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The prow of the ship knifes through the mist, splitting it into ragged shreds that curl and dissolve into the churning sea. Brine clings to everything—skin, lungs, the damp wood beneath boots—and the air feels heavy, taut, like the stillness before someone screams. Captain Uxío Lema narrows his eyes at the horizon, where steep cliffs rise from the fog. Their slopes drip with green, and their shadows don’t shift beneath the overcast sky.
This isn’t where they were supposed to land.
Gartzen silently moves beside him, cautiously inspecting this new land. Captain Lema can sense his unease. It’s the same knot in his gut that tightened the moment they were pulled into those strange currents, like an invisible hand dragging them off course. They should’ve been sailing straight for Legido’s coast, months away. But after less than a month at sea, the ocean had changed beneath them. One moment the water was calm and blue, the next, the current shifted with a violent hunger, swallowing their route and spitting them toward this foreign shore.
The ship had bucked and groaned as jagged rocks scraped across its hull, cracking timbers with a sickening splinter. The rudder had snapped in the calamity, and the crew scrambled to pull the vessel free before the waves finished it off. Now the ship lists awkwardly in the shallows. Its wounded frame leans against the rocks like a soldier left behind in the field.
It doesn’t make sense. The journey to Legido was supposed to be straightforward: no strange tides, no storms. So how in the nine hells did they end up here?
“We’re lucky we didn’t sink,” Gartzen mutters beside him, wiping seawater from his beard with a swipe of his hand. “But the rudder’s done for. We’ll need materials if we’re going to patch her up.” He gestures toward the listing ship with a tilt of his chin.
It’s as if steam fumes from Captain Lema’s ears. There’s nothing he hates more than being at the mercy of unknown forces—whether they be strange currents or unfamiliar shores. But without a working ship, they’re stranded.
He squints at the dark shoreline, tension gathering between his shoulders. He feels there’s another looming problem: this place is too quiet.
“Any sign of life?” Lema asks, though the question feels like a whisper into the void. Gartzen shakes his head, but both men know better. There’s always someone watching.
Captain Lema grips the worn wood of the railing, the familiar grooves beneath his fingers grounding him. This is how it starts. You step onto unfamiliar shores, surrounded by a world you don’t understand, and everything feels calm enough—until it isn’t. You can sense it, that invisible line, the moment when curiosity curdles into danger, when the unknown turns sharp. One misstep, and you’ll be the one sprawled in the dirt, staring up at a sky you’ve never seen before, bleeding out from wounds you didn’t know were coming.
The ship drifts closer, and the hull groans with every lurch against the shallows. The shoreline sharpens into view—sparse beaches of wet stones and towering cliffs draped in blue-green foliage. The vegetation climbs like veins, strangling the rock. There’s something suffocating about the landscape, something unsettling, something signaling that this land is beyond hostile.
A flash of bronze catches Captain Lema’s eye.
Figures emerge from the tree line, moving deliberately, fluid as predators circling prey. They wear deep blue tunics with bronze adornments that glint under the pale sky, and their wickedly sharp spears catch the light. They move in formation, their expressions unreadable beneath masks carved from wood and painted with swirling patterns—herons with sharp beaks, crocodiles with jagged jaws, and barracudas with gaping maws full of teeth.
The water slaps against the hull. Captain Lema inspects the faces of the warriors on shore. Cold eyes. Firm grips. Not a hint of welcome.
Gartzen leans close. “We’re not exactly getting a warm reception.”
Captain Lema grunts. “I noticed.” He’s been here before—not here, but places like this within Legido. Territories where a handshake hides a knife, and words you don’t understand in the local dialect mean either “welcome” or “you’re about to die.” Gartzen’s observation, although obvious, is right: this is not a place for reckless moves. He knows better than to assume any measure of safety.
“Shall we announce ourselves, Captain?” Gartzen’s tone carries the hint of a smirk, but it’s the kind that means I’d rather not be the one to say hello first.
Captain Lema shifts his gaze from the warriors to the ship’s crew. The sailors look ready to jump out of their skins, fidgeting with ropes and oars, casting nervous glances toward the shore. No one will be calm until Lema makes the first move—and even then, calm is asking a lot.
“Lower the boat,” Captain Lema orders. His voice is calm, though his gut twists tighter with every word. The crew hesitates, just for a breath, before they obey.
The boat hits the water with a dull thud, and Lema steps into it, followed closely by Gartzen and two more of his most trusted men. The oars slice through the surf, propelling them toward the waiting warriors.
The figures on shore remain still, statuesque. They lower their spears, though they remain at the ready, eyes unblinking behind their carved masks. As Captain Lema approaches, one of them steps forward—a tall man, his bronze chest plate polished to a dull gleam. His spear taps once against the ground, a sound sharp enough to cut through the mist.
The language that spills from the man’s mouth is foreign, thick and fluid like the flow of river water over smooth stones. Though there’s something awe-inspiring about it—ceremonial, commanding, and wholly incomprehensible.
Captain Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen. “Any idea what he said?”
“Something about how they’re thrilled to have guests,” Gartzen replies dryly.
The warrior on shore tilts his head slightly, as if studying the intruders like birds might study prey—deciding whether to pounce or let them wriggle just a little longer. The oarsmen fumble, and the boat wobbles awkwardly as they try to steady it against the shifting tide. Captain Lema notices the way the warriors’ grips tighten on their spears at the motion. They don’t trust sudden movements. Neither would he.
The boat scrapes against the rocky beach, and Captain Lema steps out onto the wet stones with slow, deliberate steps. The tall warrior watches him closely, cautiously. Captain Lema raises both hands, palms open—no threat, no sudden moves.
“Tell them we mean no harm,” Captain Lema mutters to Gartzen, though both men know it doesn’t matter. The only thing that speaks in a place like this is strength and confidence.
Before Gartzen can translate the gesture—or fake it, more likely—the warrior barks another order. Spears raise in unison, pointed directly at Captain Lema and his men.
“Well,” Gartzen mutters, “this is going well.”
Captain Lema bites down a curse, keeping his expression neutral. He’s played this game before: one wrong word, one wrong step, and you end up gutted and left to rot beneath the trees. You can’t win these people over with charm; you survive by making them believe you’re not worth killing.
The tall warrior steps closer, peering through his mask, and Captain Lema can feel the cold scrutiny behind those carved eyes. The warrior says something else, sharp and impatient. Lema’s hand twitches toward his weapon, but he forces it to stay at his side. Not yet. Not unless you want this beach to be your grave.
“Now what?” Gartzen asks under his breath as he awaits Captain Lema’s cue.
Captain Lema smiles tightly. “We wait.”
What seems like years pass as the two sides stare at one another, unblinking. Eventually, the warrior steps back, lifts his spear, and gestures inland.
“Looks like they’re not killing us,” Gartzen mutters. “Not yet, anyway.”
The moment comes without warning. One gesture from the warrior clad in deep ocean blue, and the natives begin heading inland. Their movements are silent and precise, like a tide pulling away from the shore. Captain Lema and the others follow, though the shift from the familiar sands to the shadowed interior feels jarring, like stepping unprepared into another world. Lema’s jaw tightens. Every step into this land feels like sinking deeper into quicksand. You don’t fight it. You move slow, careful, and pray the ground doesn’t give way beneath your feet.
The trail winds through a dense tangle of moss and towering trees, their trunks thick as ship masts and draped in a lattice of lichen. The forest smells of wet stone, pine, and damp silt. Every step is muffled by the thick, springy undergrowth. Mist coils between the branches, snaking through the canopy like restless spirits. Strange birds flit through the treetops. Their calls are sharp and alien, echoing across the wilderness with a haunting beauty.
The further they travel, the more unsettling it becomes. Captain Lema’s crew marches in uneasy silence. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind feels like the prelude to an ambush. With an eerie calm, the warriors lead them, resting their spears comfortably against their shoulders. Not a word has been exchanged between them since leaving the shore—only silent gestures and the occasional harsh glance from their masked leader.
Captain Lema tugs at the collar of his shirt, feeling the humidity settle heavy on his skin. He catches Gartzen’s eye, who walks beside him with his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword. A silent exchange passes between them: Stay alert. This place isn’t what it seems. Gartzen has been his second-in-command long enough to sense trouble before it arrives, and Lema knows better than to ignore him.
This could be a trap, for all we know, he thinks. If this is a trap, it’s a well-disguised one. No signs of aggression from the warriors—just that same eerie, deliberate silence as they lead the crew deeper into the heart of the forest.
Gradually, the rainforest begins to thin, and signs of habitation appear along the winding path. First, small clusters of wooden longboats rest on the riverbank, with curved and sleek hulls that catch the captain’s attention. The only sound is the faint lap of water against the boats and the occasional shuffle of feet along the path. A handful of fishermen linger at the water’s edge. They pause mid-task as the outsiders pass, nets hanging from their hands as they watch on with half curiosity, half fear. Then, they hurriedly return to their work, as if hoping the strange visitors might disappear if ignored.
The path widens into a well-worn road, lined with colorful banners woven from fabric that ripples in the breeze. Beyond, the grand city reveals itself—a marvel nestled between the sea and the forest. Tiered stone terraces rise toward the sky, connected by narrow bridges arching over flowing canals. Structures with walls carved from wood and stone tower over bustling markets filled with vibrant produce and wares. The colors here are a feast for the senses—brilliant greens, deep blues, and warm oranges. Beautiful, Lema thinks for a moment, taking in the bounty of sights, smells, and sounds.
The city bustles with life, but the arrival of the strange outsiders disrupts the rhythm. Conversations stutter to silence as villagers turn to stare with rightfully wary expressions. Mothers pull their children closer. Shopkeepers pause, their hands hovering over displays of pottery and dried fish. Everyone fixes their eyes on the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and fear.
Gartzen leans toward Lema as they pass a particularly crowded market square, where even the vendors have stopped haggling to gape at the newcomers. “Feels like they’ve never seen the likes of us before,” he mutters. His head is on a swivel, continuously searching the crowd for any signs of danger.
Captain Lema gives a curt nod. “I suppose they’re trying to figure out what we are.” Invaders or guests. Friends or enemies. He can’t blame them. Put in their position, how would he feel about seeing such a sight? He wouldn’t fare much better, he’s certain.
The group reaches a broad avenue leading to the heart of the city. Ahead, a towering structure rises above the rest—a citadel carved from the bones of the land itself, with walls that shimmer faintly beneath the overcast sky. Balconies jut out from its heights, draped with intricate banners in more of the deep blue that flutter like sails in the breeze. A palace, perhaps? Or maybe a fortress?
At the foot of the citadel, the masked warriors finally halt, gesturing for the crew to do the same. Lema’s heart races as the large doors begin to creak open, revealing an interior courtyard filled with yet more warriors. He knows to exercise caution at a time like this. One wrong move, he thinks to himself, not daring to finish the expression out of a superstitious fear.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
No one speaks as they’re led through the halls of the citadel, where the scent of woodsmoke and salt lingers. At the far end of the hall, seated on a carved wooden throne, sits the person who can only be the ruler of this place.
Lema studies him from across the room. A young man, barely into adulthood, draped in a flowing cape too large for his thin frame. The hem trails down the steps of the dais like an ocean wave pulling against the shore. His deep blue robe is trimmed with bronze thread, embroidered with some kind of sigil appearing to be a sea serpent in teal. It coils and twists around his torso as if it were strangling him, rather than embracing him. Heavy bronze bracelets dangle from his wrists, too loose for his slender arms, and a necklace rests awkwardly against his collarbone, as if it weighs more than he’s prepared to carry.
His posture is stiff, and it’s evident that he is frequently reminding himself to straighten his back. There’s an awkwardness in the way his cape keeps slipping off one shoulder, forcing him to adjust it with small, frustrated movements. His jittery gaze sweeps across the room, and he frequently lifts his chin as if daring anyone to challenge his authority.
Neither Captain Lema nor Gartzen speaks as the young ruler surveys them. He presses his lips tightly together, and his eyes dart briefly to his attendants before settling on the newcomers. He watches them closely, fingers drumming nervously on the armrest of his throne.
The silence stretches. It’s clear no one knows quite what to do. Who speaks first? What do you say? Captain Lema fears that any gesture he makes could be mistaken for a threat, and that would be the end of that. Finally, mercifully, the young man clears his throat, before speaking in a language Lema does not recognize—the same as the warriors who escorted them to this place. The words are sharp and clipped, but Captain Lema catches a repeated phrase, one that sounds like… Sanko?
There’s a pause. Gartzen frowns, mouthing the word quietly. “Sanko,” he murmurs again, tasting the unfamiliar syllables as if trying them on for size. Is this a greeting? A warning? Surely, it has some importance.
“Sanko,” Lema repeats, louder this time, eyes locked on the young ruler. The room stills as the word seems to hang in the air between them.
The exchange of glances stretches into more uncomfortable silence. Captain Lema glances at Gartzen, who returns the look with the same silent question: What now? The young ruler sits stiffly on the throne, his dark eyes watching the crew with cautious curiosity. Then, as if deciding it’s necessary to break the tension, the young man raises a hand to his chest and taps it once.
“Pahua,” he says, the name—or perhaps a title—falling flat in the still air.
Lema narrows his eyes. Pahoowa. The unfamiliar syllables are strange on the ear. Gartzen tilts his head, mouthing the word silently before offering Lema a skeptical glance.
“Pahoowa,” Gartzen mutters under his breath. “What do you think—his name? His title? What if it means ‘lord’? Or ‘king’?”
“Or it means nothing at all,” Lema contemplates. He watches the young man—Pahoowa?—closely, waiting for another gesture, another sign that will make sense of the encounter.
The young ruler taps his chest again, slower this time, as if explaining to children. “Pahua.”
Lema finally nods. “Pahoowa.”
The young man’s tense expression softens ever so slightly. It’s a start, at least.
Though they still don’t know what exactly any of it means, something shifts in the room. A glimmer of understanding, tenuous as it is. A connection. No matter what, they don’t need to understand each other to realize that neither side can afford a conflict. Not now.
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The days blur together after that. A steady rain coats the forest, leaving the air thick with mist and the ground slick beneath their boots. Time stretches thin, shapeless. Only the shift from gray dawn to dusk marks its passing. No stars pierce the constant overcast sky, and without the familiar markers of their homeland’s constellations, Captain Lema feels untethered, unmoored by anything resembling certainty.
The presence of the ruler—this ‘Pahoowa’—lingers in the background. He appears occasionally, mostly in silence, watching the Legido crew as they move about their camp. The people—the Sanko?—seem cautious but curious, keeping a polite distance as they go about their routines. Meanwhile, the Legido crew stays alert, wary of every sound that carries through the dense forest or drifts from the shoreline.
What little communication they’ve managed has been clumsy at best. Words exchanged, gestures half-understood. Gartzen has learned a few words from the villagers. Basic things—water, food, gestures toward peace. Lema picks up on them too, though his patience frays with every passing day. He needs answers. More than that, he needs his ship repaired, and to get back on course.
Captain Lema lingers near the edges of the village whenever he can, pretending to watch the fishermen haul in nets brimming with strange, glittering fish. But it’s not the sea he’s worried about—it’s the sands of time trickling away silently in his head. Every breath feels like a wasted moment, every glance at the horizon a reminder of how far from Legido they are. Supplies. Instructions. Reports to the Great Xiatli. His incomplete mission sits like a stone on his chest.
And now they’re here, marooned in this strange land with no sense of time and no clear way forward. Ever the pragmatist, Gartzen will occasionally remind Lema that they need to focus on survival. “We’re no use to the Great Xiatli if we don’t make it back alive.” Lema knows he’s right, but this does little to ease the knot twisting in his gut.
“Legido?” Lema asks Pahua one afternoon while the ruler looks on at their camp. He says the word, points at himself, then to the horizon. It’s the first time he’s used their name—his people’s name—in front of Pahua. He looks the leader directly in the eye, hoping to make his meaning clear. We need to repair my ship. We need to leave. The young ruler stands in his long, flowing cape of deep blue and bronze, watching the crew like a hawk. His fingers twitch slightly at the word, but his face remains unreadable. Does he understand?
“Lekito,” Pahua repeats, his tone more certain now, as though practicing the sound for his own understanding. His anticipatory gaze lingers on Lema.
“Legido,” Gartzen mutters again under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He spares Lema a sidelong glance, his frustration thinly veiled. “Does it matter if he gets it wrong?”
Lema frowns, but doesn’t answer. Pahua taps his chest again. “Lehito.”
Gartzen exhales sharply through his nose. “Close enough, I suppose,” he says dryly. “At least he’s trying.”
Pahua speaks quickly and deliberately in response, as if each word could be the last word Lema ever hears. Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen, who shrugs.
We don’t have time for this, Captain Lema thinks to himself. How much longer until the ship is seaworthy again? The Great Xiatli waits. And while Gartzen might not feel the urgency as heavily as Lema does, it’s there. A quiet pressure building in the back of Captain Lema’s mind, like the storm clouds that gather on the horizon. He’s running out of time.
He runs a hand over his face, wiping away the moisture that clings to his skin in this ever-damp air. “We need to find a way off this stinking island,” he mumbles, more to himself than to Gartzen. He’s barely seen the sun since they landed here. It’s as though the clouds themselves are conspiring to keep them trapped.
Gartzen clears his throat. “That hull isn’t taking us far. We’d sink before we cleared the reefs.”
Captain Lema turns to him, scowling. “I thought you said it wasn’t that bad.”
“I said it’s fixable. If we get the right materials.” Gartzen folds his arms, glancing toward the shoreline where their ship rests awkwardly against the rocks, listing to one side. “Rudder’s cracked. Lost some planks along the hull. And we’re running low on pitch.”
Lema exhales through his nose. He’s painfully aware of what Gartzen isn’t saying. We can’t leave until this is fixed. And they don’t have the tools or resources to do it all themselves.
Gartzen leans closer, lowering his voice. “We’re going to need their help, Captain. Whether we like it or not.”
As though he’s unaware of the exchange between Captain Lema and Gartzen, Pahua speaks again—just one word, short and sharp: Sanqo. He gestures to himself, the land, and his people. There’s that word again.
“Sanko,” Lema repeats. His brow furrows. So this is the name of the land? Or is it a title? A kingdom? There’s no telling for sure, but at least there’s some kind of understanding between the two sides developing.
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By now, Uxío has lost count of the days. He paces the length of the temporary shelter they’ve been offered. Pahua’s presence is everywhere. His influence gradually grows within the village. The power he exerts over his people is undeniable, even though Lema can see it’s fragile, as if the cracks are ready to split open beneath the surface at any moment. Pahua demands respect, expects loyalty. But as Lema has begun to adjust to this island and its people, he quickly recognizes that none of this was earned.
It’s during one of these restless days that Pahua approaches Captain Lema and Gartzen again. There’s something different this time—a purpose in his stride. He carries with him a rolled-up piece of hide, intricately marked with symbols that neither Lema nor Gartzen can make sense of. He unfurls it before them, laying it out on the makeshift wooden table made from driftwood in front of them with a thud.
The symbols seem to dance on the hide, but Captain Lema can’t read a single one of them. What are they supposed to represent? Buildings? Mountains? Villages? They might as well be some ancient runes from a world far removed from Legido.
Pahua speaks again, pointing to the hide, then back to himself. His words are flowing now, but their meaning is lost to Lema. Only the tone is clear—serious, grave, and filled with desperation. Gartzen frowns as he leans closer, tracing a finger along the edge of the hide.
Lema watches Pahua’s expression closely. There’s something at play here—a bargain. The Sanko ruler needs something, that much is obvious, Lema thinks. But what he’s asking in return—Lema isn’t sure yet.
“This might be some kind of map,” Gartzen posits, “judging by some of these shapes. But what is he getting at here?”
Pahua’s hand hovers over the ‘map’. He assertively taps one area, just beyond what could be assumed to be their immediate location—closer to the coast but in territory unfamiliar to Lema.
“What’s he saying?” Captain Lema asks exasperatedly.
Gartzen shakes his head, still puzzled. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I think he wants us to go there.”
Lema straightens as a spark of understanding flashes in his mind. This is the bargain. ‘Pahoowa’ wants something—an expedition, a raid, maybe even a show of force. In exchange, perhaps they’ll earn the cooperation they need to repair the ship and finally depart this island.
Eventually, Pahua leaves Captain Lema to sit alone at the makeshift table, who absentmindedly spins a brass compass between his fingers. The needle stutters and shivers, like it’s uncertain which way to point. Across the camp, the forest breathes in the late afternoon, a strange mixture of mist and rain clinging to the air. The ocean crashes rhythmically somewhere beyond the treetops, and he finds its call almost comforting—almost.
Close by, Gartzen leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, his ever-watchful gaze fixed on the Sanqo figures moving quietly through the edge of village. Their bronze-and-blue tunics shimmer in the dimming light, but there’s an odd stiffness in their movements.
“There’s something going on in this place,” Gartzen mutters, just loud enough for Lema to hear. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”
Captain Lema doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze drifts to the young ruler standing at the far edge of the camp. He’s cloaked in his elaborate cape, looking every bit the uncertain monarch trying to play the part of something greater than he is. He stands among a cluster of older men—Sanko nobles, Lema judges by their heavy jewelry and stern expressions. Their conversation seems cordial at first, but Lema catches the touch of tension in the way one man gestures, how the young ruler’s jaw tightens just slightly before he forces a smile.
“It doesn’t matter what’s going on,” Lema says quietly. “What matters is how we get them to help us leave.”
Gartzen glances at him from the corner of his eye, brow furrowed. “This isn’t our game to play. We meddle in their politics, and it’ll blow up in our faces. We’re here for supplies and safe passage, nothing more.”
Lema flicks the compass lid shut with a snap, frustration simmering beneath his calm demeanor. Nothing more? No. They needed this. The ship stranded, the mission incomplete, the Great Xiatli waiting—waiting for a report, for success, for proof that Captain Lema isn’t another failure in a string of disappointments. He couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not ever.
“Of course. You’re right,” Lema says softly, but the words feel like a lie, even to him. Because if there’s an opportunity here, he needs to take it—before the sands of time run out completely.
Later that evening, the fires crackle low as the village settles into uneasy silence. Captain Lema watches from the shadows as Pahua paces at the edge of the central clearing, his grand cape dragging in the dirt. The nobles are gone now, but it’s evident their exchange still weighs heavily on the young ruler’s mind.
Lema steps closer, just out of sight, watching the Sanqo leader mutter to himself, gripping his arms tightly. Gartzen had called it right: Pahua’s confidence is a brittle shell, one that’s already beginning to strain under the pressure. The burden of a throne that teeters beneath him.
Before Lema can retreat, Pahua spots him. Their eyes lock, and he strides toward him with purpose. In his hands, he rolls a piece of hide, the same one from before. He unfurls it on the nearest flat surface with an almost frantic energy, jabbing a finger at one particular spot.
“Sanqo,” Pahua says, sharp and urgently. He gestures to the map, to the place marked near the coast. Then he taps his chest, eyes wide and imploring.
Captain Lema exchanges a glance with Gartzen, who steps forward cautiously, arms still crossed. “What is he even asking for?” Gartzen wonders under his breath.
Pahua points to the mark on the map again, then toward the forest as if the answer lies somewhere in the wilderness. He’s visibly agitated, shifting from foot to foot, hands twitching at his sides.
“This boy’s hanging by a thread,” Gartzen whispers.
Captain Lema stares at the map, then at the young ruler’s wild eyes. It’s more than desperation—it’s fear. A dangerous kind of fear. It’s the kind that makes people do reckless things. ‘Pahoowa’ is afraid of losing something. Perhaps it’s not just his throne, but his grasp on power entirely.
Lema clears his throat. “What do you want from us, Pahoowa?” he asks slowly and carefully, though he knows the young ruler won’t understand the words. He taps the map, then points at himself. “What is it you are asking?”
Pahua stares at them, his lips parting slightly as if trying to form the right words, but nothing comes. Instead, he clenches his jaw and takes a slow, deliberate step forward. His hands twitch at his sides, uncertain. Then, with a sharp exhale, he drops to one knee, head bowed, pressing a fist over his heart and lowering his gaze.
The space falls into an uncomfortable stillness, and Gartzen shifts beside Captain Lema. “What in the nine hells is he doing?” Gartzen mutters in astonishment.
Lema’s stomach knots at the sight. The gesture is clear—an unspoken plea for assistance. He kneels as if this is the only option left to him.
Captain Lema finally understands. The cracks in the boy’s rule are deeper than he thought. His people are turning against him, and he’s looking to the Legido for salvation. This is not a king securing an alliance; this is a drowning man reaching for anything that might keep him afloat.
“We’re in deep now, Captain,” Gartzen says quietly, resigned.
Lema doesn’t respond. He knows Gartzen’s right. There’s no clean way out of this. Not without getting their hands dirty. Not without consequences.
Pahua slowly raises his head, and his dark eyes meet Captain Lema’s. He taps his chest once, then gestures outward—first to his people, then to the horizon, and finally back to the map. The meaning is apparent: Aid me, and this will be yours to navigate.
They sit in silence for a moment while Captain Lema contemplates. He presses a hand to his temple, trying to piece together what they can do, what they should do.
But then, from across the clearing, a sudden commotion erupts. Voices rise in anger, and Captain Lema sees the Sanqo nobles gathered in heated discussion once more. One of them points directly at Pahua and Captain Lema, shouting something that makes the young ruler flinch as if struck.
Pahua turns to Captain Lema and Gartzen, desperation written across his face. Captain Lema realizes the truth. They’re not just caught in someone else’s storm—they’ve become part of it.