Varro couldn’t stand boats.

Terrible, rickety things that never stood still even while anchored. Some of the sailors said they found the motion soothing.

All Varro got from it was seasickness.

The creeks and groans of old boards straining to keep the ship together filled his ears, not quite managing to drown out the sound of lapping waves.

His distaste for boats was unfortunate since there was no other way to reach Malabor’s domain.

He stretched, his muscles groaning at the motion.

Well, Varro just had to suck it up. The sailors hadn’t thrown him out when they saw him, and no one on board had said anything too nasty. Compared to some parts of the world, that was downright holy treatment of a goblin.

He scratched a pointed ear and then climbed from his hammock.

He hung for a second before dropping the foot to the ground.

The hammock would have been fine for a human, but at a few hairs under 4 feet, Varro wasn’t exactly sized for big folk furniture.

He shook his head, his long curtain of black hair swaying with the motion.

The ship swayed, Varro stumbled, and a patch of said hair promptly fell into his mouth.

He spat it out, then fished in his pocket for a tie.

“Stupid boats,” he grumbled. “Stupid waves and moving and-“ the ship swayed again, and his stomach turned.

He took a deep breath.

He’d be fine. A bit of nausea was well worth the prize.

He stumbled his way onto the ship's deck. The salty smell of the ocean mixed with dozens of people's soap and sweat filled his nose.

Overhead sailors called to each other, constantly working to keep the ship moving.

A drifter nudged a nearby bundle of ropes with his foot, misty white light flowing out of him as he did.

As the ship rocked, the ropes bounced, floating into the air.

Another sailor rushed by, waving his hand as he passed. The wind stirred, gathering around the ropes and guiding them to two men on the rigging.

Wind caller. There were a lot of those on boats for rather self-obvious reasons.

More acts of magic sprouted up all around the ship, from tasks as complicated as manipulating the wind to speed their journey to that drifter using his gift on some boxes to make carrying them more manageable.

Varro’s stomach fluttered with excitement.

Soon.

He pushed forward, ignoring the looks some of the passengers shot him.

You could tell a lot about where someone was from by how they looked at a goblin.

Those from the Empire proper didn’t spare him a second glance. He was just another citizen. If the person was from around The Wall, then as a swamp goblin, he might receive a nod or even salute or a friendly jibe from the more traditional.

The Duntarins looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and friendliness.

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Swamp goblins were welcomed on their island, but few preferred the weather in Duntara.

And lastly, those from the Splinter kingdoms looked at him with barely disguised disgust.

He ignored them. He had no desire for conflict, and even if he did, what was he supposed to do? It would be like a human child picking a fight with a grown adult.

He wobbled over the deck, the clamor of conversations a welcome distraction from the ship's groans.

He reached the railing and found an errant box to stand on, letting him peer into the ocean and to their goal.

Malabor’s Rest, The Mad Gods Prison, The Tower of Shifting Seas, The Empires Crocked Pinky Toe.

The Water Tower had many names, but even the more grandiose ones didn’t do it justice.

The massive wall of shifting blues stretched miles into the clouds as if it were a pillar for the sky itself.

The ship was miles out, but the god tower still filled a massive swath of the horizon.

An impossible structure that hurt to comprehend.

“Just how big is that thing?” The man standing next to him asked, his voice a hushed whisper.

Varro glanced at him for a brief moment before looking back, unable to keep his eyes off the tower for long.

The man was tall and pale-skinned, with soft features marred slightly by a scar across his brow.

He wore black robes made from fine linens that rustled in the cool breeze. And despite looking to be in his early twenties, his long hair was iron grey.

A Grey Mane.

“Over a mile around,” Varro said, his own voice low. “But it’s even bigger on the inside.”

The man let out a low whistle. “Magic. It never ceases to amaze.”

Varro shook his head. No, it did not.

Magic was- it was fascinating. It allowed countless wonders to exist; it let men and women become something more.

And it was going to be Varro’s ticket out.

He stared at the impossible structure looming before them, the very clouds breaking around its face.

It would grant him a new life, assuming it didn’t take his current one first.

“Why do you think they do it?”

Varro looked at the Grey Mane. “What?”

“The empire. Why do they let us receive gifts here?”

Varro scratched his chin. Some of the older goblins could grow fine beards. Unfortunately, Varro wasn’t among them.

“Legal loophole. That’s the theory that makes the most sense to me.”

“Oh?”

Varro nodded. “No one goes to Malabor’s Tower if they have other options. The empire has barred the other towers for whatever reason. Maybe you have a criminal record, or some lordling has a grudge against your family, or whatever. Either way, you're out of options, or you're crazy.”

Varro ran his hand along the railing. Despite the ship's constant moaning, it was well cared for. There wasn’t a splinter in sight, and he could see a hint of his reflection in the wood.

“Whatever our situation is, we haven’t done something bad enough to be barred from receiving a gift altogether, but someone would prefer we didn’t get one. So this is the compromise.”

The Grey Mane chuckled. “The risk.”

Varro nodded. “Several times worse than all the others combined.”

None of the god towers were precisely safe, but a gifting was. Except for Malabor’s. Plenty of hopeful fools never returned for the Water Tower, and some of those who did came out maimed.

And there was no planning for it either. Every time you stepped into the tower, it would be unique, to some extent—the journey warped by the mad god's whims.

Varro’s gut clenched at the thought. Or maybe it was sea sickness. Hard to tell, really.

He continued. “They can’t track all the gifted closely. Not with it being an imperial right. But that’s not the case for those of us going to the Mad God’s Domain. They’ll watch us like hawks.”

He paused, the words sticking in his throat.

“If we survive,” the Grey Mane finished for him.

Varro nodded as his stomach turned again. Not sea sickness, then.

“I didn’t catch your name,” The Grey Mane said.

“Varro.”

The man arched a brow. “No last name?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “I am Jalok Bayedge.”

Varro cocked his head. “Bayedge?”

“Bay-edge,” Jalok annunciated.

Varro fully tore his gaze from the tower. “I don’t know a whole lot about Grey Manes. How do your last names work, if you don’t mind sharing?”

Jalok laughed. “Of course not. I’m not one to begrudge a man for curiosity.”

He gestured to himself. “Our last names are rather simple. The first part is the general region, so ‘bay’ in my case. And the second part is more specific. It could be as narrow as moons-sliver if a family lives in a valley that only ever sees a speck of the moon. Or with my name, well, a bay’s edge.”

He turned a curious gaze to Varro. “How do swamp goblins do it?”

The ocean breeze soured on Varro’s tongue, and his grip tightened on the railing.

“Deeds.”

He left it at that, and after a few seconds, Jalok nodded.

“Prepare for landfall!” The captain yelled.

Varro looked up. The tower was close now, the wind callers' efforts carrying them to the tower at a fast clip.

Varro swallowed as that wind caressed his skin. It wouldn’t be long now.

As he stared at the tower, its shifting blue depths filling his view and the sound of the crashing waves in his ears, he felt an uneasy calm settle over him.

Soon, he’d have magic. He’d have a future. He swallowed again, his throat suddenly dry.

Or he’d die trying.