As the procession moved down the grand hall, Borrosil's gaze was drawn to the tapestries adorning the walls, each one a vivid depiction of Koleson's conquest of the region.

One tapestry in particular captivated him: woven with crystal threads that shimmered in the light, it portrayed Koleson summoning a torrential downpour that drowned an entire kingdom. Being a warrior himself, Borrosil had grown up on tales of the Rekindled Age—a time long after the Emperor's initial crusade, yet one that reignited its fervor.

Those were the centuries following the Void Wars, when humanity eradicated the lingering strongholds of the Old Age.

Though Borrosil was the son of a lord from a higher realm and shared many of his peers' prejudices toward the noble houses of the lower realm, even he couldn't deny the power and nobility evident in the feats of the Whydits.

They soon arrived at the main hall, where the rest of the Lords of Kerrasuk awaited. The hall was awash in shades of light blue, lending it an ethereal ambiance. At its center floated two Meerlins—sleek, elongated creatures with shimmering golden and purple scales, their bodies a harmonious blend of grace and power.

They swam gracefully around each other, their fins trailing like delicate silken ribbons. Above them hovered a pale blue orb, casting a gentle glow over the scene. Encircling the room stood the Guards of the Trenches, clad in deep blue armor and wielding formidable tridents. They stood at rigid attention, embodying discipline and strength.

Amidst the delegates were representatives of other houses sworn to House Blackthorn. Jerron Tidebreaker of House Tidebreaker was deep in conversation with Lady Spirora Storrich of House Storrich.

The ruler of the rough seas, whose family was renowned for producing the toughest sailors, speaking with the Stormwatcher herself presented a striking image to young Borrosil. They appeared hardened and rugged; he was tempted to liken them to thugs, yet in truth, they resembled the imperial soldiers who fought in the trenches of the Corrupted Lands.

Lord Ellona Seabright of House Seabright—the sole member of this southern contingent whose ancestry didn't fully trace back to the region—was engaged in animated discussion with market speculators near the center of the room.

Upon spotting the Blackthorns, he waved jovially and made his way toward them. Observing the man, Borrosil noted that, unlike most people here who bore the weathered look of those accustomed to standing in sand and sun all day, Lord Ellona actually resembled a dignitary of noble stock.

This should have elated Borrosil, but Lord Ellona was the only one among the eastern-southern lords who didn't appear to have seen battle. His eyes were soft, his movements delicate. He comported himself according to the rules of high society, and judging by his young age, he should have been Borrosil's peer and refuge in this otherwise foreign place.

Yet, when the man attempted to strike up a conversation, Borrosil found himself looking elsewhere.

His gaze settled on another of the minor nobles: Lady Kelsorren of House Blackweave, seated while her daughter stood vigilantly beside her. They were hard to miss, standing alone with their ominous house crest—an upside-down lighthouse—emblazoned on their woven fiber attire.

They seemed even more foreign. If House Storrich watched for the contaminated storms, House Blackweave watched for the corrupted sea creatures lurking beneath the waves, hunting any they encountered. Their strangeness and solitude only added to the peculiarity of a place that already felt alien to Borrosil.

In a family that primarily hunts specific sea beasts, the choice of weapons and tools depends greatly on the circumstances. The Whydits, like most families in the southern region, had the customs of hunters deeply woven into their cultural tapestry.

The reel and needle, the fisher culture—which is, in all but name, a hunting culture—the constant motifs of beasts, all persisted even when they were supposed to be in the Age of Man, or at least heading there.

To Borrosil and many others from distant places, the region reeked of hunter customs. And that was without considering the beast worship and the presence of what he considered filthy humanoid races.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

To him, this whole region was a stew containing the dregs of a bygone era that the Empire desired to eradicate. Most noble houses—or people, in fact—in the region didn't appropriate the hunter regalia; instead, they wore simple fiber cloth suitable for the weather.

But Borrosil was educated enough to know that the fibers they wore allowed for ease of drying once one had ventured underwater.

House Blackweave, however, donned the full hunter regalia. Over their fiber clothes, they wore cloaks lined with cascading fish scales, each scale emitting a luminescent color designed not only to cloak them underwater but also to make them visible when needed. To hunt fish is to be both visible and invisible, after all.

Their gloves were webbed, and beneath their garments, they wore a thin undergarment called the "reefer," which absorbed breathable air from the water and infused it into their bodies.

Complementing this were the opal goggles resting above their foreheads and the great needle leaning against the wall behind them, a silver thread spooling around it. They embraced the concept fully.

This should have repelled Borrosil, yet he found himself oddly drawn to them. Before long, he found himself standing right beside them. Upon noticing his presence, Lady Kelsorren rose to her feet and greeted the young lord with a firm, respectful bow.

Her daughter followed suit. Borrosil lingered on this gesture. Minor nobles and common folk usually bowed in one way or another—or, more accurately, they often didn't. When they did, it was typically with a mocking or sneering edge, or they would do so pathetically, without grace or honor—practically groveling.

The Blackweaves' bow was direct, full of respect—for both him and themselves. They recognized their rank as his subordinates and bore no ill will toward that fate, yet they carried themselves with the dignity befitting those who bear a noble name and serve as vassals to a lord of a higher realm. Borrosil found himself bowing back—something he didn't normally do.

Deciding to initiate the conversation, he pointed subtly to the scar on the right side of Lady Kelsorren's chin. She touched the mark with her gloved fingers, a glint of recognition in her eyes.

"Aye," she said, her voice steady. "I earned this scar forty years ago while hunting a Corrupted, my lord."

A slight smile played on her lips. "The wicked creature was fast, but I was younger then—faster than it was."

Borrosil pulled back his sleeve, revealing a scar that ran from his elbow down to the base of his palm. "I got this one in the Scorchlands," he said. "A nimble beast—or was it human? It's hard to tell with those things. Like yours, mine was fast. It didn't swim, but it had wings."

She gently took his arm, examining the scar closely. Her touch startled Borrosil; he wasn't accustomed to such familiarity. "Bet you wish it was bigger, eh?" she said with a knowing grin.

He was momentarily taken aback by her candidness but couldn't help but smile. "As a matter of fact, I do," he admitted.

"Then take it from me, my lord," Kelsorren said, her tone turning earnest. "I once wished the same. People never seem to respect the small scars. They call them marks of luck, see them as mere grazes from trifling encounters."

"But they don't know the battles we've fought," Borrosil replied, his eyes meeting hers. "The dangers we've faced."

"Exactly." She nodded appreciatively. "A small scar doesn't diminish the courage it took to earn it."

He felt a kinship forming, a shared understanding that transcended rank and realm. "Sometimes, I think the smaller the scar, the greater the story," he mused.

A spark lit in her eyes. "Well said, my lord. They see your little scars and think little of your fight—your effort, your courage, your fear. Worse, they look down on your comrades. But we know what we've faced."

She touched her scar again. "As I've grown older, I've come to love this mark. I fought that beast myself. It was larger than two of the biggest sailboats, yet I struck it down with a needle.

The damn thing took down seven sails, two hundred and fifty men—with ease—and it barely left me with a scratch."

He could almost envision it: Lady Kelsorren battling the corrupted sea beast, facing the dreaded monster amid the death and chaos it had wrought upon stronger men.

"They must have dismissed your story as a fable," he said.

She laughed softly. "Oh, many did. Let them think what they will. The truth doesn't require their belief."

Borrosil nodded, a newfound respect swelling within him. "You're a fighter, I can tell," she continued. "A young lord with many battles ahead. I pray you only collect little scars in all your journeys."

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "I appreciate that."

Just then, a chime echoed through the hall, signaling the commencement of the council meeting. Lady Kelsorren inclined her head. "Seems it's time," she said. "Perhaps we'll speak again."

"I'd like that," Borrosil replied.

Her daughter, whom he now noticed was a youthful reflection of her mother and quite pleasing to the eye, offered a gentle curtsy. "It was an honor to meet you, my lord," she said softly.

They both took their leave, leaving Borrosil standing there, contemplating the unexpected encounter.

He hadn't wanted to be among the lords of men, surrounded by fishers and squabbling minor nobles. He had been away from the Scorchlands for six months now and found himself eminently uninterested in almost anything.

When his father had offered to bring him to the procession, he had asked what use it would be for him to be there. He believed it would be more of the uninteresting drab, only this time with lowborns and fishers.

Perhaps he had been wrong. Maybe his visit here could actually yield something interesting.

"Borrosil!" his father called out from afar.

He turned and began making his way toward him.