Goldwell City’s streets were a symphony of sounds. Horses’ hooves thundered on the stone paths, booted feet marched in unison. Voices called out, orders were issued, dogs barked and children cried. Guards in gold plated armour with burgundy cloaks patrolled every bend, stood before every building and matched in troops across the training fields. People darted past Dramos in blurs, carrying various food or wares, or armour and weapons. Everywhere he looked, there was no rest to be found. Compared to the quiet of the farmlands he’d been traipsing for months on end, the capital city of the Trelladain Kingdom was rioted and staged for war.

When he last fled from the long winding roads with buildings as high and far as the eye could see, he was running from his duties. Running away from the war. Walking through the streets now, he passed directly into the heart of it. Goldwell had not fallen siege to the Saviour’s ire yet. It held strong. But it was the forge that fueled the war. Weapons and armour, food and blankets were crafted and shipped to the front in the North. Carts ladened with supplies were pulled by horse to and from the central gates, while others travelled to the docks and were loaded into mighty ships that set sail through the Cenavalis Sea.

It was to the harbour that Dramos walked. He’d encountered no issues at the gate when he arrived. The guards there had administered a series of magical tests to confirm his identity but no cuffs were placed on his hands. He was not dragged forth for the crimes of desertion. He was permitted to pass. Though it did not stop them from spitting on his boots when he did.

He’d since sold his horse, and the coin purse he carried at his hip felt heavier than it had ever before. He was tempted to spend it within the city. To find an inn, a tavern or a brothel. Something to quell his unease.

He knew the streets well, every twist, every turn, every alleyway. Every dark secret of the underbelly that the King and Queen would not want spilled, he knew. It had been his home for over eighteen years. If you could even call it that. It had never felt warm or comforting as he imagined a home must. The only shred of comfort he got was from the familiarity of it. The smells, the sounds, the shops and buildings, the canals and the guards.

He kept his head down, his cloak masking his features and ducked down the quieter streets to avoid the matching patrols of the King’s Guard and his armies. He wasn’t sure if he would be recognized. There were so few who knew him but it wasn’t something he wanted to test.

By the time his feet crossed a long, wide bridge that connected the city to the harbour, he was thankful to have not been stopped. He stood for a moment, looking out at the frantic activity. People yelled and horses darted back and forth, the gulls bayed overhead and circled the vessels below. Hundreds of them were moored to the docks, and many more bobbed in the waters off the coast waiting to return or just making their way off. They flew the red banners of the Trelladain Kingdom - full of fresh soldiers and supplies. He scanned the docks, until he found it.

One ship, mightier than all the rest, rocked proud with its navy blue flags of the Beallaurose Kingdom. Dramos frowned. He’d expected his charter to the Western Kingdom to be a humble boat. Not the crown jewel of the sea itself. When the Archmagus of Manatide Tower had told him the Queen of Beallaurose was in need of his aid and that the matter was sensitive, he had expected more subtly than to be chartered on Lord Doriel Rosemore’s ship.

Sighing, he hitched his pack more firmly over his broad shoulders and made his way through the fray of activity and onto the docks towards the vessel.

A large, broad man stood near the ship’s long wooden plank connecting it to the docks. A queue of people with carts overflowing with supplies had formed before him and he was checking them off a list from a scroll in his hands. Dramos stood at the back of the queue and cast his eyes to the grand ship’s wooden planks at his right.

Stolen story; please report.

It truly was a mighty vessel. It stood tall, multiple decks high. The dark wood was polished and clean, but there was a subtle weatheredness to it that spoke of how well it was travelled.

Eventually Dramos stood before the large man, towering over him, his shadow casting him in darkness. The man looked up and down at Dramos then off to his sides before he cast his gaze back on him, with scrutiny in his eyes.

“Yes?” he growled. Patience didn’t appear to be a strong suit. “What goods are you bringing?”

“None. I am here to fetch a charter to Evertide,” Dramos said.

“This isn’t a ferryboat,” the man said and Dramos had to admire his bravado. He did not cower from Dramos’ hard stare.

“I was told I would have passage there.”

“By who?”

Dramos hesitated. Archmagus Ena had been true to her word regarding the dismissal of the crimes he faced. He assumed the rest was true as well. If that were the case, this man before him had not been expecting him. Perhaps this was not the vessel that was intended to bring him to the Ballaurose capital.

“What’s going on here?” a voice behind him drawled.

The broad man before Dramos bowed his head. “Captain. This man here claims he’s to be granted passage to Evertide on your ship.”

Dramos turned as Doriel Rosemore approached and stood before him.

He was tall, nearly as tall as Dramos but slim. Very slim. His face looked gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, his body malnourished. His hair was unkempt along with a dark beard that was well over a week’s worth of growth and his dazzling blue eyes were dim. Only his clothes, a well kept blue vest with golden trim above a white shirt and dark pants, gave any indication that he was of any significance. Dramos had heard tales of the Prince and how handsome he was, but the man that stood before him now seemed a shadow of that description. His facial features had potential, with high cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose, but they were marred with far too many lines that betrayed his young age.

Suddenly realizing who stood before him, Dramos dropped to one knee. “Your grace.” He lowered his head to the wooden boards of the dock.

“I’ll have none of that. Stand.” Doriel’s voice was hard, void of any mirth. Dramos obeyed and Doriel’s gaze ran the length of him, pausing on the tips of his sword’s handles over his back. “Who are you?”

“Dramos, sire. Of Trelladain”

“Captain,” he said coolly, “You will address me as Captain. Are you the one she sent?”

The man’s eyes beside them darted back and forth between Dramos and the Prince. His confusion, along with the way in which Doriel did not say Ena’s name confirmed his growing suspicions.

“I am,” Dramos said. “Captain.”

Doriel continued to stare at Dramos for a moment before turning to the man with the scroll. “He’s to be allowed passage. Ensure that a room is made ready for him.”

“Aye, Captain,” the man said, standing tall and saluting the Prince before climbing aboard the ship.

Doriel turned back to Dramos. “I hope your affairs are in order. We leave before nightfall.”

“They are. I can depart immediately if necessary.” Dramos bowed his head.

“Good. Then you don’t need me to tell you to keep your mouth shut about what brings you aboard,” Doriel said, his eyes narrowed. “Unless it’s to spew your guts out over the railing, of course. Have you been at sea before, Dramos?”

“I have not, Captain.”

The slightest hint of a smile twitched at the corner of Doriel’s thin, chapped lips - it was more of a smirk than anything, as though the Prince had forgotten how to smile. “You’d better hope your stomach is as strong as the rest of you.”