Thanks to the name of the Pirate Lord, the crossing unfolded under a blessed star, marked by an almost supernatural tranquility. No pirate ships dared cross their path. Even the corsair fleets and enemy armadas seemed to fade away as they passed, as if subjugated by an invisible force. The days slipped by under an immaculate blue sky, the sea smooth and docile like a faithful lover.
On deck, the sailors murmured amongst themselves, their suspicion slowly giving way to admiring perplexity. Some, accustomed to scanning the horizon with constant tension, dared to walk more relaxed, smiles at the corners of their lips. The silence of danger felt so strange it became almost oppressive.
One morning, as the sun gently rose on the horizon, casting golden reflections on the waves, Mero stood at the back of the ship, his eyes fixed on infinity. The captain approached, crossed his arms, and assumed a thoughtful expression.
"You realize what this means, don't you?" he asked bluntly.
Mero slowly nodded.
"Yes. It’s not just a dowry that the Pirate Lord gave me. It’s a seal. A protection. As long as I’m bound to Mandarine, her father watches over me."
The captain raised an eyebrow, a wry smile on his lips.
"Exactly. But remember, if you ever betray this alliance... the whole sea will turn against you."
The thought sent a shiver down Mero's spine despite himself. He had, of course, considered this risk, but hearing it spoken out loud gave a new gravity to the unspoken promise. This was not just a commitment between him and Mandarine. It was a blood pact between his future and that of the pirate world.
Master Antonin, who had discreetly listened to the exchange, stepped forward, his expression grave.
"Such an alliance is rare, almost unprecedented," he said in a measured voice. "But remember, Mero: this is not a cage, it’s an opportunity. It’s up to you to decide how to seize it."
The words resonated like both a warning and an encouragement. Mero reached into his pocket, clutching the pendant that Mandarine had given him. This small piece of jewelry, simple yet heavy with meaning, symbolized a silent promise, an invisible bond that tied him to her… and to an entire maritime empire.
----------------------------------------
The peaceful crossing continued, but a latent unease hung in the air. Everyone knew that this calm would not last. The Garabol Strait still lay ahead. A legendary passage where the Théteian, Ice, and Green oceans met, creating chaotic currents and waves powerful enough to break even the sturdiest ships.
When the ship docked in a small fishing village nestled on cliffs battered by the winds, the atmosphere seemed to change immediately, as if they had entered another world. The place, modest and austere, bore the marks of a relentless struggle against the whims of the sea. Here, every stone, every plank of wood told a story of survival.
The houses, built of grayish wood worn by salt and wind, stood on tall stilts to escape the unpredictable tides. Their thatched roofs were securely fastened with thick ropes tied around heavy stones, as if they feared being torn away at any moment. The shutters on the windows, often closed, would occasionally flap in the gusts with a sharp noise, adding an unsettling melody to the already tense atmosphere.
The narrow, winding alleys were paved with cobblestones smoothed by the years. The air was saturated with the acrid smell of iodine mixed with the sharper scent of dried fish. Long strips of nets, hung between posts, snapped in the wind, while colorful buoys danced like puppets caught in an invisible frenzy.
On the main dock, weathered fishermen unloaded crates of still-wriggling fish. Their weather-beaten faces were marked by years of hard labor, and their movements were precise, almost mechanical. Some briefly raised their eyes to us, but their gazes remained wary. Foreigners weren’t uncommon here, but they were tolerated with cautious distance.
A little further on, an old woman wrapped in a dark woolen shawl scanned the horizon, her lips moving as if silently reciting a prayer. She held a talisman made of driftwood, carved in the shape of a fish, a symbol of protection against the raging sea.
The village children, barefoot despite the cold, ran along the dock, laughing beneath the irritated cries of their mothers. They seemed carefree, accustomed to living on the edge of the precipice that the legendary strait represented. One of them, a boy with unruly hair, stopped to watch us with an open curiosity before running off again, the wind playing in his hair.
Along the cliff, steep paths led to shelters carved directly into the rock—refuges for fishermen caught by sudden storms. Sturdy, worn wooden boats rested on makeshift slips, ready to brave the tumultuous waves as soon as the strait allowed.
The captain observed the entire village with a critical eye before giving his orders in a firm voice:
"No trouble. We just have to wait for the strait to grant us passage."
Wait, yes... but for how long? The strait decided for itself the right moment to allow ships through.
Master Antonin, always eager to turn every situation into a learning opportunity, flashed a mischievous smile.
"We should take advantage of this time to observe the strait and study its currents. There’s always something to learn," he said enthusiastically. "This village is a true lesson in resilience," he added, adjusting his coat. "Look at the foundations of the houses," he continued, pointing to a row of stilts reinforced with rusted metal plates. "You can tell they’ve learned to anticipate the worst tantrums of the sea."
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Mero, however, felt an odd sensation as he looked out at the churning sea. An intuition, or just a simple feeling? Perhaps it was the anxiety about this dreaded passage, where so many sailors had lost their lives.
As he descended onto the land, a cold gust bit his face. The villagers watched them in silence, their gazes filled with quiet distrust. Foreigners weren’t rare here, but they were never welcome for too long. The strait decided who passed... and who vanished forever.
As they moved through the village, an old man with a weathered face called out to them.
— Are you waiting for the calm too? he grunted, a pipe hanging from his lips cracked by the cold.
— Yes, Master Antonin replied. Do you have any idea how long it will take?
The man shrugged with fatalism.
— Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week. It's the sea that decides, not us.
He turned away, leaving behind a trail of acrid smoke. Master Antonin murmured thoughtfully:
— What a pragmatic philosophy.
Leila, ever active, was already talking to the women of the village to gather information on the local provisions. She quickly returned with a satisfied smile.
— Dried fish and black bread, she said. Not a feast, but it will keep us going.
The landscape of the Garabol Strait offered a striking spectacle, where the raw majesty of nature met a constant threat. The cliffs, high and imposing, stood like natural walls, their steep faces streaked by wind and centuries. Shades of gray, ochre, and black mixed in their layers, witnesses of ancient eruptions and millennia of erosion. These rocky giants seemed to plunge directly into a furious sea, their bases relentlessly battered by the waves.
The surface of the water, far from calm, turned into a liquid battlefield, where currents clashed with uncontrolled violence. Foam whirlpools exploded at the surface, signaling invisible pits where the sea swallowed up with a roar. Here and there, dark veins betrayed deep swirls, while huge columns of water suddenly shot up like marine geysers, hurled by underwater waves as unpredictable as they were terrifying.
The sky, laden with low and heavy clouds, added to the dramatic aura of the strait. At times, a ray of sunlight pierced the cloud cover, briefly illuminating the waves, revealing emerald and steel blue hues in the troughs of the swells. But these moments of light were fleeting, quickly swept away by the shadow of the moving clouds.
The roar of the ocean filled the air, mixed with the whistling wind that poured into the crevices of the cliffs. This wind, full of salt and moisture, bit the skin and carried with it sprays that seemed to hover like a light mist above the water. The rare seabirds, brave or unconscious, soared high above the waves, their dark silhouettes standing out against the stormy sky.
On the horizon, where the sea met the sky, the aquatic chaos seemed to stretch infinitely. The crests of the waves sparkled for a brief moment before collapsing in a dull crash, as if the ocean knew no rest or respite. One could sense the inexorable power of this strait, a place where even the sturdiest ships hesitated to venture without a window of calm.
The day stretched on in nervous anticipation. Master Antonin, true to form, turned their walk into a lecture.
— Look at these cliffs, he said, pointing to a face sculpted by erosion. They date back to a time when the sea covered this entire region. The wind and water have shaped them for millennia.
A little further, he crouched to pick up a handful of sand.
— See these grains? Some come from the mountains to the north, carried by rivers. Others come from the coral reefs shattered by storms. The earth itself tells the story of the oceans.
Mero listened, fascinated despite himself. Every element of nature seemed to whisper its secrets to Master Antonin, and he was gradually learning to hear this language.
— Observe the clouds, the master continued, looking up at the sky. They are low and dense. That means the pressure is dropping. A change in weather is near.
He then pointed to the birds soaring above the cliffs.
— When the seagulls stay close to the ground, it means the winds aloft are too strong. If the albatross disappears, a storm is coming.
They reached a rocky promontory that offered a breathtaking view of the strait's entrance. The rocky promontory overlooked the entrance to the strait like a crude stone throne sculpted by time. The view it offered embraced an endless expanse of turbulent water. As far as the eye could see, the dark, thick waves churned, their surface streaked by capricious whirlpools and sharp foam crests. The sea seemed alive, animated by an ancient and indomitable rage.
Beneath the moving surface, invisible reefs waited, silent traitors ready to crush the hulls of careless ships. The water, tinged with deep blue and dark steel, bristled around these underwater traps, hinting at powerful swirls where the rock barely surfaced. At times, the waves crashed against these invisible obstacles, sending sparkling sprays that fell in a mist of saltwater.
Suddenly, without warning, columns of water shot up into the sky, hurled by mysterious forces hidden in the abyss. These marine geysers exploded with brute force, forming fleeting liquid arcs before crashing back into the watery chaos. The sound of their eruption echoed like thunder, mixing with the constant rumble of the waves.
The upward, cold wind swept across the promontory, carrying with it salty spray that stung the skin. The mixed smells of salt, seaweed, and damp rock filled the air, intensifying the feeling of the place’s wild timelessness. Beneath their feet, the rocks were bare, sculpted by the repeated assaults of rain and marine winds, polished to shine in places like basalt mirrors.
The horizon, uncertain between sky and sea, flickered under a changing light. The heavy clouds raced quickly, torn by rare bursts of sunlight that cast a spectral glow on the water. But these moments of clarity seemed instantly swallowed by the shifting shadow of the clouds.
In the distance, misty columns floated like liquid ghosts, while the waves formed hypnotic undulations, sometimes so high they seemed to want to climb the cliffs themselves. Every movement of the ocean carried an inexorable force, a testament to the legendary nature of this strait, feared by all sailors.
The promontory offered an ideal but unforgiving vantage point, a silent reminder of the indomitable power of nature, where the sea, eternal and sovereign, reigned supreme.
— The greatest danger here is the currents, explained Master Antonin. Look over there.
He pointed to an area where the water was boiling strangely.
— A maelstrom. These whirlpools can swallow an entire ship.
The idea sent a shiver down Mero's spine.
— So how do we know when to pass? he asked.
Master Antonin replied gravely:
— We wait. We listen to the sea, the wind, the stars. The sailors of the village know the right time. We will have to trust them.
A heavy silence settled as Mero gazed at this legendary passage. The Garabol Strait left nothing to chance. Here, nature alone decided the fate of men.
----------------------------------------
Back in the village, the inhabitants still seemed reluctant to engage in conversation. Mero found himself observing their weathered faces, their calloused hands, witnesses to a hard and untamed life. An old man, sitting near the port, kept a watchful eye on the sea. Mero approached timidly.
— Are you waiting for the sea to calm? he asked.
The old man nodded without taking his eyes off the horizon.
— It will speak when it’s ready, he replied in a raspy voice. But beware those who do not listen.
These words stayed etched in Mero’s mind. The strait was not just a physical trial. It was a test of patience, of humility. The sea would not submit to anyone.
As they made their way back to the ship, Mero felt a familiar tension return. This insolent peace would not last. The calm before the storm was just a deceptive interlude.
And he was ready to listen to what the sea had to say.