Dusk settled over the docks of Oestia, Cremia, where lanterns cast warm glows across weathered planks. Great ships loomed against an amber-streaked sky, their silhouettes swaying as the clamor of creaking timbers and clanging chains faded into the rhythmic lapping of waves and distant calls of night watchmen.
"Hold still, Marcy—no, not there! goddess, not into the fish!"
A burst of laughter erupted as a tiny redheaded girl darted from a carriage and barreled into a stack of fish baskets, sending a flurry of scales and salty curses into the air. Behind her, other children leapt from the carriages, tumbling over each other like puppies after a long lockdown.
"I said wait!" cried Grace, flustered, hurrying after them. Her satchels swung from her shoulder, and worry tightened her face.
She was in her forties, perhaps older, but the children made her full of fire. Her thick black hair was pinned hastily beneath a grey scarf, and her dress—though plain—was well cared for. Her voice was tired but practiced. Her arms flailed as she tried to rein in the chaos: "You lot! Back in line! The dock is not a playground—Luka, don't lick that!"
The port was used to noise, but this was different. Even the Sailors, at least some of them, paused to watch the dozens of children scatter across the wharf like unpenned sheep, shrieking with delight, staring in wonder at the ships and waving at strangers.
"Miss Grace!" a boy yelled, pointing toward a masted ship half-loaded with ironwood. "Is that ours?"
"No, Oreh, and stop climbing it—come down from there!" she groaned.
Grace paced nervously between wandering little bodies, scanning the ships docked or slowly pulling into harbor. Her eyes moved from one vessel to the next—too plain, too small, too rough—while she gathered up stray children and ushered them back to the wagons. She stopped every few seconds to count aloud, eyes darting.
A frail girl in her arms whimpered softly, shivering against her chest. Grace hugged her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Almost there, little dove. Just hold on."
A heavy bell tolled further down the wharf. Grace turned—and froze.
The ship that came into view was like nothing the children—or the port—had ever seen.
It moved through the water as smoothly as a swan on a quiet lake. Its black hull shone under the torchlight, marked with silver lines that caught the glow. Blue glass lanterns hung from the sides, casting a soft, star-like light. The dark sails, stitched with pale designs, swelled in the wind like old banners. Faint, unfamiliar music seemed to follow it.
The dockhands gawked. Even the galley slaves stopped chanting.
Grace didn't need to ask.
"Kids come on!"
A chorus of cheers broke out as the children scrambled forward. Grace lifted the weak girl into her arms and jogged toward the ship, calling names as she hurried. "In rows—Endric, stay close! Don't push! Hands where I can see them!"
The ship lowered its gangplank with a hiss of enchantment. A figure stood at the top—tall, robed in dark blue trimmed with silver. His eyes were coated by faint milky sheen that identified him as blind, his features calm and unreadable. He held a silver-topped cane.
Grace slowed, wary but respectful.
"Lady Helene?" she asked.
The man gave nod, and Grace stared for a moment before allowing the ever eager kids to climb, counting them carefully as they filed past.
Inside, gasps erupted.
Lanterns hung from silver chains, giving off a soft, rich light. The walls were paneled in cherrywood, polished until it gleamed, and golden inlays traced the veins of the grain. Soft couches surrounded neat tables covered with toys and wooden animals. Small beds sat tucked into cozy corners, each draped with light curtains and lit by a gentle glowing lantern above.
When the anchor was pulled and the ship began to move, every child pressed against the rails or the wide panoramic window in the lounge. The lights of Oestia grew smaller behind them, glittering like scattered coins in the dark.
Grace stood among them, one arm around a boy, the other stroking the hair of the girl in her arms. The wind danced in her scarf. She looked back once, exhaled, and closed her eyes. She thought of her husband. She hadn't told him but she had left a letter. She hoped it would find him and he wouldn't hate her too much for it. It didn't.
On the quarterdeck, the blind captain lifted a gloved hand and whistled.
A raven descended from the mast, its feathers darker than usual. It landed on his arm.
He whispered something in its ear—and with a flap, it vanished into the sky, flying eastward into the dark.
At the back, the shadow mage had shifted, taking a position that it deemed most comfortable.