“Oi! Cap’n wans ta see ye.”

Groaning, Dramos rolled out of the cot in the tiny bunk he’d been given aboard The Undine, the Bellaurose Kingdom’s most prestigious ship in their fleet.

He’d gutted enough men and beasts to have earned an iron stomach but it did nothing to help the roll of the waves. He’d spent the last two weeks holed up in his room, emptying every meal he managed to eat into a bucket beside the cot and had been reduced to taking small sips of blended up salted beef and fish broth in order to get some form of nutrients into him. His body was weak. Weaker than he’d been in years and he despised how helpless he felt.

The knocking on the door continued and Dramos finally managed to pull it open. A squat, middle-aged man, named Jove, was standing before him and looked him over before offering him a smile that only contained a few rotted teeth.

“Ye s’ill look like shi,’ he chuckled and had Dramos any strength remaining, he’d consider knocking the rest of his teeth out. “Common.”

Jove led Dramos down a narrow hall and up a set of steps onto the deck. The brine of the ocean and the brightness of the sun stung his eyes. Men and women darted back and forth, manning the needs of the ship, pulling on sails, cleaning the decks, polishing weapons, tying knots and doing whatever else it was they did. Were he feeling better, he would have been willing to help and learn more, but as it was, he was having a hard enough time staying upright.

No one paid him much heed as he stumbled his way towards the stern and Jove knocked on the Captain’s door.

“Come in,” he heard Doriel Rosemore’s voice call from the other side.

Dramos pushed past Jove, ignoring his snickering, and entered into the Captain’s quarters.

The first thing he noticed was the brilliant wall of windows that lined the back of the room, framing the blues of the ocean and sky. A large four poster bed sat off to the side, along with an enclosed washing space nearby. Opposite that, the other wall was adorned with shelving and stacked full of books and charts, globes and other trinkets. At the centre of the room, Doriel sat at a large table, with his back to the windows, facing him. The table was covered in more maps and charts and a half eaten plate of food sat on the corner.

Doriel looked up at Dramos when he entered. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating an armchair with lush blue cushions opposite him at the table.

Dramos lurched forward and sat unceremoniously in the chair, his grip on the arms firm.

Doriel’s blue eyes danced in the light pouring from the windows behind him. “There’s no need for me to ask how you’re feeling.”

Dramos said nothing and the Captain’s lips twitched ever so slightly below his scraggly beard.

“Here,” Doriel said, reaching into a pocket within his vest and withdrawing a small vial. He passed it to Dramos. “Drink this, it’ll help.”

At this point, Dramos was willing to try anything, and said nothing as he popped the cork and downed it in one go.

“That could’ve been poison.” Doriel said, watching him closely.

“Then let’s hope my death is quicker than these past few weeks.”

Again Doriel’s lips twitched. He turned back to the maps and paperwork before him and continued what he was working on as though Dramos wasn’t there.

Knowing he wasn’t yet dismissed, Dramos sat there in silence, and focused on breathing. It was a surprisingly comfortable silence and he could feel the liquid he’d consumed sliding around inside of him. The fogginess within his mind was slowly ebbing away and for the first time since they left the harbour of Goldwell he was able to relax his body.

“Feel better?” Doriel asked, without looking up after the lengthy silence.

“Yes sir. Thank you,” Dramos’ voice was still rough.

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There was a knock on the door and a minute later Jove returned carrying a large tray. He set it on the table before Dramos. It was full of plates of fish, vegetables, fruits, breads and a flagon of mead.

“Thank you, Jove,” Doriel said as the man bowed and left them alone again. “Go on, help yourself.”

“Not poison is it?” Dramos asked quietly as he reached for a plate and began piling food on it.

This time Doriel did let loose a short laugh, as he set down his quill and began pouring the mead into two goblets. He handed one to Dramos.

“Don’t drink too much of it, or you’ll waste that potion. They aren’t easy to come by,” Doriel said, taking a sip from his glass.

“Cheers,” Dramos grunted, nodding his glass in Doriel’s direction before taking a gulp. He could feel every drop burning its way down into his empty stomach.

He turned his attention to his food and ate quietly while Doriel sat watching him, taking sips of his drink. Dramos tried to ignore him, he wasn’t fond of the calculations going on within his captivating blue eyes.

After finishing his plate of food, he finally looked over to the Prince. “I’m not one for games, Captain. If you’ve something to ask of me, just do so.”

“Why did you defect from King Robert Trelladain’s guard the moment the war broke?” Doriel asked.

At least he got straight to the point, Dramos had to respect that.

“I felt my skills were better used elsewhere.”

“You do not believe in the war effort?”

“I never said that.”

“You’d just rather other men and women die to the cause.”

“Nor did I say that.”

“What could possibly be more important to a warrior than fighting for his Kingdom against the Saviour’s army?”

Dramos’ rich brown eyes clashed with Doriel’s bright blue. Earth against water.

“What is the point of war if not to protect people?” Dramos said, his voice low.

“That is precisely the point of it.”

“And what of those left behind?”

Doriel cocked his head, “Everyone is affected by this war in some form.”

“And it is not only those on the front lines who are left to suffer, Prince.”

Doriel’s jaw clenched. “Captain,” he said, his tone firm. Dramos bowed his head slightly.

“So,” Doriel said, “you leave the army so you can play vigilante hero to a bunch of farmers?”

Dramos said nothing.

“Hell of a way to make a living.” Doriel refilled his own goblet.

Again Dramos said nothing and left his nearly full glass on the table.

“Why?” Doriel said after a long pull from his drink.

“Captain?”

“Why do you help them?”

“Because they need aid. The King pulled his guard for the war effort, leaving them vulnerable.”

Doriel’s eyes were sharp. “That wasn’t my question.” When Dramos swallowed, Doriel asked again, “Why do you help them?”

“No one else will,” Dramos said, finally diverting his eyes and picking up his goblet to take a drink.

“I’ll rephrase,” Doriel swirled his own glass. “Why is it you feel obligated to be the one who must aid them?”

When Dramos remained quiet, Doriel’s voice was low, his eyes narrowed, “I thought you were a direct man, Dramos. My question was rather straightforward.”

“I told you to ask your questions. I made no promise to answer them,” Dramos said.

The tension in the room burst when Doriel threw his head back and laughed. Unlike the hollow ones from before this was full, and rich. It did wonders to help his pale complexion.

“Well played for a man who does not like games. I do not remember the last time I had a good laugh,” Doriel toasted his glass to him. Dramos returned the gesture offering a quick smirk before they both drank.

“I was once one of them,” Dramos said quietly a moment later, looking down as he ran his fingers around the rim of his goblet. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to speak. Perhaps it was the mead.

Doriel placed his own on the table and folded his hands together next to it as he leaned forward. “From what I understand, you were an orphan who grew up in the streets of Goldwell.”

“How do you think I wound up there?” Dramos said, locking eyes with Doriel. He didn’t get a chance to see if there was any pity in them before the cannon fire began.