Marcellus approached the area where the boats were docked, hoping to secure his passage to the war front. As he stood by the dock, his gaze fixed on the bobbing boats lining the quay, a heavy sigh escaped his lips. All the running he had done to get here felt worth it; he had never seen open waters before, not even in his dreams.

He approached a weathered sailor leaning against a barrel. The sailor's worn attire and scruffy beard spoke of a life spent at sea. Marcellus stepped forward and addressed him with a polite yet determined tone.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm looking to secure passage to the war front. Might you know of a vessel sailing in that direction?"

The man’s weathered face turned towards Marcellus, lifting his chest slightly at the mention of "sir." His eyes scanned Marcellus for a moment before a knowing smile crept across his lips.

"War front, ye say? It’s been a long while since I’ve seen anyone take that path, lad. Pirates infest those seas, makin’ it a treacherous route to tread."

"I am aware of the risks," Marcellus replied. "If there is even a sliver of a chance to reach the war front, I must seize it."

The man studied Marcellus for a moment, a glint of either admiration or mockery gleaming in his eyes. "Aye, lad, there be a spirit of defiance in ye. I’ll give ye that. But while you may be willing to gamble your life, no one will gamble with you."

Marcellus sighed. The sense of desperation weighed heavily on him, and he felt all hope slipping away. Just as he turned to leave, the man spoke up again.

"There be a boat departin' these shores bound for Belfast. Now, Belfast may not be the war front itself, but it’s closer to the capital, a grand city teeming with opportunity. Once ye set foot there, lad, the tides might just guide ye to a ship headin' to the heart of the battle."

A glimmer of hope danced in Marcellus's eyes as the sailor's words sank in. The possibility of a detour to Belfast seemed like a beacon of light in the midst of darkness.

"Belfast, you say?"

"Aye."

"Belfast be closer to the capital and a larger city than Lutton. If ye want to reach the war, that might be your best bet..."

Marcellus considered this newfound opportunity, grateful for the information.

"Why would you want to go to the war front?" The man asked with a smirk. "Ah, kid, it’s good to be young and stupid. But hey, it’s your choice."

Marcellus's patience wore thin. He couldn't afford to let this chance slip away, and impatience crept into his voice. "Where can I find the boat?"

The man's eyes narrowed, his demeanor shifting to a more shrewd and calculating tone. He rubbed his thumb and index fingers together—a gesture Marcellus recognized all too well from his time in Bastard's Haven.

Marcellus reached into his pouch and withdrew a handful of copper coins, holding them out to the man. "Ten coppers. Now tell me everything you know."

The man's eyes lit up at the sight of the coins, and he grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. "Aye, lad, yer coins have sparked the fire of my tongue! Listen close, for I’ve got news for ye. The ship ye seek is a trading vessel from The Skytines, bound for Belfast. She’ll set sail tomorrow, mark my words."

Marcellus pondered whether the sailor's mention of "Belfast" was actually a reference to "Sanctum." Despite the sailor primarily speaking in Valar, he occasionally used a language Marcellus thought to be Nostratic, distinct from Gaulish. While Marcellus was fluent in Valar, his native tongue, he also had sufficient knowledge of Gaulish to confidently distinguish it from Nostratic.

"Here’s the catch, lad. There be someone important from the North-trading companies aboard that vessel, so the security is tighter than a clam’s arse. Ye won’t be gettin' on that ship through regular channels, no sir."

Marcellus's brows furrowed. "How can I secure passage then? Tell me."

"Ah, here’s the trick, young scallywag. Ye’ll need to find a way to bribe the cook on board. Those cooks be the unsung heroes of the galley, holdin' the secrets to accessin' places ye wouldn’t even dream of. Slip ’em a few extra coins, and they’ll help ye find a spot in the hold."

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

Marcellus’s lips curled into a sly smile as he pondered the man’s words, understanding the game he needed to play. "I see. Thank you. I assume you can help with this arrangement?" Marcellus placed a few more copper coins into the man’s hands.

The man’s grin widened, revealing more gaps in his teeth as he pocketed the coins. "Aye, lad, I’m always happy to lend a hand to those who know how to grease the wheels. Come back when the sun sets tomorrow."

Marcellus cast a lingering glance at the man, his instincts tinged with skepticism. Trust was a delicate thread, easily frayed in these treacherous times. He couldn’t afford to reveal his desperation to a stranger of questionable character. With a composed facade, he turned away from the dock.

As night descended, Marcellus found a modest inn to rest his weary bones. The worn sign creaked above the entrance, its faded letters spelling out the establishment’s name. The interior was dimly lit, with a musty smell lingering in the air. The innkeeper, a stout woman with tired eyes, greeted him with a gruff nod.

"One copper for the night, lad."

Marcellus handed over the copper, grateful for the modest accommodations.

"Thank you," he said. Weariness weighed heavily on his shoulders as he ascended the rickety wooden stairs, his footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors.

He entered his room, where a threadbare bed and a small, dimly flickering candle awaited him. Despite its lack of grandeur, it offered a semblance of shelter from the harsh realities of the outside world—it was even better than what he was used to at home.

Marcellus lay there, attempting to find solace in sleep. However, his efforts were in vain as Lutton Marsh refused to surrender to the night’s silence. The cacophony of noise grew increasingly pronounced, a stark contrast to the relative tranquility he had experienced in Wisbech at night. The bustling village seemed to come alive as the darkness deepened, its vibrancy echoing through the thin walls of the inn.

The occasional neigh of a restless horse, footsteps echoing in the corridor outside his room, and the vague sounds of mice scurrying in the walls disrupted his attempts at sleep.

Falling asleep is a skill, he thought ruefully. Unable to find solace in sleep amidst the clamor of Lutton Marsh, Marcellus finally surrendered to restlessness and rose from his bed. With a sigh, he made his way to seek refuge in the common area of the inn.

The atmosphere downstairs was no different from the village's bustling streets. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of ale and a chorus of conversations that mingled in the smoky haze. Patrons gathered around worn wooden tables, their voices competing with the clinking of tankards and occasional bursts of laughter.

Marcellus approached the bar, where the innkeeper stood, wiping down mugs with a well-worn cloth. He leaned on the counter, catching her attention.

"A drink, please," he said, dropping a copper on the bar.

She reached for a bottle and poured a generous amount of ale into a tankard, sliding it across the counter toward Marcellus.

"Drink up, lad. It’s my best brew."

Marcellus took a long sip, savoring the bitter taste that flooded his senses. The warmth of the ale seeped through him, offering a momentary respite from the noise and chaos surrounding him.

As he sat at the bar, he observed the patrons around him. Their conversations blended into an indistinct murmur, punctuated by the occasional raucous laughter. Some sought companionship, while others drowned their sorrows in the bottom of their mugs.

The drink fortified his weary mind, refreshing his candor amidst the tumult.

Marcellus suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of homesickness, the first night he was sleeping outside his home. He was besieged by a vague sense of sadness, unsure of its source. Despite the presence of a hundred people around him, he felt achingly alone, estranged from the essence of who he was.

Oh, how foolish I’ve been! he thought to himself. Here I am, a stranger in this wretched inn, far from the comfort of home. Is it too late to turn back?

I wish I were drunk—no, I wish I weren’t here at all.

I need to be more drunk or just disappear.

I’m surrounded by unfamiliar faces in a place that feels utterly alien.

The thought of sleep seems like a cruel joke, a teasing phantom just beyond my reach.

I long for the simple comfort of my own bed and the familiar darkness of my room.

I should have stayed home, tending to my cousins and enjoying tea by the fire. At least then, I wouldn’t be tormented by this overwhelming loneliness.

I feel like I shouldn't have made it this far. I'm ashamed to drink this way, embarrassed to even be alive.

He took another sip from his tankard, the bitter ale doing little to numb the ache in his heart. The din of the common room seemed to grow louder, mocking his misery with every clink of a mug and burst of raucous laughter.

Why did I think adventure would be so grand? he mused bitterly. The stories I heard—of heroism and glory—seem so distant now.

He stared at the flickering candle on the bar, its light casting long shadows across the room. This isn’t the life I imagined. I’ve traded the warmth of home for this cold, unwelcoming place. I thought I was stepping into a grand destiny, but now all I see is a narrow, dark path with no end in sight.

He glanced around at the other patrons, who seemed so at ease with their own troubles. They've all found their way in this world. I’m the outsider, adrift and lost.

Perhaps they sense my unease. Perhaps they’re laughing at me.

Perhaps I'm a failure. A complete and utter failure. I should have never left home. I should have stayed and hoped I'd get a fair trial. maybe she was right. I'm not cut out for this. I'm a coward. A weakling.