Nightfall in Slum City was a peculiar affair—its streets transformed under the veil of fog and the chaotic hum of nightlife. But tonight, as the Tideguard caravan began its route from the northwestern docks, the usual energy dimmed. Doors creaked shut, stalls were hastily packed away, and shadowed figures in alleyways retreated further into the gloom. Wherever the Tideguard traveled, trouble usually followed.
Two wagons, polished and reinforced, moved in perfect synchrony through the narrow streets. The sound of hooves striking cobblestone was muffled by the fog, but the disciplined cadence of marching boots remained sharp. Lanterns hung from the wagons' sides, their cold blue glow illuminating the armored figures flanking them.
The Tideguard officers were a sight to behold, each clad in matching plate reinforced with enchantments that shimmered faintly under the flicker of mana-charged lanterns. Shields were slung across their backs, weapons at the ready, while their eyes scanned every corner of the dimly lit streets.
At the head of the convoy, a commanding officer barked orders. "Stay in formation! Nothing gets close!" His voice cut through the fog, crisp and precise, as though daring the city itself to defy them.
The wagons carried more than cargo; they carried an aura of dread. Beyond the armored exterior, etched runes pulsed faintly—the telltale hum of suppression wards emanating from within. These were no mere transport wagons; they were moving fortresses, designed to withstand threats both mundane and magical.
The surrounding streets grew eerily silent as the convoy approached, the clatter of daily life replaced by a hushed stillness. A mother ushered her child inside, throwing a fearful glance at the soldiers before slamming the door. Vendors pretended to inspect their wares while keeping a cautious distance, their gazes never lingering for too long. The message was clear: The Tideguard wasn't just a presence—it was a force no one dared to challenge.
As they turned onto Blightcross Avenue, the commanding officer stole a glance at his pocket watch. Perfect timing, he thought, noting the synchronized movements of his soldiers. At this pace, they'd reach Low Lanterns Alley and make their exchange with the Tidewarden without incident.
Narza led the way down the creaking gangplank, moving like a ghost as the fog thickened around her. The soft hiss of her boots against the wood was nearly inaudible, a testament to her silent efficiency. Behind her, Cidrin adjusted a leather strap on the satchel slung over his shoulder, his expression calm and calculating as he descended.
"Keep an eye out. If Ironshadow makes their move, I'll handle the signal," Rahl muttered, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. The glow of the ember stood out briefly before it disappeared into the haze.
"What signal?" Fenrick asked, his voice edged with humor. "You standing up there waving your arms?"
"You really think I'd do something that dumb?" Rahl shot back dryly.
"I'd believe it," Fenrick replied with a smirk, rolling his shoulders as they stepped into the narrow streets.
"Do you hear that?" Ariya asked softly, her tone curious as she glanced toward a burst of faint music somewhere in the distance.
"The pulse of the city," Cidrin muttered without looking back. "Life persists, even in this cesspool."
Narza didn't respond, her head turning just slightly as her eyes scanned the narrow alley ahead.
Around them, the signs of nightlife grew louder. Barkers yelled their pitch for suspect wares; the clink of dice on wood accompanied muted groans or cheers from gambling stalls tucked into shadowed corners. Distant laughter mingled with an argument that stopped short when the clatter of boots signaled the convoy's approach.
"This place doesn't change," Fenrick muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He smirked at a street vendor trying—and failing—to upsell a half-eaten loaf of bread to a drunk patron. "Still a paradise of the desperate and the greedy."
"Don't get distracted," Narza said, her words sharp yet quiet, barely louder than the fog that curled around her.
"No distractions here," Fenrick replied, though his grin widened slightly.
The crew rounded a corner, their path narrowing as the fog thickened, wrapping the streets in an unsettling cloak. Narza slowed her pace, her amber gaze flicking toward Cidrin. He nodded, understanding the silent signal. "I'm still in position to handle the wards," Cidrin said, gesturing toward the satchel. "And don't worry—I won't have to get close."
"What are you using, exactly?" Ariya asked as she adjusted the strap of her small travel bag.
"Something I rigged together over the past forty-eight hours," Cidrin replied, his tone carrying a faint note of pride. "Pulse grenades. Crude, but effective. Each one emits a concentrated surge of disruptive mana, enough to temporarily disable the suppression wards if timed correctly."
"And they work?" Ariya pressed, doubt flickering across her features.
Cidrin gave her a dry look. "If it didn't, we wouldn't be walking toward a convoy brimming with armed soldiers, now would we?"
Ariya huffed but fell silent, letting the sharp edges of Cidrin's tone fade into the fog.
As they approached their positions, the crew split off quietly. Rahl took to the rooftops, his footsteps muffled against the damp surface of the tiles. He crouched low, scanning the streets below while his hand hovered near his blade.
Narza melted into the fog as though she were part of it, her form vanishing in an instant. Fenrick lingered only long enough to catch Ariya's eye and offer her a grin. "Don't mess up, princess. The last thing we need is another lecture from Cidrin."
Ariya didn't dignify him with a response A faint glow emanated from the gem as she steadied her breathing. The convoy came into view. The rhythmic clatter of wheels and boots reached them first, followed by the cold blue glow of the suppression ward lanterns hanging from the wagons. Narza's gaze cut through the haze, analyzing their movements, and she raised one hand to signal the others.
"This is it," Rahl muttered from his perch, his voice nearly lost to the wind.
Narza crouched low, her silhouette practically one with the mist, only the faintest ripple in the fog betraying her presence. Even then, she was little more than a ghost, shifting with practiced silence as her blade was drawn without so much as a sound. She moved through the mist with a natural ease, becoming one with the smoke she now controlled. Her dagger spun once in her grip before disappearing into the sheath at her back; for now, her magic was enough.
Behind her, Fenrick rolled his shoulders lazily as if the atmosphere wasn't burdened with weight. "Lot of effort for an overhyped parade," he muttered. His hand brushed the edge of his blade, eager but restrained, like a predator savoring the hunt.
"Quiet," Narza whispered sharply without even turning toward him. A faint glow at her fingertips flared briefly as the haze thickened, its edges becoming dense and stifling. The fog curled unnaturally around her feet, thickening like ink spreading through water. When she opened her eyes again, her hands moved deftly, summoning concentrated tendrils of dark smoke that merged seamlessly with the natural mist, swallowing entire portions of the convoy in an oppressive shroud. It clung to every surface, blinding, dampening sound, dulling instincts. The guards struggled in the sudden void of clarity, their formation breaking just enough to render them vulnerable.
"Stay sharp," the lead officer commanded, his voice cutting through the haze like a whip. His eyes scanned the wavering shadows of Blightcross Avenue, his posture steady and precise. The guards flanking the wagons mirrored his attentiveness, gripping their weapons tighter. Shields and staves shifted with subtle motion as their eyes swept the fog for threats. Though their pace remained steady, their readiness was palpable. They weren't merely reacting to the strange fog; they were adapting, moving in practiced unity like a machine designed to crush disorder. But the fog wasn't natural—this, they knew. Whispers floated among them, low murmurs trading theories that carried tension beneath the calm. Their formation tightened slightly, shields adjusting positions to better cover potential blind spots. Something was coming.
From his concealed perch near an alley, Cidrin assessed the situation. The lanterns housing the suppression wards remained active, their faint hum a constant reminder of the job that lay ahead.
He adjusted a cylindrical device in his hands—sleek, with layered mechanisms of engraved runes, its interior charged with pulsating mana. The product of 48 hours of focused crafting, the pulse grenades were carefully designed to release synchronized disruptions strong enough to sever the interconnected suppressor fields.
With deliberate precision, Cidrin twisted the device's activation plate, setting the internal mechanisms humming softly. He counted down mentally, his focus unflinching as he lobbed it into the fog-shrouded convoy.
The moment the pulse detonated, the suppression wards dimmed in unison, their enchantments cracking under the perfectly calibrated interference. A heavy stillness followed—a subtle but profound shift in the air as ambient mana reawakened in the absence of suppression.
Cidrin fell back into the shadows without a word, his expression focused but calm. With the wards now disabled, Ariya was now able to work her magic.
The guards at the front of the convoy carried themselves with visible discipline, their bodies squared as they adjusted to the unnatural thickening of the fog. Lanterns flickered, their magic sputtering weakly, but they were quick to shift their shields into tighter formations, readying for what they could not yet see.
From her position behind a crumbled wall, Ariya planted her feet and narrowed her focus. Her breathing slowed to a steady rhythm as she extended her will toward the lead guards. Sanctis hummed under her command, a whisper of lightless magic coiling through the air and penetrating their defenses like an invisible serpent.
It wasn't brute force or direct impact—it was far more surgical. She honed her magic, reaching inside their bodies, weaving through veins and arteries to overstimulate the natural rhythms of their blood. A surge here, a constriction there—a precise overproduction of pressure that her Sanctis manipulated like a delicate instrument.
Her eyes remained wide open, locked onto her targets, her hands trembling faintly as she concentrated. The magic coiled tightly in her control, teetering on the knife's edge of too much or too little. She applied just enough force to overwhelm without killing—a sudden narrowing of a vein, a momentary seizure in blood flow.
The guards' reactions were swift but futile. One faltered mid-step, a trembling hand clutching at his temple as his body betrayed him. He collapsed in place, his weapon clattering uselessly to the cobblestones. The other took a shaky step forward before doubling over, wheezing and staggering under an invisible weight that left him gasping for breath.
Ariya let out a small sigh, lowering her arms as her targets fell. A faint pang of guilt touched her mind—it wasn't natural to harm with Sanctis—but she buried it quickly.
On the rooftops, Rahl watched in silence. The world below him was smothered in cold gray, the dull glow of suppression lanterns casting distorted reflections against damp, weathered stone. The height gave him a vantage of the convoy winding its way into the tight maze of Low Lanterns Alley—a clear path with limited exits. Perfect. Yet something nagged at him—a sense of stillness that was out of place even for this job. His cigarette flickered faintly as he exhaled, the ember sputtered out, snuffed by a creeping chill that licked at his fingers and sent an involuntary shiver up his spine, his breath hung briefly before him in wispy clouds, visible even against the haze. He frowned, shifting to peer into the distance, but the fog pressed against the edges of his vision, making even the shadows feel oppressive. His hand lingered near dagger, his sharp eyes scanning the jagged rooftops and alleys for signs of Ironshadow assassins. If they were here, they were invisible—or late. His gut told him it was neither. Something felt... wrong.
"Time for the star of the show," Fenrick muttered under his breath as he planted one boot against a weathered crate. With a burst of speed, Fenrick darted forward, his form barely visible in the fog. In an instant, he closed the gap between him and Kline. His speed was blistering, his movements calculated. Darial Kline's wagon was directly in his sights, the target practically within reach.
Then the air shifted.
A gale of wind roared to life, sudden and sharp, sending Fenrick careening to the side as sand coiled around him in a slicing arc. He twisted mid-air, landing hard against the ground but rolling back to his feet in a defensive crouch.
"What the fu—?"
"So, they sent the dog after the caravan," The voice cut through him—steady, commanding, and laced with menace."Should I expect the rest of your pack to come sniffing, or is this sloppy lone-wolf act all you've got?"
She emerged from the swirling sand and mist, the Tidewarden herself, her glaive glinting coldly under the faint light. Her gaze swept across Fenrick like a hawk sizing up prey, unreadable and entirely devoid of fear. The plan crumbled in silence as she took a measured step forward. For the first time that night, Fenrick didn't grin—he only tensed. His fingers tightened into fists, his posture lowering into a ready stance. The feral grin on his face belied the rapid calculations flickering behind his golden eyes. His opponent was no ordinary adversary—her measured stance, the way she wielded the elements, spoke of precision and experience. But Fenrick had never been one to back down.
"You're looking at me like you've already won," he said, his grin widening. "Let me show you why that's a mistake."
She observed him with a mixture of disdain and cold assessment. "Your kind—brawlers fueled by instinct and arrogance—never last long," she remarked. With a flick of her hand, a soft breeze carried the grains of sand swirling around her feet.
"Oh, I'll last," Fenrick shot back. "Long enough to put you on your ass."
The Tidewarden didn't deign to respond immediately. She stood poised, her glaive in one hand and the air swirling unnaturally around her as sand cascaded in quiet eddies at her feet. Her eyes were sharp, unyielding, carrying the weight of authority.
The moment the words left Fenrick's mouth, he surged forward, his magic erupting around him in a burst of primal energy. A sudden vortex erupted around the Tidewarden, the gale slamming Fenrick to the side like a ragdoll. She barely shifted her stance, her free hand raising as she muttered, "Aerosyne: Wind Blade Barrage." Razor-sharp crescents of air materialized in an instant, slicing toward him with deadly precision. Fenrick twisted, narrowly dodging the first two strikes as they cut through cobblestone, leaving deep gashes. The third blade grazed his shoulder, drawing a sharp line of blood.
"You think fancy tricks scare me?" Fenrick growled, though his movements had already become more cautious.
"You mistake fear for inevitability, like all criminals. Loud, brash, desperate. In the end, you're all the same. Chaff for the storm to scatter." the Tidewarden replied, sweeping her glaive in a broad arc.
"You talk a lot for someone with backup wagons full of foot soldiers. Not enough confidence to take me on your own?" He yelled.
The Tidewarden's expression didn't falter. "Confidence is earned through discipline. Something you wouldn't understand." She stopped abruptly, planting her glaive into the ground. Before Fenrick could capitalize on her momentary break, Sand surged to life around her feet as her lips curled into a faint smirk. "Let me teach you what arrogance costs."
With that, the sand around her compressed into countless compact pellets, swirling rapidly at her fingertip.
"Sandcannon Gale!"
She pointed a finger, and tightly compacted pellets of sand spun to life, propelled by wind. Each projectile shot forward like a drill, piercing the air with terrifying speed. Fenrick's instincts screamed at him to move as they fired with startling velocity, drilling through the air like miniature whirlwinds. The first shot grazed past his shoulder, spinning violently and ripping through the cobblestones where he had stood moments before. Another blasted his leg as he leapt away, throwing him off-balance and leaving a burning gash. He hit the ground hard, rolling into a crouch as sand and debris sprayed around him. Another ricocheted off a nearby wall, shattering brick. The Tidewarden followed seamlessly, her glaive spinning into her grip as she stepped forward. "Sloppy. Even for a common thug." She swung the blade in a wide arc, her wind magic propelling the strike like a hammer blow.
Fenrick threw himself into a backward flip, the blade slicing through the space where his head had been. He landed on unsteady feet, panting.
"I'm offended," Fenrick replied, his grin strained. "Would a common thug have lasted this long against a Tidewarden?"
The Tidewarden moved faster than he anticipated, closing the distance with a fluid combination of magic and raw physicality. She swung the glaive with controlled power, each movement deliberate. The blade hummed as air currents guided its trajectory, forcing Fenrick to duck, weave, and deflect with split-second timing.
"Disappointing," she said coolly. With a quick flourish, she thrust the glaive into the ground, releasing a burst of wind to send herself airborne. She pointed downward.
"Aerosyne: Rising Wind."
A spiraling vortex erupted, engulfing Fenrick and hurling him into the air. His body twisted against the rushing winds, his vision swimming as he fought for control. The world blurred until he hit the ground with a sickening thud, tumbling across the stone. The Tidewarden descended with precision, landing gracefully. Sand lifted around her in a defensive veil as she approached Fenrick, who was struggling to push himself up. "You'll break eventually," she said, her tone unshaken. "All beasts do." Before Fenrick could fully recover, the Tidewarden was already winding up her next attack sweeping her glaive in a broad arc. "Aerosyne: Gale Reversal." A powerful gust surged from her blade, forcing Fenrick to brace against its strength. His boots scraped against the stone as the force drove him backward, unsettling him further.
Fenrick gritted his teeth and dashed forward, zigzagging to avoid the follow-up volley. But the Tidewarden anticipated his movements.
"Aerosyne: Cyclone Shield." Wind spun to life in a defensive barrier, forcing Fenrick to halt his advance as the vortex repelled him violently.
Fenrick spat blood onto the street, his grin entirely gone. "Break?" he said, his voice hoarse. "Bitch, I haven't even started."
Her eyes narrowed. Fenrick forced himself upright, his muscles screaming in protest. Golden light began to seep from his frame, an aura that pulsed with primal energy. His fingers flexed, his breathing heavy yet steady.
The Tidewarden frowned for the first time, her grip on the glaive tightening. "What are you doing?"
Fenrick smirked faintly, the first spark of his old self reemerging. "Giving you something to remember me by."
The aura around him flared as he bent low, his body coiling like a spring. Every ounce of his mana surged toward his legs, igniting a sensation of raw momentum.
"Beastrend: Raptor's Dive."
Fenrick shot forward with the speed of a predator descending on its prey, a single moment stretched into eternity as the street seemed to shatter beneath the force of his acceleration. The Tidewarden moved to raise her glaive, but Fenrick struck faster. His shoulder slammed into her midsection with bone-crushing force, sending her flying backward.
She hit the cobblestones hard, her glaive clattering from her grasp. For a brief second, her composed facade cracked, replaced with a flicker of genuine surprise.
Fenrick staggered from the blow's aftermath, his breath ragged. "Still think I'm all bark?"
The Tidewarden rose slowly, her expression cold, though a faint shadow of irritation darkened her features. She gestured, calling her glaive back to her hand with a gust of wind. The battle wasn't over, but for the first time, she seemed to regard Fenrick with measured caution.
Narza's amber eyes narrowed, her focus shifting from the battlefield to the wagons, where Darial Kline sat bound and guarded. Now. The thought echoed in her mind, sharp and certain. With Fenrick keeping the Tidewarden occupied, her opportunity had arrived.
Moving as silently as the fog itself, Narza slipped through the chaos. Her form melded into the dense haze, becoming little more than a shadow among the mist. Every movement was precise, her footsteps lighter than a whisper. The chaos Fenrick wrought served as the perfect distraction, allowing Narza to weave through the gaps in their defenses unnoticed.
The lead wagon loomed ahead, its iron-reinforced walls etched with faded sigils. Two guards flanked the rear of the vehicle, their postures tense, hands gripping their weapons tightly. They glanced anxiously toward the sound of Fenrick's clash, flinching at every booming impact.
Narza moved with lethal intent, a dagger slipping into her hand without a sound. She lunged from the mist, her blade slicing through the first guard's armor at the exposed gap in his neck. Blood sprayed as he collapsed without a sound. The second guard turned, alarm widening his eyes—but Before his partner could raise his weapon, she whirled and drove the second blade into the gap beneath his arm. He crumpled with a choked gasp, his body hitting the cobblestone.
Climbing onto the wagon, she found Kline bound to the interior bench, his wrists shackled and his expression bleak. His sharp eyes gleaming with irritation rather than fear. He stopped struggling when he spotted her, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his battered face.
"Well, about damn time," Kline muttered as Narza pulled the gag free.
"Quiet," Narza interrupted, her tone icy yet calm.
Kline stretched his stiff limbs, the smirk not leaving his face. "Should've been quiet days ago if it meant avoiding this mess. You lot are cutting it close."
Narza ignored him as she drew a second dagger. She crouched, working swiftly to slice through his restraints. "Stay close and follow my lead. No deviations."
"Let's move," she ordered, gripping Kline's arm to guide him into the cover of the mist.
The convoy was in disarray. Guards shouted to one another, their commands muddled as the thickened fog turned every direction into a maze. The heavy thuds of boots and clinking armor grew louder as pursuing officers converged on their trail.
Narza moved swiftly, her instincts honed to perfection. She tugged Kline along behind her, their footsteps muffled by the carpet of fog. A group of Tideguard officers appeared ahead, silhouettes shrouded in haze.
"Very subtle. You've got all the charm of a butcher." Kline quipped, his tone sharp with mockery.
She cast him a withering glance but didn't respond. Her grip on her daggers tightened, her focus unshaken as she guided him down the winding alleys of Slum City. The fog worked to her advantage, cloaking their escape in layers of obscurity. Kline trailed behind her as they rounded a narrow corner, muttering complaints under his breath. He stumbled slightly, bumping into her back when she stopped abruptly.
"Hey, what—"
The words died in his throat as he noticed her. Narza stood stock-still, her posture rigid, eyes wide with an expression he could only describe as fear. The temperature had plummeted without warning. Frost spread along the alley walls in creeping veins, turning the damp stone into shimmering ice. Narza's breath hung in the air, shallow and rapid. Her hands twitched at her sides, hovering near her daggers but making no move to draw them. She had felt this before—the weight in the air, the unnatural chill, the suffocating dread that clawed at her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her feet felt rooted in place.
From the mist at the far end of the alley, two figures emerged. They walked slowly, their silhouettes eerily composed, the fog parting unnaturally around them. Narza's eyes locked on them, and her heart thundered against her ribs.
Not Tideguard. Not Ironshadow. Something worse.
Kline shifted nervously, his voice low and uncertain. "What... what's going on?"
Narza didn't answer. Her breaths came faster as the figures advanced, every step pressing more weight against her will to move. She wasn't thinking—her mind barely processed the situation beyond one inescapable truth: they couldn't fight this.
Suddenly, she turned, her movements uncharacteristically frantic. She grabbed Kline's arm in a bruising grip, ignoring his yelp of protest as she spun him around.
"Move," she snapped, the word sharp and shaking.
Without giving him a choice, she yanked him forward, forcing him to stumble into a sprint. Narza didn't care where she was going, didn't care about strategy or escape routes—only distance.
The frost thickened behind them, the walls of the alley glistening like glass as the figures' deliberate steps echoed faintly in pursuit. But Narza didn't look back.
She couldn't.
The Duskvein bobbed gently against the harbor, its moorings groaning softly as waves lapped against its hull. Erin stood near the edge of the deck, leaning over the railing as he stared at the city beyond. The fog had thinned slightly, but the faint glow of streetlamps still cast an eerie veil over Slum City's jagged silhouette. The minutes stretched into hours, and Erin's frustration grew with each passing moment. He tapped his fingers on the railing in a restless rhythm, his mind drifting back to the conversations earlier that day. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath cloud in front of him before fading. Why did this still bother him so much? He tried to convince himself it wasn't personal, but the truth sank deeper. They thought he wasn't ready. Maybe they were right.
What if they'll always think that? What if I'll never be enough to prove them wrong? What if—
The flood of doubts hit him all at once, fast and suffocating. His mind jumped between questions too quickly to answer, each thought gnawing at the edges of his resolve.
You're not good enough to walk among them. If you had been, you'd be out there now. You're just an average kid, What makes you think you could change anything?
The intrusive voice echoed in the quiet of his mind. Erin's fingers tightened on the railing.
"No, that's not…" he whispered under his breath. But what if it is true?
His mind spiraled again, a battle waging against his own hope.
They've done thing like this before. You? You're not trained. You're not ready. You'd only make things worse.
Erin closed his eyes, shaking his head as if it might drown the voice out. They might need me. What if they're in trouble? What if something went wrong? No signal from Rahl. What does that mean?
It means they're fine without you, just like they knew they'd be.
He slammed his fist against the rail, the sharp clang reverberating through the deck. "Shut up," he muttered, voice low but seething.
The night fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the groan of the ship and the lapping of the water. Erin took a deep breath and slipped a hand into his pocket. The worn brass compass rested there. It had been with him for years, a symbol more than anything, since it had never worked.
Until now.
The needle trembled faintly before locking in place, pointing toward the heart of the city. Toward the convoy.
"What the…?" His voice trailed off as he held the compass out in front of him. No matter which way he tilted it, the needle didn't waver. His pulse quickened, the metallic chill of the compass biting into his palm as he stared. The realization hit him like a jolt. The compass had never worked before. Why now?
And then he felt it. A chill brushed against his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Erin froze. The air was colder, far colder than it had been mere moments ago. His breath escaped in pale wisps, visible against the dark.
"What's going on?" he murmured, staring out into the fog as if it might answer him.
And then, it dawned on him: there'd been no signal. No flash from Rahl. Nothing. The growing chill, the compass suddenly springing to life—something was wrong. No, something was very, very wrong. Erin's thoughts began to race, pieces falling into place with an unsettling clarity. If the crew was in trouble, if something unexpected had gone wrong, they had no way of alerting him. The plan was rigid—no communication except for Rahl's signal, and without it. But then it started again. The other voice—the one that seeped doubt into his veins.
Even if there's trouble, what could you possibly do? Run in there like some hero? You'd just get in the way. You'd slow them down. You'd get them killed.
The sharp edge of those words dug into him, stealing the little air left in his lungs. "What do I do?" he whispered shakily, gripping the compass tighter.
You do nothing. Stay here. Safe. It's what you're good at.
His heart pounded. "I should stay," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with indecision. "Thalor said—". Thalor wasn't here. The realization hit with an unsettling weight. The deck was eerily quiet, his usual presence nowhere to be found. Erin was alone. But another thought struck him—a memory, not his own but of Rahl's words. Strong, firm, ringing louder than the doubt clawing at him.
"Dreams mean nothing without action. Every step you take toward something is a step away from something else."
Those words settled in his mind, blotting out the noise. He stared down at the compass, then toward the fog-wrapped city. He clenched his jaw and pushed away the fear threatening to root him to the deck. If he stayed and did nothing, he'd never forgive himself.
"This is my step away," he whispered. "Away from what's safe. Away from my old life."
Quickly, Erin made his way below deck. The Duskvein's creaking groans seemed louder in the quiet corridors. Passing the supply closet, he grabbed a knife from the ship's inventory, the blade sharp but worn from use. Passing through the narrow hall, he stopped outside Cidrin's cabin. For a moment, the doubts clawed at the edge of his resolve, but the compass remained firm in his hand, pointing him forward. Stepping inside, his eyes scanned the scattered devices that lined the desk, intricate designs only Cidrin would understand. Erin grabbed a small, handheld contraption—etched with intricate markings, runes glowing faintly.
The night air hit him again as he returned to the deck. The docks stretched before him, the path to Slum City open. He paused at the gangplank, hesitation flickering briefly in his chest, but the chill in the air reminded him of what drove him forward.
This was his step—away from safety, away from uncertainty, toward action, toward his dream.
As the cold city fog enveloped him, he gritted his teeth and followed the compass's steady direction. For the first time in too long, each step felt purposeful and he didn't look back