A/N: Honestly, this was a pretty fun chapter to work on. If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a power stone :)
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Oakenshield, Shield Islands
Luke rode beside Jon as they followed Ser Garse and his men along the coastal road to Oakenshield castle. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rocky terrain, turning the waters of the Sunset Sea into molten gold. Six of Lord Hewett's men-at-arms surrounded them, their green-and-silver surcoats rippling in the salt breeze.
He reached out through the Force, scanning their escorts. Caution emanated from them like the low buzz of a blaster set to stun, but he detected no immediate malice. Still, he remained vigilant. The politics of this world were as treacherous as quicksand on Tatooine.
"Keep Ghost close," Luke murmured to Jon. The white direwolf padded silently beside Jon's mount, red eyes watchful. "And remember what we discussed about revealing our abilities."
Jon nodded, his face composed but his Force signature turbulent. "I know, Master. We're just Northern travelers."
The castle rose before them, perched on a bluff overlooking the harbor. Unlike Winterfell's austere gray stone, Oakenshield gleamed with white limestone walls that captured the sunset's glow. Ships dotted the harbor below, their masts forming a forest of timber and canvas.
As they passed through the gates, Luke noticed a young woman awaited them in the courtyard. Luke's attention was immediately drawn to her bright Force presence—vibrant and resilient despite shadows of pain and resentment.
She stood with the rigid precision of someone who'd learned posture could be armor, her brown hair twisted into a style common in the city. The blue wool of her simple dress clung to curves that suggested comfort rather than deprivation yet her beauty still bleed through. Her eyes, large and expressive, moved from face to face before settling on Luke with unmistakable interest. Her lips curved into a practiced smile.
"Welcome to Oakenshield, honored guests," she said, dropping into a graceful curtsy. Her gaze lingered on Luke, traveling from his face to his boots and back again with obvious appreciation. "Lord Hewett bids me see to your comfort before you join..."
The young woman's gaze snapped to the direwolves, her practiced composure cracking like thin ice. Her fingers tightened against her skirts, knuckles whitening, while her pupils dilated—that primal recognition of predator meeting prey. Ghost's red eyes tracked her movement with unnerving stillness, and Amidala's massive head swiveled to follow, her amber gaze weighing and measuring.
A visible tremor ran through Falia's shoulders. When she dragged her attention back to Luke, her cheeks had flushed, whether from fear or something else entirely. The look she gave him held layers, calculation mixing with genuine fascination, as if she were trying to reconcile the man who commanded such creatures.
Luke returned her smile, noting her beauty was more than skin-deep. There was a sharp intelligence behind her eyes and a determined set to her jaw that reminded him of Leia in her younger days.
"Our men will need quarters," Jon said, dismounting. "Jory Cassel is Captain of Winterfell's household guard. He stays with us. And our direwolves will require kennels unless Lord Hewett would allow them inside."
The woman's smile faltered for just a moment before she recovered. "Of course, Lord Hewett would like to meet such… mythical creatures and the rest may find accommodation in the guards' quarters." She gestured to a steward who stepped forward to guide Harwin and Alyn away.
As they followed her through stone corridors hung with tapestries depicting naval victories, Luke observed her movements, purposeful yet careful, like someone accustomed to navigating dangerous waters. She walked slightly ahead, occasionally glancing back at them, particularly at Luke.
"You have us at an disadvantage my lady," Luke said, breaking the silence. "Might we know your name?"
She missed a step, genuine surprise flashing across her features before the polished smile returned. Through the Force, Luke felt her confusion—and pleasure—at being acknowledged as a person worthy of introduction.
"I am no lady. Falia Flowers, Ser Luke." Her voice carried a note of defiance when she added, "Lord Hewett's natural daughter."
"Flowers," Jon repeated, his interest piqued. "That's the bastard name in the Reach, isn't it? I'm am a Snow myself."
Falia's eyes widened slightly as she looked at Jon with new understanding. "Another natural child. Though it seems your father's household treats its bastards differently than mine."
"How are you treated differently here?" Jon asked, his tone carefully neutral despite the surge of emotion Luke sensed beneath his composure.
They turned down another corridor, this one lined with portraits of stern-faced men who shared Falia's prominent cheekbones.
"As befits my station," Falia answered, her light tone belied by the bitterness Luke felt rippling through her. "I serve where needed, invisible until summoned. My half-sisters sit at the high table while I pour their wine. My father rarely looks at me twice." Her gaze turned directly to Jon. "Yet here you travel with your father's men, the Captain of Winterfell's guard no less, at your side. Not all bastards live the same life, it seems."
Jon fell silent, his face expressionless but his thoughts churning with such intensity that Luke could feel them without trying—reassessment, realization, guilt.
"Our worth isn't determined by birth," Luke said quietly. "But by the choices we make and the paths we forge."
Falia glanced at him, something vulnerable flickering across her face before her mask of courtesy returned. "Pretty words, Ser Luke. The world rarely listens to them."
They approached a set of ornate doors from which the sounds of music and laughter spilled. Two guards in Hewett livery stood at attention.
"Lord Hewett feasts tonight with Roland Lanett, a merchant from the Westerlands," Falia explained, her demeanor shifting back to the proper servant. "You'll join them at the high table." She lowered her voice. "The merchant has been drinking since midday. Mind what you say—he has Lord Hewett's ear and Lannister connections."
Luke nodded his thanks for the warning, noting the genuine concern in her Force signature. Whatever game Lord Hewett was playing by inviting them, Falia wasn't entirely part of it.
"Thank you, Falia," he said.
"For what?" she asked, genuine puzzlement in her voice.
"For your honesty," Luke replied. "It's rarer than you might think."
A flush touched her cheeks as she pushed open the doors, revealing a great hall filled with light and noise.
"Good luck," she murmured. "You'll need it with this lot."
As they entered the hall, Luke placed a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder, feeling the young man's discomfort at the coming social battlefield. "Remember your training," he said softly. "Observe more than you speak. The Force can guide you through more than just sword fights."
Jon squared his shoulders, Ghost at his heels. "I'm ready."
Luke wasn't so certain, but they had little choice now. Lord Hewett rose from the high table, his florid face split by a welcoming smile that didn't reach his eyes. Beside him sat a corpulent man in crimson and gold—the Westerlands merchant, already deep in his cups.
"Jon Snow!" Lord Hewett called. "The Bastard of Winterfell! Come, come! We have much to discuss about your fascinating journey—and the current state of the North."
They advanced into the hall, all eyes turning to assess these unusual Northern visitors. In the shadows near a serving door, Luke caught sight of Falia watching them, her expression unreadable but her concern pulsing clearly through the Force.
Lord Hewett's feast hall blazed with torchlight, gilding the high-backed chairs and gleaming silver plates. Luke followed a servant past the high table where Lord Hewett sat with his family and the merchant Roland Lanett. The servant directed them to a lower table near the high table holding the nobles and guests of importance.
"It seems our station has been determined for us," Luke murmured to Jon as they took their seats.
The young man's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Ghost settled at his feet while Amidala positioned herself between their table and the rest of the hall, amber eyes watchful.
Luke scanned the room, noting the placement of guards, the locations of exits, and the faces of those present. Force signatures flared around him—Lord Hewett's smug satisfaction, the merchant's lecherous anticipation, and the cutting resentment emanating from Falia as she poured wine at the high table, careful to keep her eyes lowered. Yet their unease at the direwolves' presence betrayed itself in darting glances and white-knuckled grips on wine cups.
"This reminds me of diplomatic functions on Coruscant," Luke said quietly to Jon. "The seating arrangements always reveal more than the conversation."
Jory Cassel leaned forward. "Lord Hewett wants us to know our place."
Luke nodded. "And yet he's curious enough to invite us."
Servers brought platters of roasted fish, bread, and steamed vegetables to their table. The food was adequate but notably less elaborate than the succulent meats and pastries being served at the high table.
Lord Hewett rose from his seat, cup in hand, and approached their table. His eyes fixed on Ghost and Amidala with obvious fascination.
"Magnificent creatures," he said, keeping a cautious distance. "I've heard tales of direwolves beyond the Wall, but never expected to see one in my hall. And you have two!"
"Ghost is mine," Jon said. "Amidala follows Master Luke."
Lord Hewett's eyes gleamed with interest. "Yes, Master Luke. A most curious title." He swirled the wine in his cup. "My men have been telling strange tales. They heard tales that Northern vessel was attacked by ironborn reavers. They claim a man aboard the ship threw raiders through the air without touching them," His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Some even mentioned arrows being turned back in midair."
Luke felt Jon's alarm through the Force and sent a calming influence toward him. Jory shifted in his seat, but made no other moves.
"Interesting stories," Luke replied evenly. "Sea battles can be chaotic. Men see what they expect to see."
"We caught the ironborn by surprise," Jory added. "We've had practice fighting their kind in the North."
"No sorcery required," Luke concluded with a small smile.
Disappointment flickered across Lord Hewett's face. "A pity. I despise the ironborn myself—who in Westeros doesn't—but I'd have paid handsomely to learn how you managed such feats."
Luke shrugged. "Just skill and good fortune, my lord."
"Hmm." Lord Hewett's attention shifted to Jon. "Which brings me to another curiosity. Why would Lord Eddard Stark send so many guards to escort his bastard south? Is the boy prone to trouble?"
Jon stiffened beside Luke. The Force around him churned with indignation and old hurt. Before he could respond, Jory spoke up.
"Jon has wanted to see the Arbor since he was a child, my lord. Lord Stark granted his wish with proper escort because Jon is a valued member of House Stark."
Lord Hewett's eyebrows rose. "Valued? How unusual." He glanced back at the high table where Roland Lanett watched them with naked curiosity.
From behind Lord Hewett, Luke heard Roland Lanett mutter to his companion, "A waste of good men and coin on a bastard."
The Force rippled with Jon's tightly controlled anger. Luke placed a hand on his arm, offering silent support. The casual cruelty directed at those of Jon's status in this world still surprised Luke, despite his time in Westeros.
"I thought perhaps you journeyed for the tourney at Highgarden," Lord Hewett continued. "They say it will be the grandest in years—celebrating the betrothal of Margaery Tyrell to Renly Baratheon. But I see I was mistaken. Mayhaps you heard of the new tax placed on the North by the crown?" Lord Hewett asked, his tone carrying the casual interest of a man discussing weather patterns.
Jon's wine cup paused halfway to his lips. "Tax, my lord?"
"You haven't heard?" Disappointment flickered across Lord Hewett's face, as if they'd failed some unspoken test. "The crown has tripled the levy on Northern goods. Grain, timber, wool—all of it."
"Tripled?" Jory's voice cut sharp through the din of the feast hall. Several nearby conversations faltered.
Jon set down his cup with deliberate care. "When was this decree issued?"
"Near a moon's turn past." Lord Hewett's eyes narrowed, studying their genuine shock with fresh calculation. "Curious that Lord Stark's own son travels unaware of such matters."
The Force pulsed with Jon's sudden tension—ice crystallizing along the rim of his abandoned cup. Luke felt the temperature drop several degrees in their immediate vicinity. Peculiar.
"My lord," Jon began, his voice steady despite the frost now spreading across the wooden table, "might you tell us more of this—"
"Enjoy your meal, such as it is." Lord Hewett waved a dismissive hand, already turning away. "We can speak more of the North tomorrow, perhaps."
With that dismissal, Lord Hewett returned to this seat, sliding back into conversation with Roland Lanett.
"The crown takes what it will," Jon murmured, fingers drumming against the table's scarred wood. "But triple the levy? That's not taxation, it's strangulation."
"Aye." Jory leaned forward, voice pitched low beneath the feast's clamor. "Your father is King Robert's best friend, why would he do such a thing?"
"Or someone else is behind it." Jon's jaw tightened. "The Lannisters—"
Luke raised a hand, attention suddenly elsewhere. The Force carried fragments of conversation from the high table, Lord Hewett's voice threading through the din like smoke through cracks.
"—not a whore, Lanett."
"What is it?" Jon asked, but Luke held up a finger, concentrating.
Roland's response slithered across the distance: "—quite pretty, for a bastard, your Falia has blossomed since my last visit."
The temperature plummeted. Not from Jon this time but from Luke's own quiet anger.
"She has her mother's looks, at least," Lord Hewett replied, his tone indifferent.
"I wondered if I might have her company tonight." Roland's voice carried the casual entitlement of a man accustomed to purchasing whatever he desired.
Lord Hewett hesitated. "She's not a whore, Lanett."
"Of course not. But she is a bastard, and you've said yourself she's growing troublesome. Might do her good to learn her place." Roland's chuckle turned Luke's stomach. "I'll be gentle enough. And the Lannisters are still looking to expand their grain contracts in the Reach..."
A tense silence followed before Lord Hewett sighed. "Very well. But don't mark her. My wife complains when she can't be presented properly to guests."
The casual bartering of a human being—his own daughter—struck Luke like an AT-AT's footfall. He had encountered slavery and exploitation across the galaxy, but the dispassionate way Lord Hewett surrendered his daughter to curry favor revealed a rot at the core of this society that disturbed him deeply.
Luke glanced at Jon, relieved the young man couldn't hear the conversation. Jon was already struggling with his own heritage; this reminder of how bastards were viewed would only deepen his wounds.
As the feast progressed, musicians played and servants cleared dishes. Lord Hewett called for more wine, his face flushed with drink. Then, with deliberate showmanship, he raised his voice.
"Falia! Come here, girl."
The hall quieted as Falia approached the high table. Her face was composed, but Luke sensed her apprehension like a gathering storm in the Force.
"Escort Merchant Lanett to his guest chamber when he's ready to retire," Lord Hewett commanded. His wife and legitimate daughters exchanged smug glances, clearly enjoying Falia's humiliation.
"Yes, Father," Falia replied, her voice steady though terror and fury roiled beneath her calm exterior.
Roland Lanett licked his lips, gaze traveling up and down Falia's form. "I believe I'm ready now."
Falia offered her arm to Roland with practiced grace. As they left the hall, Luke caught her glance toward their table—a fleeting look that contained both resignation and desperation.
"Did you feel that?" Jon whispered, his face pale. "Her terror and anger. It was like a scream in the Force."
Luke nodded grimly. "I did."
"We can't let this happen," Jon insisted. "What he plans to do—"
"I know." Luke had made his decision the moment he'd heard Lord Hewett agree to Roland's request. "I'm going to help her, but I need time. Can you and Jory create a distraction? Keep Lord Hewett occupied for a while."
Jon nodded immediately, understanding filling his eyes. He turned to Jory and whispered urgent instructions. The captain's eyes widened briefly before he gave a curt nod.
"I believe Lord Hewett was interested in Northern battle tactics we use against the Ironborn," Jory said, rising from his seat. "I could offer to demonstrate some for him. These Reachmen always think they know everything about warfare."
"Good," Luke said. "I'll move now, while everyone's attention is on you."
Rising from the table, Luke bowed to Lord Hewett, who barely acknowledged him, then slipped toward a side door. Once in the corridor, he reached out through the Force, sensing the layout of the castle and the locations of its occupants. Falia's distinctive presence burned like a small flame of determination mingled with fear, moving up a distant staircase with Roland Lanett.
Luke moved quickly but cautiously through the stone hallways. When he encountered two servants, he gestured subtly, suggesting through the Force that they hadn't seen him. Their eyes glazed momentarily as they continued past without a glance.
At an intersection guarded by a drowsy soldier, Luke approached directly. "You're tired and need to check the kitchens," he said softly, with a gentle wave of his hand.
"I'm tired and need to check the kitchens," the guard repeated, abandoning his post.
Luke continued through the castle, following Falia's presence up a spiraling staircase to the guest quarters. Outside an ornate door stood four guards in Hewett livery, alert and well-armed.
Taking a deep breath, Luke centered himself in the Force. Violence was not the Jedi way unless absolutely necessary. He approached confidently, as if he belonged there.
"I'm here to serve Lord Lanett," Luke said, influencing their minds through the Force. "You will let me pass."
Three of the guards' eyes unfocused as they stepped aside. "You may pass," they murmured in unison.
The fourth guard, however, shook his head sharply, his mind resistant to Luke's influence. His hand dropped to his sword. "What did you do to them?" he demanded, drawing his blade. "Sorcery!"
Luke sighed. So much for the peaceful approach. As the guard lunged forward, Luke sidestepped the attack with Force-enhanced speed. He struck the man's wrist with precise pressure, causing him to drop his weapon with a clatter.
The sound broke the mental suggestion holding the other three guards, who drew their swords and attacked. Luke moved fluidly between them, avoiding their blades without drawing his sword. Against untrained opponents, his Jedi reflexes gave him an overwhelming advantage.
One guard swung wildly; Luke ducked under the blade and delivered a swift palm strike to the man's sternum, sending him staggering back against the wall. Another attempted to grapple Luke from behind, but Luke twisted free, using the man's momentum to flip him over his shoulder.
The third guard hesitated, witnessing his companions' failures. Luke used that moment of indecision to step forward and deliver a precise nerve strike that sent the man crumpling to the floor, unconscious.
The resistant guard had recovered his sword and charged again so he sidestepped the attack and struck the pressure point at the base of the guard's neck, causing him to collapse in a heap.
Four guards lay unconscious but breathing. Luke adjusted their positions to make it appear they had fallen asleep at their posts—a dereliction of duty, but better than the alternative explanation of being defeated by a single unarmed man.
From behind the door came a muffled cry. Luke's jaw tightened as he pushed it open without knocking.
The scene inside confirmed his worst fears. Roland Lanett, half-undressed, pinned Falia to the bed. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, and she struggled against his grip, her face contorted with revulsion and fear.
Cold anger surged through Luke. He breathed deeply, acknowledging the emotion without surrendering to it. This was not the moment for darkness, but for swift action.
Luke extended his hand, calling on the Force. Roland Lanett's eyes widened in shock as he was lifted bodily from the bed, suspended in midair.
"What in seven hells—" was all he managed before Luke sent him flying upward. Roland's head struck the wooden ceiling beams with a dull crack before he tumbled back onto the bed, unconscious.
Falia screamed, scrambling backward against the headboard. Her wide eyes fixed on Luke, terror giving way to astonishment.
"How did you..." she gasped, clutching the torn fabric of her dress.
"There's no time to explain," Luke said gently. "I heard what your father agreed to. You deserve better than this."
Falia's gaze darted between Luke and Roland's crumpled form. "He'll kill you for this. My father has men everywhere."
"I'm not concerned about that." Luke extended his hand to her. "The question is: do you want to remain under your father's roof, or would you like to be free?"
Falia stared at his outstretched hand, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she processed his words. Freedom—a concept so foreign yet so desperately desired that Luke could feel her longing ripple through the Force.
"What would I do? Where would I go?" she whispered.
"I can't promise you comfort or safety," Luke admitted. "But I can promise you won't be treated as property again."
Falia hesitated only a moment longer before clasping his hand. "I want to be free."
Luke helped her to her feet. "Take only what you need. We must hurry."
While Falia gathered a small bundle of possessions, Luke checked the corridor. The guards remained unconscious, but sounds of commotion rose from below—Jon and Jory's distraction was working, but they couldn't delay forever.
"Stay close," Luke instructed as they stepped into the hallway. He guided Falia down a servant's staircase, using the Force to sense potential encounters before they happened. When they neared the kitchens, Luke detected several presences and pulled Falia into an alcove as two guards hurried past.
"Are they searching for us?" Falia whispered.
Luke nodded. "We need to reach Jon and Jory."
They continued through the lower levels of the castle, avoiding patrols by ducking into storage rooms and unused chambers. Luke maintained his awareness through the Force, tracking Jon's presence in the great hall where raised voices suggested the distraction was growing heated.
As they approached a side entrance to the hall, Luke heard Jon's controlled voice: "—fight like raiders because that's what they are. But trap them inland? Force them to hold ground? They break. Every time."
Lord Hewett's reply was cut short by a guard bursting into the hall. "My lord! Intruders in the guest wing! Lord Lanett is injured!"
Lord Hewett's chair scraped against stone as he surged to his feet. "Lanett injured? In my own castle?" His meaty hand slammed the table, making goblets jump. "You three—with me!" He jabbed a finger at his personal guards before storming toward the hall's entrance, boots thundering on the rushes.
Luke watched Lord Hewett storm from the hall, his mind already calculating their escape route. He reached out through the Force, sending a gentle but insistent nudge toward Jon's consciousness.
Jon's head snapped up immediately, dark eyes scanning the room until they found Luke standing in the shadowed alcove with Falia. The young Stark's expression remained neutral, but Luke sensed his immediate understanding. With a subtle motion to Jory, Jon rose from his seat and casually made his way toward them, the captain following a few steps behind.
"We need to leave," Luke said without preamble as Jon reached them. "Now."
Jon glanced at Falia, noting her torn dress and the small bundle clutched to her chest. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he asked no questions. "The inn or the harbor?"
"Harbor," Luke decided. "We'll need to to expedite our departure."
"What happened?" Jory asked, his hand already resting on his sword hilt.
"I intervened when Lord Lanett attempted to force himself on Falia," Luke said quietly. "Lord Hewett sanctioned it. She's coming with us."
Jory's weathered face hardened. "Aye, that's reason enough." He nodded to Falia. "Stay close, my lady."
"I'm no lady," she whispered, clutching her meager possessions tighter.
"You're under our protection now," Jon assured her. "That's what matters."
Luke sensed the young man's fierce determination as Jon might not yet understand the full power of the Force within him, but his moral compass pointed true.
"Harwin and Alyn are at the east gate still." Jory said.
"Good, we'll meet them there," Jon said. "It's the least guarded."
They slipped from the hall unnoticed, the remaining guests too distracted by the commotion to pay attention to their departure. Luke led them through servant passages he'd memorized earlier, avoiding the main corridors where guards would be gathering.
As they turned a corner, Luke sensed two guards approaching and raised his hand, signaling the others to stop. He stepped forward alone, greeting the guards with a casual nod.
"Lord Hewett sent us to check the eastern perimeter," Luke said, his voice layered with Force suggestion. "You should join the search in the guest wing."
The guards' eyes glazed slightly. "We should join the search in the guest wing," the taller one repeated, and they hurried past without a second glance.
Falia stared after them, wide-eyed. "How did you—"
"Later," Luke promised. "We need to keep moving."
They reached the eastern courtyard as bells began to ring throughout the castle. The alarm has been raised. Torches flared to life along the battlements as guards shouted to each other across the yard.
"There!" Jon pointed to the shadows near the gate where two men waited, their hands on their sword hilts. Harwin and Alyn stepped forward at the sight of Jon and Jory.
"What's happened?" Harwin asked, his voice low and urgent.
"No time," Jory replied. "We're leaving."
Jory urged them forward, his voice sharp with urgency. "Quickly, mount your horses! We need to leave now!"
Luke nodded to Falia, guiding her quickly as she climbed onto the saddle. Her hands trembled slightly, and he sensed a storm of emotions brewing within her as she settled into the seat. He mounted right behind her, casting a glance back at Jon and Jory, who were already readying their mounts.
Behind them, the sound of shouting echoed through the courtyard, mingled with the clang of armor and the scuff of boots against stone. "Don't let them escape!" someone bellowed from the castle entrance as they had mere moments before Lord Hewett's men would descend upon them.
"We have to move!" Luke said, urging his horse forward. Falia clutched at him instinctively as they broke into a gallop alongside Jon and Jory. The path toward the harbor was littered with obstacles, but Luke felt an unyielding determination propelling them onward.
As they raced through the exit, he heard more shouts behind them of angry voices calling for reinforcements.
The harbor came into view ahead with ships bobbing gently on the waves beneath. "We need to reach that boat," Luke shouted over the wind.
Jon nodded, eyes set like flint. "I see it! The one we arrived in!"
They rounded a corner toward the docks just as an echoing horn sounded behind them—their pursuers were in hot pursuit. Luke could feel men moving quickly through the chaos of soldiers still gathering in response to Lord Hewett's call.
As they approached their ship, Jory shouted to the captain already on deck, "We need to leave right this instant! No time for questions!"
The captain hesitated, glancing nervously at the approaching guards who had gathered near the end of the pier. "What do you mean? What's happening?"
"There's no time!" Jory barked again. "Just go! We'll sort this out once we're away from here!"
The captain hesitated but recognized Jory's authority. Reluctantly nodding, he motioned for them to hurry aboard.
"Now!" Luke urged as they all dismounted and rushed onto the vessel.
Before he could step aboard himself, however, he sensed movement at his back of a group of armed men sprinting toward them along the dock.
"Master!" Jon called out urgently from aboard ship. "Get on!"
Without thinking twice, Luke reached out through the Force and conjured energy around him as a wave pulsed outward from him toward those advancing foes on the dock. With a concentrated push, he summoned his willpower and sent a blast toward part of the wooden pier itself.
The sound was thunderous as splintered wood exploded outward like fireworks—a section of the dock collapsed beneath their feet while several guards fell into cold water below with startled cries. The remaining men stumbled back in shock as chaos erupted around them.
"Now!" Jory yelled again as panic rippled through those still standing on shore.
Luke leapt aboard just as Jon tugged Falia inside after him while Jory helped secure lines and signals for departure.
The captain wasted no time setting sail; wind caught sails above them with a mighty rush while they pulled away from danger—the shoreline fading behind them like a distant nightmare that might return but remained firmly anchored in their past.