One week after his banishment, the ship groaned beneath Azerion's boots, its timbers shuddering as waves hammered the hull like the wrath of Lower Realm beasts. Rain lashed the deck in relentless sheets, stinging his face as he gripped a taut rope, its coarse fibers cutting into his palms. Thunder roared—a deep, guttural bellow from Azerath's stormy skies—drowning the captain's shouts, while lightning splintered the horizon, casting the chaos in fleeting silver-blue bursts.
Beside him stood Sir Gideon of House Kaelith, his sole remaining guard—a lean figure in weathered leather, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his sharp eyes scanning the deck with unyielding resolve. The knight's spiritual energy pulsed faintly, a silver thread steady amidst the tempest's fury.
One week, Azerion thought bitterly. Seven days since Father condemned me with cold eyes, since Mother turned away as the royal decree was read. The memory burned hotter than the rope's friction against his skin—the Great Hall silent as his titles were stripped away, his brother Darius face a mask of practiced regret that didn't reach his calculating eyes.
"For the crime of spiritual interference with the Sacred Archives," the Royal Herald had proclaimed, voice echoing through the hall, "Prince Azerion of House Solara is hereby stripped of succession rights and banished to Eden Empire, under terms of the Ancestral Treaty."
The captain's voice sliced through the gale, hoarse and commanding. "Secure the mainsail, you sluggards! Move, or we're swallowed by the abyss!" His silhouette loomed at the helm—a bear of a man with a braided beard defying the wind, his oilskin coat glistening as he roared orders. The crew scrambled, boots slipping on slick planks, their curses lost to the storm.
Azerion, once a prince of Solara bathed in radiant light, was no noble here—just another pair of hands bound for the Eden Empire's shores. His life had been palace halls and sunlit hills, not ropes and raging seas, yet he gritted his teeth, his Tidal Flow Stride faltering as he pulled, muscles burning with untested spiritual energy. The sailors—scarred men with salt-crusted beards—lived by a creed he'd caught in their gruff mutterings: A man who falters instead of fights is no man. He refused to falter, not tonight.
A wave crashed over the starboard rail, icy water slamming Azerion's chest, nearly tearing him from the rope. He gasped, salt stinging his lips, and tightened his grip as the ship lurched. "Man overboard!" a voice cried, raw with panic, and Azerion's head snapped up. Through the rain, he glimpsed a sailor tumbling into the churning black, arms flailing before the sea claimed him—a sacrifice to the Lower Realm's depths.
"Port side, hold fast!" another shouted, and Azerion echoed it, his voice cracking but firm, the prince's timbre swallowed by the wind. Gideon lunged past, seizing a whipping line with Shadowstep Void Dance precision, his boots skidding before he knotted it to a cleat, his silver energy flaring briefly.
The lost sailor's face burned in Azerion's mind—a young man with a jagged scar across his nose, who'd laughed the previous evening while telling tales of Westport's taverns. Now he was gone, devoured by the depths, his spirit released to whatever lay beyond Azerath's veil. Death was a common companion in the royal courts, arriving through poison or blade, but never so raw, so swift as this.
For six hours, they battled. The storm raged without mercy—waves towered like walls of shadow, threatening to shatter the ship into driftwood for Azerath's tides. Azerion's arms trembled, his soaked tunic clinging to his frame, every breath a struggle against cold and exhaustion, his Radiant Sun Refinement body pushed beyond its novice limits. Men slipped, cursed, and rose again, their faces etched with grim resolve. Lightning illuminated their toil—the captain wrestling the helm, sailors lashing sails, Gideon hauling a loose barrel with knightly grit.
As the storm reached its zenith, Azerion felt something stir within him—his spiritual core pulsing with unfamiliar heat. The Flame Codex's teachings rushed back to him, whispered by Master Thorne in Solara's gardens: "When pushed to breaking, a true practitioner finds the boundary between self and cosmos thin as parchment." Instinctively, he aligned his breath with the ship's rhythm, channeling silver-blue energy through his palms and into the rope.
"By the Six Celestial Courts," muttered a nearby sailor, eyes widening as Azerion's hands emitted a soft glow, steadying the line with supernatural strength. The prince met his gaze but said nothing, focusing instead on maintaining the fragile connection—his first true manifestation of the Radiant Sun's blessing beyond academy walls.
Azerion pulled alongside, his spirit screaming, his mind numbed by the Middle Realm's fury, until the winds eased, the rain softened to a drizzle, and the sea settled into an uneasy truce.
The deck fell silent, save for the creak of timbers and the drip of water from sodden ropes. Azerion sank against a crate, legs folding beneath him, chest heaving as he drew damp air into his lungs. His dark hair hung in wet strands over his eyes, hands muddied from Solara's farewell now raw and red. The crew sprawled around him, some muttering thanks to the Tideborn Covenant's Marithys, others staring blankly at the horizon.
Gideon approached, his steps steady despite the ordeal, and clapped a hand on Azerion's shoulder. "I'll fetch what slop they've got," he rasped, his voice low and rough, then trudged toward the galley, his silver energy a faint shimmer in the gloom.
Azerion leaned back, the crate's splintered edge digging into his spine, when a rough shove jolted him. A man stumbled down beside him, chains clinking as he hit the deck. "Sit, you cur," growled a slaver—a burly figure with a whip coiled at his hip—before stalking off. The chained man, cuffs biting his wrists, shifted in his ragged tunic, his gaunt face framed by a tangle of black hair. He glanced at Azerion and muttered, "Sorry 'bout that," his voice a rasp softened by a faint grin, his spiritual energy a dim ember beneath his weariness.
Azerion, too spent for words, gave a curt nod, his gaze drifting to the sea. The slave tilted his head, studying him. "You're him, ain't you? The banished prince. Azerion of Solara."
The words cut through his fatigue, and Azerion's eyes narrowed. "Who told you that?" he asked, his tone sharp, silver-blue energy flickering briefly.
"No one," the slave said, chuckling dryly. "I see it—your steps, like you ain't born to this muck, but too stubborn to break. Word drifts on a ship like this."
Azerion grunted, rubbing his jaw, stubble rough against his fingers. "Where're you from, then?"
"Kingdom of Valtheris," the slave replied, his grin fading to a shadow of memory. "Far west of your Solara or this Eden. Five years drowned in civil war—lords tearing it apart."
Azerion's brow furrowed, a spark of recall flaring. "Valtheris—palace scrolls spoke of it. Fields burned, cities crumbling under rival blades."
"Aye, that's home," the slave said, his voice laced with bitter mirth. "Sweet as ash."
"How'd you end up here?" Azerion pressed, curiosity nudging past his weariness. "In chains?"
The slave laughed, sharp and hollow. "Snatched a noble's brat for coin—thought it'd lift me from the dirt. My bandit crew sold me out instead—traded me to these slavers for a pittance." He shrugged, chains rattling. "Trust's a fool's game."
Before Azerion could reply, Gideon returned, boots thudding on the planks. He carried two dented tin plates of watery gruel—fishy and stale. Handing one to Azerion, he hesitated, then split his own, shoving half onto the slave's lap. "Eat," he grunted, settling beside Azerion, his sword clanking against the crate, his silver energy steady.
The slave blinked, then scooped the slop with his fingers, chewing noisily. "Kind of you, knight," he mumbled. "Name's Kael, by the way."
"Gideon," the knight replied, his tone flat but warm. "And this is—"
"Azerion," Kael finished, grinning through a mouthful. "Knew it."
"You said Valtheris," Azerion murmured between tasteless bites. "Their spiritual techniques—aren't they drawn from the Shadow Vale Manuscripts? I studied fragments in Solara's archives."
Kael's eyes flickered with surprise. "Aye, for those lucky few. Common folk like me, though? We just feel the echoes. Can sense things sometimes—danger, lies, power." His voice lowered, eyes darting to the deck above. "Like that slaver captain—carries a void crystal in his pocket, drains the spirit from anyone resisting. Felt three men collapse yesterday, their essence sucked dry like grapes."
Gideon stiffened. "Void crystals are forbidden by the Continental Accord. Seven kingdoms signed after the Last Ethereal War."
"War's just a word when you're sailing beyond jurisdiction," Kael countered. "Laws are for those with the strength to enforce them."
They ate in silence, the slop a cold reward for the night's toil. Then, a distant rumble stirred the sky, wind tugging the sails. Rain spattered anew, heavier now, and the head deckman's voice boomed. "All hands! Storm's back—brace yourselves!"
The crew groaned, rising as the ship rocked beneath a swelling wave. Azerion shoved his plate aside, muscles aching as he stood. Gideon was at his side, Kael scrambling up despite his chains. The seas roared again—a wild dance of thunder and foam—and they plunged back into the fray, Azerion's Tidal Flow Stride weaving through the chaos.
As midnight approached, the second storm retreated, leaving the ship battered but intact. Azerion stumbled below deck, following Gideon to the cramped space they'd been allocated—a corner of the cargo hold separated by a torn canvas curtain. No princely chambers here, just rough blankets atop sacks of grain and salt.
He collapsed onto his makeshift bed, every muscle screaming in protest. Gideon settled against a barrel, sword across his knees, his vigilance unwavering even as exhaustion shadowed his face.
"You should rest," Azerion muttered, voice thick with fatigue. "No assassins lurk among the barrels."
"Your father charged me with your safety," Gideon replied, fingers tracing the Kaelith crest on his sword's pommel—a hawk clutching a moonstone. "Even in exile."
"My father," Azerion echoed, bitterness welling like bile. "The same who cast me out because of my brothers plot."
"For your safety," Gideon corrected softly. "The council and the prince's wanted you dead your highness."
Azerion turned to face the knight, his silver-blue eyes piercing the gloom. "I merely sought understanding. Of the people Is that really treason?"
"In royal houses," Gideon said carefully, "curiosity and ambition often wear the same mask. Your brother Cassian argued persuasively that your actions threatened Solara's stability."
"Of course he did," Azerion snarled, fist clenching. "Cassian, perfect son, master of court whispers and political maneuvers."
Gideon remained silent, his expression guarded yet somehow sympathetic. Azerion exhaled slowly, frustration ebbing as weariness claimed him. "Tell me truthfully," he murmured, eyes drifting closed. "Do you believe I sought power to challenge the throne?"
The knight's reply came after a measured pause. "I believe you sought knowledge for its own sake. But knowledge unchecked by wisdom often leads to the same paths as ambition."
Azerion's consciousness faded before he could respond, dreams of Solara's sun-drenched towers and Eden's unknown shores swirling behind his eyelids.
The next day dawned still and bright, the storm a memory carved in aching limbs and salt-stiffened clothes. The sea stretched calm and glassy, reflecting a sky streaked with wisps of cloud, the sun climbing toward its zenith over Azerath's Middle Realm. Azerion sat cross-legged on the deck, a weathered tome from Solara's library open in his lap—The Radiant Chronicles, its pages tracing the Sunlit Throne's glory. The breeze fluttered the faded ink as he read, the quiet a balm after the tempest's wrath. Gideon stood nearby, hand on his sword hilt, his silver energy sweeping the horizon with Kaelith vigilance.
A shadow fell across the page, and Azerion looked up to find Kael standing before him, chains gone but a metal collar still clasped around his neck—a control device pulsing with dull red energy.
"They've set me to work instead of keeping me in the hold," Kael explained, noting Azerion's questioning glance. "Captain says I'm more useful swabbing decks than rotting below."
"A dubious promotion," Azerion remarked, closing his book.
Kael shrugged, crouching beside him. "Better than chains. Air's fresher, at least." He nodded toward the tome. "What tales of glory you reading there? More Solaran propaganda about divine right and celestial blessing?"
"History," Azerion corrected, though a smile tugged at his lips. "Though I suppose victors shape their histories to suit their legacy."
"Like how Valtheris claims it was founded by star-children rather than exiled criminals?" Kael snorted. "Noble lies comfort the masses while filling temple coffers."
Gideon shifted, disapproval emanating from his stance, but remained silent. Kael glanced at him, then leaned closer to Azerion. "Heard whispers from the crew—we're not just headed to Alisia's port. The ship continues north afterward, to the Crimson Mines."
Azerion frowned. "The Eden imperial labor camps?"
"The same. Illegal ones, outside imperial oversight." Kael's voice dropped lower. "The slaver captain—Morden—he's got a deal with the mine overseer. Fresh workers delivered monthly, no questions asked, coin flowing back to his coffers."
"How do you know this?" Azerion demanded.
"Slavers talk freely around their property," Kael replied, tapping his collar. "As if we're furniture."
Before their conversation could continue, a commotion erupted near the bow—shouting voices and the thud of fists against flesh. Azerion rose, Gideon tensing beside him, as sailors gathered in a circle. At its center, the slaver captain Morden towered over a cowering deckhand, his whip already stained crimson.
"You dare question my command?" Morden roared, face mottled with rage. The deckhand—barely more than a boy—clutched his bleeding arm, eyes wide with terror.
"I only asked why we'd changed course, Captain," the boy stammered. "The navigator said we're veering east of Alisia's approach."
"The navigator speaks when spoken to," Morden snarled, raising his whip again. "As do all who sail under my flag."
Azerion stepped forward without thinking, Gideon's warning hiss ignored. "Perhaps the boy's curiosity reflects concern for your ship's safety," he called, voice clear and carrying. "Eastward waters harbor the Skybane Reef, if memory serves."
The circle parted as Morden turned, his bearded face shifting from rage to calculated assessment as he recognized Azerion. "The banished prince offers navigation advice? How generous." His voice dripped with mock deference. "But unnecessary. I've sailed these waters twenty years while you played at swordcraft in gilded halls."
"I played at many things," Azerion replied evenly, silver-blue energy subtly rising. "Including cartography. The Eastern Geographical Society's latest maritime charts mark expanded reef formations following last year's tectonic shifts."
Murmurs rippled through the crew, some nodding with nascent concern. Morden's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You question my authority on my own vessel?"
"I offer information," Azerion countered. "How you employ it reflects your quality as captain."
For a tense moment, Morden's hand hovered near the void crystal visible at his belt—a swirling darkness contained within crystalline facets. Then, shockingly, he laughed—a harsh bark devoid of mirth. "Information, is it? Very well, prince." He turned to the first mate. "Check our bearing against the latest charts. If the Solaran speaks truth, adjust course accordingly."
As the crowd dispersed, Gideon gripped Azerion's arm. "Unnecessary risk," he muttered. "We need no attention."
"The boy would have been flayed," Azerion responded quietly. "Some risks are necessary."
Kael approached, eyes calculating. "Bold move. Either Morden respects you now or marks you for deeper trouble."
The calm held until the captain approached, his boots thudding against the planks. A broad man with a face etched by wind and sea, his braided beard swayed as he stopped before Azerion. "Prince," he said, voice gravelly but steady, "you surprised me last night."
Azerion looked up, closing the book with a soft thud. "How so?"
"Thought you'd be frail," the captain admitted, scratching his jaw. "A noble raised in silk and light, not storms and ropes. But you held—kept us afloat with that silver-blue spark. Didn't expect it."
Azerion's lips twitched, a faint smile breaking his weariness. "Nor did I," he said, his voice quiet but firm, his spiritual energy humming softly. "Thank you—for the faith."
The captain grunted, tipping his head, then strode off, barking at a lingering crewman. Gideon shifted, a rare pride glinting in his eyes, though he remained silent.
"And you've earned another enemy," Kael commented, nodding toward Morden, who watched from the quarter deck, his expression unreadable. "The charts confirmed your warning. He's changed course."
"I speak truth when it serves life," Azerion replied. "Politics I leave to my brother."
Kael's eyebrow rose. "Yet here you are, banished for by those same authorities. Perhaps you should have been more politician than you'd admit."
High noon blazed overhead when a cry shattered the stillness. "Land!" a sailor bellowed from the crow's nest, arm thrust toward the horizon. Another voice joined, rough with awe: "Alisia—Eden's heart—rising ahead!"
Azerion stood, book forgotten, and leaned against the rail. Alisia unfurled like a vision from the Upper Realm—its harbor a crescent of turquoise framed by golden sands, obsidian and ivory towers soaring skyward, their gilded domes dazzling in the sun. Galleons with crimson sails crowded the docks beside fishing boats, while the city climbed the cliffs—a tapestry of stone and color alive with Eden's might. The air carried salt and the faint pulse of spiritual energy, a bustling port awaiting its prey.
The ship glided closer, revealing details hidden by distance—massive Soul Engines humming along the dock, powering cargo cranes and defensive arrays, the emblems of fifteen trading houses emblazoned on warehouse walls, and imperial banners of black and gold fluttering from watchtowers. Street markets spilled colors onto stone pathways, while robed figures traced arcane patterns near a temple dome of lapis and amber.
"The Grand Bazaar," Kael murmured beside him, eyes drinking in the sight. "They say you can buy tomorrow's sunrise if your coin purse is heavy enough."
"Or sell your tomorrows if it's empty," Gideon added grimly.
Azerion's attention fixed on a towering structure at the city's peak—the Imperial Citadel, its crystalline spires piercing clouds, purple lightning dancing between them in rhythmic pulses. Eden's power manifest in architecture, a declaration of dominance over the Middle Realm's natural order.
As they approached the harbor, a sleek vessel with black sails intercepted their course—an imperial customs cutter, its hull emblazoned with Eden's crest. A boarding party swung aboard with practiced efficiency, their leader a woman with copper skin and eyes like amber, her uniform crisp despite the sea spray.
"Captain," she addressed Morden crisply, "manifest and declarations."
While Morden produced the required documents, the woman's gaze swept the deck, lingering on Azerion before moving to the slaves huddled near the stern. Her eyes hardened, but she made no comment as she reviewed the papers.
"Your slave cargo is bound for which market?" she inquired, voice neutral.
"Northern Agricultural Cooperative," Morden replied smoothly, producing a stamped scroll. "Labor contract arranged through appropriate channels."
She examined the document with practiced indifference, though Azerion caught a flicker of disgust in her expression. "Very well. Proceed to Merchant's Wharf, Section Four. The harbormaster will direct your berthing."
As she turned to leave, she paused near Azerion, voice dropping to a whisper. "The Prime Minister awaits you, prince. He is not known for patience." Before he could respond, she rejoined her party and descended to the cutter, which peeled away in a spray of foam.
Gideon stepped closer, his voice a murmur. "There—on the docks. The Prime Minister."
Azerion's gaze sharpened, spotting a tall figure in black robes, silver trim glinting, crimson eyes stark even from afar—a beacon of Eden's Ethereal Dominion power. The ship eased toward the pier, hull creaking as sailors tossed ropes to waiting hands. The gangplank thudded down, and the crew disembarked—a weary stream of salt-crusted men.
Kael appeared at Azerion's side, his collar removed. "This is where we part ways, prince," he said, offering his hand. "They're taking us north tonight."
Azerion clasped his arm instead, the gesture firmer than a handshake. "To the Crimson Mines?"
"Most likely," Kael confirmed, smile tight. "But don't waste concern. Valtheris breeds survivors."
"Gideon," Azerion said suddenly, turning to the knight. "The travel purse my father provided—how much remains?"
The knight hesitated, then produced a small leather pouch. "Forty imperial zenith, seventeen sunshards. Why?"
Azerion took the pouch, extracted a gleaming zenith coin—enough to feed a family for months—and pressed it into Kael's palm. "Find me when you're free," he murmured. "A former prince might need allies who understand the world's harsher truths."
Kael's eyes widened, fingers closing around the coin before it could be seen. "You're either naïve or cunning," he whispered. "Either way, consider your investment accepted." With a quick nod to Gideon, he melted into the disembarking crowd.
Azerion waited, Gideon at his shoulder, until their turn came. He descended, boots striking wood, and the Prime Minister approached, his smile wide yet edged with frost. "Prince Azerion," he greeted, extending a gloved hand. Azerion clasped it, the grip firm, laced with spiritual energy—a calculated test. "I'm here by Emperor Cassian III's will. Word came from Solara via the communication stone." He gestured to a blue crystal at his belt, its pulse cool and otherworldly—a relic echoing the Flame Codex's craft.
Azerion nodded, his expression guarded, silver-blue energy steady. "So I've heard."
"Come," the Prime Minister said, turning with a sweep of his robes. "The palace awaits."
As they walked, the docks bustling around them, Azerion's attention caught on a shadow flitting between market stalls—a figure in faded green, moving with deliberate purpose. When he blinked, it was gone, yet the sense of being observed lingered like frost on skin.
"Eden welcomes you, Prince Azerion," the Prime Minister continued, crimson eyes assessing. "Though I wonder if you truly understand what your banishment entails. This is not merely diplomatic exile—you are now an asset of the Empire."
"I am no one's asset," Azerion replied evenly, his stride matching the taller man's pace. "Banishment changes my location, not my nature."
The Prime Minister's laugh echoed like glass shattering. "Oh, but it does, young prince. In Solara, you were defined by birthright. Here"—he gestured to the towering crystal spires ahead—"you will be defined by utility."
Azerion followed, Gideon a silent shadow, the docks fading as Alisia's grandeur loomed—a new battlefield on Azerath's Middle Realm, one he entered with eyes wide and spirit unbowed. Whatever Eden intended, whatever games awaited in the crystal towers, he would face them as he had faced the storm—standing firm against forces greater than himself, finding strength where others expected weakness.
And somewhere in the city, a figure in faded green watched his progress, marking the exiled prince's arrival with calculated interest.