the day,” he repeated, as if to convince himself.

Thaeolai glanced at Heror as he spoke. Even from her periphery, she could see the fire and stubborn determination in his eyes. But he had been ready to leave for years now. And yet, here he still remained, sitting on the southernmost dock in Cephragon.

“You really think so?” Thaeolai said softly.

Now Heror glanced at the girl, and she looked at him. He seemed elvish, just as she was, but it was clear that he was different. Where other Opelites’ skin had a golden luster, Heror’s skin was dull. Where other elves had locks of light hair, Heror’s was matted, curled, and brown. His face had all the simple charms of an else – a human – but his angled ears and blazing blue eyes made him something beyond that.

His hair rustled lightly in the breeze as he pursed his lips beneath a thin layer of stubble. He turned his eyes back to the water, where the Sun’s light was starting to spread.

“How will you get through the gates?” Thaeolai asked. “And the toll roads?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“How will you escape the Kingdom?”

“I’ll go north to the Mides.”

“And how will you survive then?”

Heror furrowed his brow, then sighed and hung his head. He pulled a rolled cloth from his pocket and unrolled it, laying it across his lap. It was an intricately-woven cloth, made of designs and weaving patterns from beyond the Kingdom. Stitched along the edges, blue waves rolled and rolled, and on the left side, a jagged cliff lay. On that cliff, a lone wolf stood, stray fletchings of cloth acting as fur as the wind swelled and sank. At the center of the cloth, the name ‘Heran’ was stitched in dark gray thread.

“I’m just trying to be practical,” Thaeolai reasoned, her eyes falling on the cloth under strands of blonde hair.

Heror folded the cloth and stowed it again. He then rested his hands at his sides and let out another sigh. His eyes went back to the Sun. The star rose toward the heavens, nestled on the horizon like an egg in a nest. By now, the ocean was a sea of rich amber. Encased in the orange light of the morning Sun, far in the distance, there was the silhouette of a sail.

“I could take a ship,” Heror said instinctively.

“And where would you go then?” Thaeolai pressed, growing tired of Heror’s persistence. “The navy would stop you if you tried to circle past Fyre. There are no ports on the way to Pylantheum, and even if you could port, who’s to say the navy doesn’t spot the stolen ship, or the Midans don’t take you out of the water?”

“But if I got past them,” Heror argued, eyes intent. “I could find her.”

Thaeolai didn’t hide her concern. But she’d had this conversation with Heror many times before. After a moment, she shook her head and smiled slightly. She bowed her head in resignation, and turned her attention to the soft ripples hitting the edge of the dock.

“I suppose you could.”

They were at the docks early for their coming shift. The boats wouldn’t be back until mid-morning, and so they sat in the fledgeling daylight, away from the prying stares and impious crowds of the Jeweled City. Outside the eastern gates of Cephragon, in the dockyards, the wind moved with freedom, and the hum of the Publaic never rested. If they didn’t look back at the gleaming crystalline towers dominating the city center, they could almost imagine themselves someplace else.

“Where would you go?” Heror asked. “If we could leave?”

“Where would I go?” Thaeolai echoed, blinking.

“There has to be a place you’d go,” Heror persisted. “I know you don’t want to stay here.”

“Of course I don’t want to stay here.”

“Then why don’t you ever talk about leaving?”

“Because it’s not realistic. Even during peacetime, they wouldn’t let laborers leave. And especially now, it’s not safe for us if we do leave, with the Midans knocking on the border and the soldiers capturing whoever isn’t supposed to be on the roads. It’s not worth daydreaming about. It’s not going to happen.”

The girl let out another sharp sigh, shoulders hunched as she leaned forward in frustration. After a moment, she glanced at Heror, and saw that he had turned away, his head bowed again in a pained expression. She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and leaned back again, eyes glinting in the sunlight.

“Tephire,” she conceded.

Heror glanced at her.

“What?”

“I would go to Tephire,” she said again. “There’s supposed to be a place there – a city built on the edge of a great, crystal blue lake – called… Marteliphi, I think. There’s supposed to be a college there where you can learn how to hone your magic. I could learn keatuu… maybe.”

She glanced down at the water and rolled her wrists. As she did so, a stationary whirlpool formed at the edge of the dock, layering in on itself until it was gone, reduced to a fading imprint. She placed her hands back on the dock and exhaled.

“What about you?” she asked. “After you’ve found your mum.”

Heror thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. After a short while, he cracked a smile and huffed out a laugh through his nose.

“It’s hard to choose,” he said simply.

“Come on, there’s got to be one place that stands out above the others,” Thaeolai encouraged him. “If you could only visit one place, what would it be?”

Heror thought again, then shook his head.

“I don’t think I’ve heard enough to make that decision,” he admitted. “Ucankacei’s told me plenty of stories, but… I can never be sure if they’re real or not.”

“Well… what have you heard?” Thaeolai asked, her voice just above the breeze.

“He says there’s a desert in Pylantheum,” Heror started, arms unconsciously moving as he spoke. “Larger than the entire Kingdom of Ardys, where entire cities have been swallowed up by the sand. And to the west of that desert, is a giant mountain range twice as big, with peaks that pierce the clouds and catch stardust. Even farther north, there’s a city made of ice, and a sea that the Gods paint with colors at night.”

“To the west, he says there’s a vast plain running across Ghiovan and Mathingar, where buffalo roam, where clouds mold into awesome shapes and formations, and sometimes reach down to touch the Aelyaatu with a finger, spewing up dust and dirt with swirling winds as lightning strikes.”

“South of the plain, there’s another mountain range, rising up from the land like the spine of a dragon, fuming with plumes of gray and black, secreting glowing red-hot rivers of Aelyhiuu. And in the far west, past Tephire and Hithain, there’s an ocean just as vast as the Publaic, catching the sunset, not the sunrise.”

Heror stopped for a moment, his eyes still lost in fantasy.

“I’d like to see that sunset,” he said to himself.

Thaeolai watched Heror as he once again sat in silence. By now, she could read his face, and all of its minute details. She saw the glint of hopefulness in his eyes, clashing with a sharp bitterness bred by reality. She saw as his lips refused to curl into a smile – instead locked in a level silence, jaw clenched as he fought the urge to say more about things he would never see.

She sighed and looked back out to the sea, wincing as her stomach rumbled. The Sun now hovered above the horizon, and the stars faded above, gone behind a cloak of cerulean. The boats were nearing the dockyards.

Thaeolai forced a smile and gave Heror a quick kiss on the forehead.

“You’re a dreamer, Heror,” she mused.

The girl stood and stretched her limbs.

“We should head to the wharf,” she said, glancing north, where dozens more docks and wooden walkways lined the shore. “You ready?”

For a moment, Heror didn’t answer, his eyes fixed in a glare. But soon enough, he rose to his feet, and the two headed down the pier.

In the light of late dawn, activity on the pier was picking up. Laborers traveled to their jetties in groups, dirty and disheveled. Beached sailors made their way to boats still roped in the harbor, aiming to set sail while the tides were calm.

On the inland side of the pier, small shop stalls lined the wooden walkway, manned by downtrodden merchants pitching stale bread and half-spoiled fruits and vegetables to desperate dock workers. Seabirds of all colors whisked around in the open air, chirping and crying their morning calls. Some perched on posts, while others dove under the water to claim their share.

As Heror and Thaeolai made their way through the crowds, something caught Thaeolai’s eye. She looked across the dock to see a fruit cart. Stacked inside were dozens of yellow pepons; most were dull and nearly rotten, but one still had its bright yellow color, perched in the corner of the cart. Almost immediately, Thaeolai’s mouth started to water.

“Heror, look,” she said, grabbing his arm and pointing to the cart.

Heror followed her eyes to the ripe fruit. He eyed Thaeolai with skepticism.

“You have the Kivs for it?”

Thaeolai frowned. Her stomach rumbled again.

“Not… exactly…”

Heror shook his head.

“No,” he said abruptly. “Remember what happened last time?”

“Could’ve been worse,” Thaeolai muttered.

“Could’ve been a lot better too,” Heror argued. “Come on.”

As Heror pressed forward, dragging Thaeolai with him, he bumped into another dock worker. The tall Opelite, ragged and thin with wispy hair, spat at Heror and shot him a toothless snarl.

“Open your eyes, chin’p,” the worker hissed.

Heror glared, and the two stared at each other for a moment before the worker turned and left. Heror kept looking, however – blood curdling at the sound of the slur. Now it was Thaeolai’s turn to pull him away.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“Come on,” she said solemnly, grabbing his arm. “To the wharf.”

After a few minutes – passing through crowded dockyards dotted by Ardysan guards in gilded armor and red robes – they reached the northernmost dock, where they were to work. Farther down the walkway, the dock ended – its edge roped off and blocked by crates and barrels. Beyond that, the shoreline continued, with rich green subtropical trees and plants splaying out over the sand and the clear blue water.

The wharf was larger than the other docks, allowing room for larger ships to port and unload. Already, workers collected at the edge of the dock. They waited as more ships appeared in the distance. After a spell, one ship broke off from the others, streaks of fire periodically appearing behind it as it gained speed, nearing the shore.

“Navy ship,” Thaeolai muttered.

“How can you tell?” Heror asked.

“Keatuuchei,” Thaeolai replied. “Thruster mages.”

Heror squinted his eyes and shielded his face from the Sun to get a better view. After a moment of concentration, he could see two distant figures at the tail end of the boat. Flames sprouted from their hands and whirred through a set of brass turbines on each side of the boat. As they maintained their rhythm, the ship hurried forward, nearing the southern naval gate.

“Must be a scout ship from the north,” Thaeolai theorized. “They usually travel alone.”

“Wonder if there’s any news,” Heror pondered.

“Oh, there is.”

At that moment, a short, skinny else with raggedy black hair and a beard came up from behind and put his arms around Heror and Thaeolai, presenting a toothy grin.

“Destus, hello,” Thaeolai muttered, making no attempt to hide her lack of enthusiasm.

“I heard,” Destus started, glancing between Heror and Thaeolai, “that the Midans made the first move.”

“Really?” Heror gasped.

“Really,” Thaeolai grumbled, unconvinced.

“Oh, yes, they did,” Destus continued, face twitching with excitement. “An invasion force from Mote snuck up to the border wall in the night on the 7th. Ten-thousand strong, with flaming catapults and ballistae and battering rams and balls of fire…”

“... also known as flaming catapults…” Thaeolai mumbled.

“... they bombarded the border wall… and in the twilight on the 9th, they broke through.”

“What?” Heror exclaimed.

“They also launched an attack on the navy. Word is that they took out four ships, and that the lliaothe has made a reappearance off the coast of Srassen Xai, guarding their waters.”

“I, for one, am convinced,” sighed Thaeolai.

“Is Cirei going to declare war?” Heror questioned.

“He hasn’t made the declaration yet, but I would expect something very soon,” Destus replied with an unnerving smile.

“How did you hear all this before the scout ship even got back?” Thaeolai prodded, raising an eyebrow.

“I have connections,” Destus answered, his smile curling upward.

Thaeolai scoffed, shoving his arm off her shoulder. Destus made his way around them, starting down the wharf. But before he left, he turned back around.

“By the way… I got a little kick ready if you’re interested. I hear it’s going to be a long shift today.”

At that moment, Destus pulled a pocket-sized leather case from inside his shirt. He made sure the guards farther down the pier wouldn’t notice, then cracked it open to reveal a pile of small white, glassy pellets. Instinctively, Heror took a slight step back, and Thaeolai shook her head.

“We don’t have any Kivs,” she muttered.

“No, you can owe me,” Destus insisted with a smile. “It’s wartime. Folks are on edge. Gods smile on the generous souls.”

Thaeolai debated silently for a moment. But after her stomach growled loudly, and a wave of exhaustion ran over her, she impulsively held out her hand, and Destus sprinkled a few pellets into it. Thaeolai quickly turned away, sniffed the pellets, and took a deep breath.

“What about you, Heror?” Destus asked, shaking the box discreetly.

Heror looked at the leather case. He was tired, and for a moment, he felt the urge to hold out his hand. But just as the thought entered his head, he swatted it away with a shake of his head. Destus eyed him.

“You sure? The world’s going to shit. Need something to tie you down–”

“No,” Heror reiterated quickly.

Destus frowned, and then he left the two. Soon, more workers began to pool at the edge of the dock. Heror glanced at Thaeolai.

“I thought you were going to clean up,” he muttered.

“Don’t start,” Thaeolai hissed under her breath.

They waited. The inland wind slowly began to pick up, and soon, the commercial ships were in the shallows. One by one, ships branched off to their designated docks. Some carried nets filled with fish, while others carried supplies and cargo from coastal cities to the south.

The ship at the end, however, came in with different cargo. The starboard side was glazed over with red as it settled in beside the dock, and immediately, the stench of a successful whale hunt was driven onto the shore by the breeze. On the ship’s deck, Heror could see dozens of barrels stocked to the brim with whale blubber, whale oil, and other spoils of the voyage.

The ship came to a halt, and a quick episode of shouting broke out from the deck. A long wooden board was lowered to connect the deck to the wharf platform, and two younger sailors sprinted down onto the wharf. They ran around to the pier, past Heror and Thaeolai, and stopped in front of the ship. One of the sailors pulled a rope from his belt and looped it through a metal hoop below the ship’s beak. He then tied the rope to a stable post on the pier, keeping the ship in place as it floated above the tide.

As the ship was moored in place, a noble elf with a gaunt face – cloaked in a pristine silver robe – emerged from the crowds on the pier, passing Heror and Thaeolai. He approached the plank that connected the ship to the dock. As he reached the side of the ship, the workers started to cluster around him, waiting for the call to proceed onto the deck.

“What’s the haul, Ikascei?” the noble beckoned to the ship.

At the sound of the shout, an older elf – presumably the ship’s captain – appeared at the railing, a crooked grin on his face.

“Ah, Khasei! Fine mornin’ to ya! We got thirty-one barrels ‘a blubber, eleven barrels ‘a head oil, two strips of baleen, and a bag of grisamber to top it off.”

“Must have been quite a trip!” the elf named Khasei chimed with a smile.

“Yessir, i’twas! I’d wager Opela herself wouldn’t have been as much a beauty!”

“Did you clean the baleen?” Khasei inquired.

The captain started to answer, then paused, his mouth hanging agape as he stumbled on his words. Khasei’s smile faded, and Ikascei let out a nervous laugh.

“Ah, but that’s what they’re for!” the ship’s captain exclaimed, pointing to the workers on the wharf.

“You better hope the mongrels can get rid of the smell, or it’s coming out of your pay,” Khasei warned, his voice suddenly cold.

Khasei turned around, shaking his head.

“Get up there,” he lashed at the workers, before disappearing down the pier.

Most of the sailors exited the boat and made their way toward the city, and the ragged workers filled the empty deck, with the urgency of a zombified horde. They made their way past the railing, and were met with a grisly sight.

The deck was almost completely covered in dried blood, fat, and grease from the whale hunt. Entrails looped over the port side of the ship, where the whale had been latched for preparation. A putrid smell hung over the concourse, and near the mast, where the railings converged, a dozen metal buckets sat, filled with soapy water.

As the odor reached Heror’s nose, he winced and scrunched his face, turning away. Thaeolai’s head was already spinning, and as the smell wafted over her, she lost her balance a bit. Heror grabbed her arm, as the white-haired captain barked out orders.

“A’ight’re, we got forty-two barrels to unload! We got two baleen strips an’ hooks to scrub good! An’ we need the deck and the side nice and pearly so ol’ Pyn can get a good look at us!”

While a few sailors stood by to watch over the work, the workers dispersed, taking on different jobs. Thaeolai started toward the buckets in the corner. Heror went to follow her when he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He looked behind him and saw captain Ikascei pointing toward the barrels.

“We need you on the barrels. Go to it.”

Heror nodded, struggling to keep eye contact. He turned away, making his way toward the barrels near the boat’s helm.

“Get the barrels to the edge of the dock!” Ikascei shouted as the workers bustled. “Don’t roll ‘em! We need hands on the pier to take the barrels to the gate!”

Heror came to the first barrel and bent down, digging his fingers under the slats on the barrel’s underbelly. The barrels were not tall, but were densely packed and hard to move, and so Heror had to wait until another worker came to help. After a moment of struggling, the two were able to lift the barrel off the ground. They began their trek to the ship’s edge, and from the edge to the plank. The plank flexed beneath their weight. Caught below the barrel, Heror was stuck with the brunt of the work.

Back on the ship’s deck, Thaeolai had grabbed a bucket and started cleaning the wooden boards. She took up a spot in the opposite corner, far away from the ship’s captain, with the hope that she wouldn’t be noticed. She soaked a rag in the soapy water, then knelt down onto the deck.

The blood and fat had dried by now, making for a harder cleaning. It was firm and sticky, and some of the whale matter had seeped in between the boards. Thaeolai didn’t bother trying to clean those areas; her head was already light and dizzy, and as she scrubbed harder, she only felt herself slipping more. Her scrubs were reduced to indifferent swaths over the boards. All the while, the pungent odor caused her nostrils to sting and her head to ache.

The work continued. Hours blended together. The Sun reached its crest in the sky and began to descend. Thin ocean clouds rolled through to the east. By mid afternoon, most of the barrels had been moved, but the workers were exhausted. A mere few remained alert, and those who dared to sit were soon beckoned up by a slap or a shout from the sailors.

The Sun was just above the city walls to the west when Heror returned to the boat for another time. He’d lost count of the barrels he’d hauled, but his muscles ached and his face was caked with sweat and grime. He could feel the dehydration and exhaustion in his joints. His tongue felt like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth, and his eyelids were heavy and sticky in the heat. By now, he regretted not taking the lift Destus offered earlier.

Passing two struggling workers, Heror made his way back to the barrels. There was only one left to load onto the docks, nestled against the wall of the captain’s quarters. The captain had gone inside, but a bearded sailor still stood nearby – disinterested, his arms crossed as he oversaw the work.

As Heror reached the barrel, he glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes fell on Thaeolai. She was still in the corner, and he could tell from her movements that she was close to unconsciousness. Her rag was dirty, and still, she swiped it back and forth with a detached feebleness – eyes only half open.

Heror made a mental note to help her after the last barrel, then turned around and grabbed the hem of the barrel’s lid. Then his eyes rose, as he searched for help. As he surveyed the deck, however, he realized that help would be unavailable.

On the deck, few workers remained. One had passed out by the railing, and another worker – limp and lifeless – was being carried to the opposite railing by two sailors, who then tossed him overboard. Heror grimaced and turned away, setting his eyes back on the barrel. After a moment, he looked up, and again noticed the bearded sailor standing by.

“Hey,” Heror said tiredly. “Hey.”

They made eye contact.

“Help,” Heror mustered.

“Don’t talk to me, mutt,” the sailor growled.

Heror’s skin flushed with anger, and his fingers clamped down on the barrel’s lid. But at that moment, the sailor peered past Heror and noticed something at the other end of the boat. The sailor brushed past Heror.

“Hey!” the sailor shouted. “You call that ‘clean’, gutter rat?!”

Heror heard the bearded man’s heavy stomps on the wood, and as he turned around, he saw the sailor approaching Thaeolai. The sailor stopped above Thaeolai and grabbed her wrist, ripping the dirty cloth from her hand. He then slapped her, sending her head to the deck in a mess of blonde.

“Filthy addict!” he yelled.

Then there were footsteps. The sailor turned around just in time to see Heror sprinting toward him. Before the sea dog could react, Heror tackled him at full speed, slamming him into the wall of the bow. The bearded man squirmed out of Heror’s hold and tried to stand, but before he could get on his feet, Heror trapped him against the wall and sent a fist into the sailor’s face. A chorus of shouts stirred behind them as Heror cocked his arm back again and again – a half-dozen times – until the sailor’s nose was crooked and bloody, and Heror’s knuckles were bruised.

Even as the frightened seafarer put his hands up to signal a surrender, Heror wound his arm. He was about to strike once more, but as he brought his fist forward, his wrist was grabbed from behind. Heror’s arm was wrenched behind him, pulling him up to the center of the deck. He fought his way free and quickly turned around, but was met with a disorienting punch to the face. He fell to the ground, and when his vision cleared, he saw the captain standing over him, face darkened.

For a spell, the deck was silent, save for the hum of the waves. A half dozen sailors stood, while workers from the docks lingered behind them, drawn to the commotion. Captain Ikascei stared down at Heror, nostrils flaring.

“We don’t have that ’round here. Y’hear me, boy?”

Heror fumed, a small trail of blood seeping down from an open cut on the bridge of his nose. Ikascei took a step forward, craning his head down.

“You hear me?!”

Heror did not respond. Ikascei nodded, his jaw clenched. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two golden coins. He tossed them to the ground, and Heror watched as they rolled to a stop at his foot.

“Your shift’s over,” Ikascei declared. “Get off my ship.”

“I was owed ten,” Heror protested.

“‘Scuse me?”

Heror rose to his feet and matched the captain, eyes fierce.

“I was owed ten.”

“Take the two, or take a swim. Your choice. No one’s gonna miss ya.”

By now, the sailors had started to close in, some of them brandishing swords. As he realized the odds were against him, Heror’s anger faded. Demoralized, he knelt down and picked up the two gold coins, slipping them into his pocket. Then he turned, helped Thaeolai to her feet, and made his way off the ship as she dragged her feet beside him. The workers diverged to allow Heror passage onto the ramp. As he descended to the docks, sailors jeered at him from the deck above.

He ventured south, back toward the city gate. The pier was much less crowded in the early evening, and as Heror helped Thaeolai along, he passed by the pepon cart again. It was empty; the merchant had gone off somewhere. Carved into the front was a message: “‘Pepons, 5 Kivs each.’” And propped in the corner, still, was the ripe pepon, almost a half-foot across.

Heror shot a brisk glance behind him to make sure there were no guards around, then approached the cart. He grabbed the fruit and slid it inside his shirt, then carried on toward the gate, as the amber Sun began its descent below the city.