The creaking of the ship’s hull lent an ominous tone to the midnight affair, wrapped in unnatural darkness and sequestered from the world. The lantern swaying in his hand cast a dim light across the deck, swallowed by the shadows lingering just out of reach. They were to be permitted a minimal amount of illumination, so as to complete their tasks to a satisfactory degree, but no more than that. Whatever luxuries they might have to sacrifice, the success of the mission took absolute precedence.

He scurried over pristine wood, meticulously oiled and protected from the elements so as to avoid compromising the integrity of the masterwork. The floor did not groan, nor creak, nor produce any of the various sounds and oddities one might usually encounter in this ship’s mundane cousins. No, to project anything other than total silence would speak to a flaw in its construction, no matter how minor. The Lord of Setzier did not tolerate flaws in his belongings.

In the distance, across the roiling waves that battered the coast of the plundered town, brave men and women prepared for the coming days’ trials. They kept their campfires low, conversations brief, and worked tirelessly in building the fortifications, equipment and terrain advantages that would be needed to see their mission to completion. He spared a momentary thought for their dedication to the Crown, offering a passing prayer to His Holiness, before returning his full attention to the task at hand. They had their work; and he, his.

His path saw him pass close to several of the vessel’s crew, as dedicated and committed to their task as any member of the Ebon Fleet would expect. Theirs was no simple commission, no easy galley command to permit for ease of conversation and the occasional bit of revelry. Every one of them were handpicked veterans of the wider fleet, their competency and silence a matter of certainty. There was to be no conversation on the deck of the Duskdrift.

He approached the door to the Captain’s Quarters with growing trepidation, once more shooting a glance toward the coastline. Their mission would come at great expense, and even the slightest failure possessed the risk of sinking their efforts; a fact of little consequence to him personally, to be sure, were it not the type of misstep that would see his head on the block. He, too, had been specially selected for this endeavour. It was a noose around his neck, one tug from closing, but equally a window into a world which would otherwise forever bar his access. Taking a moment to compose himself, adjusting his clothing to be properly presentable, he tapped on the door with the knuckle of his index finger three times.

“Enter.” A voice commanded from within, softly spoken but with such authority in the overwhelming silence as to be deafening regardless. He turned the handle and stepped into the room.

The captain’s quarters were sparsely furnished, with little attention paid toward the effulgent trinkets and baubles that one would expect from an individual as wealthy as his employer. The walls were unadorned with the exception of a lonely painting, which he identified as the masterwork Carpe Omnia, one of the few remaining pieces hand-painted by the eldest brother Solomon. A loving and thoroughly detailed map of the continent, replete with artistic details such as a depiction of the Occamia Ocean’s legendary Krelitisk. It was a treasure worthy of a ship in its own right. Aside from the painting, the room was occupied with little more than a sturdy wooden desk, a set of bookshelves, and a handful of chairs built for function over form. He spied a small door in the rear that he suspected would lead to the sleeping quarters, and tore his attention away from his instinctive inspection. It wouldn’t do to appear overly curious.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A man sat at the head of the desk, foregoing the customary silks and velvets of the Court, though smartly-dressed all the same. He wore the tailored uniform well, a deep garnet in hue with intricate gold detailing flowing across the torso, flowing into the sigil of the Solomon Theocracy above the right breast. Gilded epaulettes sat atop a pair of broad shoulders, lending a greater aura of authority to the bearded man before him. A silly thought, he recognised. No uniform could ever convey the level of authority afforded to this man by the glimmering ruby-coloured metal plate that hung around his neck.

The Lord turned his eyes from the complex diagram before him for a singular moment, glancing up at the visitor’s face before returning his attention to the work. After almost a full minute of careful review, a single line was drawn atop the diagram, though what it was intended to depict was invisible to him from this angle, and not his business besides. He would wait.

“Report,” the Lord instructed, a deep baritone possessing a natural gravitas.

“My Lord,” he acknowledged, bowing low so as to avoid offence. Then, placing the lantern on the floor, he stepped over to the desk and bowed again at the waist, presenting the offering with both hands. A large sheet of vellum, rolled up and tied with a simple piece of twine. It didn’t feel nearly ornate enough to be something the Lord would be concerned with, but then, that wasn’t the point of the document at all.

“This is it?” The Lord enquired, raising a singular dark eyebrow.

“Yes, my Lord,” he replied. “Apologies, my Lord, for it was hidden beneath a floorboard in a small workshop, and disguised nonetheless. I have verified the contents myself, of course, and all signs indicate that it is a genuine article.”

The Lord of Setzia muttered a few words that he was unable to parse, then accepted the offering, untying the knot and rolling the document out before him. He maintained his bow, of course. No true devotee of the Theocracy would commit such a simple slip of etiquette, despite the discomfort. As if reading his thoughts, he caught his Lord’s gesture for him to rise, and did so - standing to attention.

“Hidden in a tiny town like this.” The Lord muttered. “I do wonder what he was thinking. Though, it’s not entirely out of character…”

Shaking his head, the Lord examined the document for a moment, running a finger along the etchings in the vellum. “You have served me well, Merius of Setzia. I would have you serve more, still. What can you tell me about this piece?”

Merius performed a half-bow with a hand behind his back this time, the appropriate etiquette to display gratitude at the completion of an expected task, performed only as a half-bow out of respect for the time of a social superior demanding active participation in a task. He straightened again and recalled what glimmers of insight he had been able to source from the document in the short time it had been in his possession.

“It is written in an ancient language, though one which largely shares the lettering of our own. My translation efforts are in the early stages, and so I have only identified a small shard of the meaning, but I believe this is the document you seek for one simple reason.”

At this, Merius used his gloved finger to point at the first line of the vellum sheet, printed in a remarkably consistent fashion which spoke to one of the greatest scribe’s Marius could have ever encountered.

“This word, to my estimation, directly translates to a single phrase of our own. Godblessed.”

Merius of Setzia was caught thoroughly off-guard by the wide, toothy grin that broke out across his Lord’s expression. Pearly white teeth, a well-trimmed beard, and a pair of sparkling brown eyes conveyed a satisfaction Merius was proud to have delivered.

“Finally.”