“I wish you good fortune, my friend,” Bramwell said, his voice carrying the weight of the long sea journey they had endured together. He extended his hand, a gesture of friendship and respect.

Alaric paused to regard the offered hand, his gaze lingering on the captain’s face. The lines there spoke of years spent battling the tempests of the sea and other adversities. Now, as the shores of home loomed large, so close at hand, mere yards away, the moment felt both triumphant and bittersweet.

Ezran, Thorne, and Kiera stood close by, patiently waiting and watchful for deceit. Caxatarus was next to his captain, looking on. Though he still limped slightly, he was as active as ever. Around them, the ship’s crew, those who were freemen and not the slaves who rowed below decks, moved with the efficiency of long practice, the deck alive with the sounds of their labor.

A rope ladder dangled over the side, the bridge between their floating world and the longboat that would finally take him home. In the longboat, twelve sailors sat with disciplined patience, their oars held upright at the ready. Beside them, Grayson and ten of his men sat, also waiting. The rest of Alaric’s people, their supplies, equipment, and the hard-won treasure of a decade had already made the transition from ship to shore, a painstaking process that consumed the better part of the day. With the last few boats, Rikka had gone too.

Obscured by an evening fog that had rolled in less than an hour ago, the three ships that had carried his people home now rode safely at anchor, each separated by a few hundred yards. The distant crash of waves against the shore played a constant, rhythmic backdrop to the scene.

“As usual, I enjoyed your stay aboard my ship,” Bramwell said. There was a subtle warmth in his eyes belying the usual sternness. “In the morning, when the tide changes, we set sail. Before we do, I will send men ashore for fresh water.” He gestured vaguely toward the unseen land, hidden by the fog, shrouding their surroundings in mystery and dampening the sounds of the coming night. “This place is called Smuggler’s Cove. I am unashamed to admit I have used it a time or two.” He glanced outward, the fog, thick and impenetrable, concealing the coast that lay just a few hundred yards away.

The natural harbor they found themselves in was a hidden gem among a rugged and difficult coastline of Dekar. Towering cliffs on either side formed a protective barrier against the relentless ocean waves, creating a secluded sanctuary for those who knew of its existence, which obviously Bramwell did.

“And now, it is time for you to go.”

Alaric took the captain’s hand, the shake firm and meaningful. “And where will you go from here?” Alaric asked, curiosity mingling with a tinge of concern for his friend’s future endeavors.

“I will head for Gress to reprovision,” Bramwell mused, his gaze drifting toward the horizon to the east, lost in thoughts of what lay ahead. “Sanenik’s Landing is the closest port. Then I suppose… who knows. I am thinking we will head back south, though maybe not.” A shrug accompanied his words, a gesture of acceptance toward the unpredictable nature of life at sea. “Maybe it is time to see new lands and what they have to offer. But—you need to put ashore before the tide shifts and I change my mind about selling you into a life of bondage,” Bramwell added with a light chuckle, the threat more jest than earnest warning. “I am more than certain Sunara would pay dearly for your head.” The humor in his voice did little to mask the underlying truth of his statement, a reminder of the dangers that lurked in their world, where loyalties, especially in the south, were often bought and sold, and lives were as much a currency as gold.

Ezran and Thorne tensed. Kiera remained unfazed, her expression unreadable as she gazed upon Bramwell. Alaric grinned, and without hesitation, he stepped forward, wrapping the captain in a hearty embrace, a gesture that transcended mere friendship and spoke to the brotherhood forged in the face of adversity. They thumped each other’s back in a series of fond pats.

After a moment, both stepped back from one another.

“I told you I’d honor my word,” Bramwell said. “I have too few genuine friends. I’d not lose one over money.”

“You did honor it,” Alaric acknowledged, his tone laden with gratitude. “And I am pleased. You will come back one day?”

“Build that port you spoke of, and I will come,” Bramwell responded with a decisive nod, eyes sweeping over the obscured landscape, as if envisioning the future they had dared to dream. He gestured toward the fog, thick and enveloping, as if it were a curtain waiting to be drawn back. “I am thinking this may not be such a bad spot.”

“Smuggler’s Cove?” Alaric’s voice was tinged with a mixture of surprise and contemplation, the name of the anchorage sparking a flurry of thoughts about its potential and its past. “I might have to come up with a better name for the place.”

“Yes, you might,” Bramwell agreed with a hint of fond reminiscence. “There are worse spots, and whenever I had business with your father, I came here. This cove is where we met.”

“My father?” Alaric was both surprised and intrigued at the mention of his father. It was a connection he hadn’t expected, a hidden thread tying his family to Bramwell in ways he had yet to fully understand.

“Build me that port and you will see me again.”

“As long as my father approves,” Alaric said.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “I wager, from those twelve heavy chests winched down to the longboats, you have enough treasure to see that happen. Besides, if he says no, one day, you will be the Earl of Dekar and then the decision will be solely yours. Now, you have wasted enough time and so have I.”

Alaric grasped Oathbreaker’s scabbard firmly to keep the weapon from becoming entangled as he climbed over the railing and moved with a deliberate intention. The rope ladder swayed gently beneath him, each rung a step away from the life he had known aboard the ship and a step toward the uncertain future that awaited him ashore.

As he began his descent, the sturdy ropes and wooden rungs of the ladder creaked softly under his weight. A few feet down, Alaric paused. He looked back up toward the deck where Bramwell stood, watching him.

“Take care of yourself, my friend,” Alaric said.

“Always,” Bramwell replied with a slight smirk.

Alaric continued his descent, each movement bringing him closer to the dark waters and the waiting longboat below. He was glad he wasn’t wearing his armor. Had he fallen in, the heavy metal would drag him into the depths without mercy.

The longboat bobbed on the swells, its movements unpredictable and challenging as he neared the end of the ladder. The sight of a sailor extending a hand upward was a welcome one, offering a semblance of stability. Alaric accepted the assistance, jumping the final distance with a practiced ease that belied the risk involved. His boots met the boat’s wooden bottom with a slight splash, for there was an inch of water inside.

“Over here, my lord,” Grayson’s voice cut through the sound of waves and creaking wood. Alaric moved toward the bow of the boat, each step a negotiation with the rocking vessel. He made it without stumbling and took the seat offered.

Thorne and Ezran followed next and found a seat just behind them. Alaric looked back and up. Kiera and Bramwell stood staring at one another. During the voyage, they had more than made up. Kiera had spent almost as much time with Bramwell as Alaric had. The exchange between them, though silent to Alaric, was clearly heavy with meaning, a final shared moment before parting ways. Then she turned away abruptly and clambered over the side and onto the rope ladder.

Kiera’s descent was a spectacle of independence and strength. The same sailor who had offered a hand to Alaric extended one to her. Kiera’s refusal was punctuated by a heated glare. She jumped down into the rocking boat and then made her way forward to a bench just behind Alaric, where an open space waited next to Ezran.

“I do believe he will miss you,” Ezran said, leaning toward her. “Did I see a tear in his eye?”

“Shut up, you,” Kiera said and shot him a hard look.

This mist, dense and enveloping, draped itself heavily over the water, casting the anchored galley in an almost otherworldly silence. The only sounds to puncture this veil of tranquility were the creaks and groans from the ship’s timbers as she rocked with the swells and the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against the shoreline.

The ship, with her oars shipped and away, was a towering presence against the backdrop of the fog-enveloped sea, looming over the longboat like a spectral guardian of the deep. The longboat, in comparison, appeared almost fragile and tiny.

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Alaric spotted motion above. Bramwell was now making his way down the ladder with ease to join them. That surprised him.

“Oh, look, Kiera,” Ezran said in a low tone. “I think he can’t bear to live without you.”

Kiera shot him another hard look that spoke of warning. “Don’t force me to test the sharpness of my blades upon you.”

Ezran grinned at her. “I believe you already know how well they cut, Lady Luminary.”

“Then you may wish to watch your mouth.”

Bramwell’s boots splashed and thunked down into the boat, having leapt the last foot, timing the swells right as the longboat rose. He made the movement look almost easy. The captain worked his way carefully to the stern of the longboat. Once there, his gaze fixed upon the crew assembled before him. The sailors waited in anticipation, their hands gripping the oars, which were out of the water and pointed straight up at the sky. They were a raggedy bunch, their tunics bleached by the sun, almost threadbare and stained with tar and food.

“Listen up, lads.” The captain’s voice broke the silence, commanding and clear. “We’re heading to shore, and I’ll not have us be the day’s spectacle. Row with strength but keep your pace even. We’ll push off on my command and make for the beach with all the grace this miserable craft can muster.”

He turned his attention to the mate, who stood ready by the ladder and the rope that secured them to the galley.

“Thomas, on my mark, release us and take the tiller.”

“Aye, Captain,” Thomas replied, his hands steady on the rope.

Bramwell’s eyes swept over his crew once more, ensuring every man was prepared. “This is it, gentlemen. Ready your oars… and… shove off!”

At his command, Thomas untied the rope with a swift motion, releasing the longboat from the galley’s embrace. With a heavy grunt, he pushed off from the galley, then made his way back to the tiller and took it in hand, standing next to his captain.

“Starboard side, oars shove off.”

The rowers there lowered their oars and placed the ends against the hull of the ship as the gap widened. They shoved mightily and, suddenly, the boat was moving away, the distance between ship and longboat growing with every passing moment.

Bramwell waited several heartbeats. “Ready oars… deploy oars.”

A moment later, the rowers plunged their oars into the water.

“Row.”

Their movements synchronized under Bramwell’s orders and watchful eye. The longboat began to glide away from the galley, the gap between them rapidly widening with each and every stroke.

“Steady, lads. Keep her steady,” Bramwell instructed, his voice a blend of encouragement and authority as the longboat accelerated, moving into the fog. The ship behind them began to rapidly disappear. “Let’s show the old girl we can handle her with tender care. Strongly now. Keep rowing. That’s it. Keep up the pace.”

The rowers responded with a rhythmic cadence, their oars dipping and rising in perfect harmony. The longboat moved gracefully through the water, her crew working as one. Bramwell stood tall at the aft of the longboat, his orders now softening to words of guidance and encouragement as the boat cut its way toward the shore.

Alaric felt the experience almost otherworldly, as if he was moving to a new chapter in his life, which he supposed he was.

The longboat continued her journey away from the galley. The outline of the shore, at first a mere shadow within the fog, slowly clarified into a landscape both daunting and somehow welcoming.

Alaric’s heart raced as the coast drew nearer, each beat a drum heralding his return. The sight that unfolded before him was one of hard beauty—jagged rocks and steep cliffs, monuments to the timeless battle between land and sea.

The beach, with its sand and rocks, offered a welcome after the long journey at sea. The sight of Dekar, his home, evoked a surge of powerful emotion—relief, anticipation, and an underlying current of apprehension for what awaited him on land.

Captain Bramwell’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the rapidly approaching shoreline, clearly calculating the best approach. After a long moment, he pointed.

“There! Between those two rock outcroppings.” The captain was indicating a narrow inlet where the rocks gave way to a small, pebbled beach. “Thomas, that’s our landing. Steer toward it and mind the currents. They can be treacherous here.”

“Aye, sar,” Thomas said, hand on the tiller, making a minute adjustment as they drew closer.

“Row, boys, faster now,” Bramwell said. “That’s it. Faster.”

The rowers picked up the pace of their strokes, their oars slicing through the water with renewed purpose. The longboat veered slightly, aligning with the captain’s chosen path, as the crew braced themselves against the pull of the sea.

As they neared the shore, the sounds of the ocean grew louder. The crash of waves against rock and beach became a constant beat that filled the air. Seabirds circled overhead, their cries mingling with the wind and waves, as if heralding the arrival of the longboat and her crew.

Alaric found himself hungrily devouring the view. He recognized these cliffs and this beach, this very spot. His mother had taken him here, more than once, to play in the water as a child. This was Dekar, his home. If memory served, his family keep was only twenty miles distant from where they were being landed, a day’s march.

Many of those who had already landed had made their way up a narrow trail to the cliffs above. Several were standing at the edge of the cliff, looking down upon them as they came in for a landing. Alaric could see smoke from fires that had been set to drive the cold away. Only one person waited upon the beach for their arrival, and somehow Alaric was not terribly surprised.

Rikka.

“Ready yourselves!” Bramwell’s voice cut through the noise. “We’ll need to pull hard to make it through the surf. On my command, give it everything you’ve got and then some. Pull! I said, bloody pull at those oars! That’s it… pull!”

The longboat hit the first of the breaking waves, water splashing over the sides and drenching the men in a frigid spray. The oarsmen rowed with all their might, muscles straining, as Thomas steered them through the frothy turmoil of the surf zone.

“Pull!”

Another wave lifted the boat, propelling it forward with a surge of power.

“Now! Pull!” Bramwell shouted, and the rowers obeyed, their coordinated effort driving the longboat up and onto the pebbled beach with a final, triumphant effort.

The craft ground against the small stones and sand, its momentum carrying it farther up the shore until it came to rest, lodged firmly on the shoreline. The rowers, along with the passengers, panting and soaked, looked up to see the rugged and forbidding cliffs towering over them.

“Well done, lads,” Bramwell praised and then turned to look at Alaric. “May I be the first to welcome you home, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Standing, Alaric leapt from the longboat. His boots met the soft yet unforgiving soil of the beach—a mixture of sand and millions of pebbles that told tales of the sea’s relentless sculpting. The sensation of solid ground beneath his feet felt odd, almost unnatural. That he was no longer on the swaying deck of a ship anchored him to the moment, to the reality of his homecoming.

Kneeling, he scooped up a handful of the cold, damp sand, filled liberally with small, rounded stones and pebbles, along with shells. This simple act was his way of reconnecting with the land that had shaped him.

Beside him, Grayson’s presence was announced by the crunch of heavy boots landing on the beach. “Home,” Grayson breathed. “At long last, we are home, my lord.”

In this sacred moment, Alaric bowed his head, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of his gratitude. “I give thanks to you, holy God, for our deliverance, for our return. For those who could not make the journey and fell in your name along the difficult path we traveled, look after them in the hereafter. On this, I pray.”

Dropping the handful of beach, Alaric stood as the others began to climb out of the longboat. Behind them, still in the boat with Thomas, Captain Bramwell issued the order to push back into the sea. The sailors, having jumped out and accustomed to working in unison under their captain’s command, set about the task with practiced ease.

Alaric turned and watched, along with Grayson, as the crew, with concerted effort, lifted and pushed the heavy boat, her hull scraping against the pebbles and rocks with a grating sound that echoed off the nearest cliff walls. Slowly, the longboat began to move, inching her way back toward the water’s edge under the collective strength of the men.

Once the boat reached the shallows, the rowers waded into the surf, pushing and pulling, manhandling, until the craft was afloat once more. They maneuvered it carefully through the breaking waves, their bodies bracing against the push and pull of the frigid ocean until they were past the initial surf line. There, they clambered aboard.

Several more orders were shouted by Bramwell in quick succession, and the oars were rapidly taken back up. They dipped in unison into the water, and within moments, the boat was pulling back out to sea toward the anchored galley hidden by the fog. Bramwell half turned back and waved at Alaric. Then he looked to Kiera, staring long and hard at her. A moment later, he turned his gaze to his men.

“Pull, you bloody dogs. I said, pull.”

As the longboat disappeared into the distance, melding with the mist and the vastness of the sea beyond, Alaric felt a sense of finality, a chapter closing as firmly as the waves closed over the longboat’s wake. Kiera stood, silent as if in vigil, staring out at where the longboat had been. Alaric’s heart tugged with empathy for her. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was her. But, as a Luminary, her path in life had been set. There was no changing that or the vows she had made to her god and order.

Turning his attention from the sea, Alaric’s eyes met the rugged beauty of the fog-shrouded cliffs. There were still barrels and crates stacked farther up along the beach. Two men were tying crates to a mule, while several others carried additional crates toward the trailhead. One of their horses was being led up the narrow trail.

Alaric’s gaze moved to Rikka. She was still wearing the sailor’s shirt and pants. She had been given boots. Her dark hair blew with the wind, making her look even more captivating than usual. She was staring at him, her gaze deep and unfathomable. Though they had spent their nights together for the past two and a half weeks, she was still an enigma to him, a mystery beyond solving. Steadfastly, Rikka had refused to talk about herself. She had spent her days alone, isolated, locked within her cabin or standing upon the deck of the ship, staring out to sea, as if searching for something. Oddly, when she was out and about on the ship, Alaric had often found Kiera in her presence, neither talking. He had a strong suspicion of what that potentially represented and that made him deeply uncomfortable.

A cold gust of wind whirled around them. It was biting and unforgiving and seemed to cut right through Alaric, a sharp reminder of the season’s change.

“I forgot how cold winter could be,” Alaric remarked, a shiver passing through him.

“This isn’t winter, not yet,” Grayson said. “But if I am any judge, soon the snows will fall. Then it will really get cold."

“It already is cold,” Ezran groused, “and likely to get colder when night fully falls. We should find a fire to warm ourselves and dry our clothing.”

“We will camp above tonight,” Alaric declared, his voice firm with the resolve of leadership. “Then, in the morning, we’ll push on to my parents’ keep. There, we will find food, drink, and warmth aplenty.”

“Do you wish a fortified camp built, for security, my lord?” Grayson asked.

Alaric thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, we’re home.” He sucked in a breath and let out, “We’re finally home.”