We had been sailing through the Black Sea for a month. A full month. Count it on your fingers if you like, you will still run out of fingers before the boredom runs out. Imagine the scene: waves rising, waves falling, waves waiting for nothing. The same gray sky, the same black water, the same crew staring into the distance as if land might appear out of sheer embarrassment. Even the seagulls had abandoned us. They circled once, realized we were no more interesting than driftwood, and went off to find livelier company. That is the insult of the sea. First it breaks your back, then it breaks your spirit. By the end of the month we looked less like sailors and more like ghosts learning how to row.
The only sound, apart from the ship creaking in misery, was the chatter of men trying to stay sane. The merchant, for example, never stopped speaking of trade. Ah, the destruction of Maltoon had ruined a dozen routes, yes, but opportunities always rose from ashes. He spoke of ports and prices, of profits hiding behind tragedy, as if the ocean itself could be folded neatly into his ledger. A man like him will probably calculate the value of his own coffin.
Others kept the mood lighter. I heard whispers in the night about the Devil's crew. It was spoken like a prayer, or perhaps a curse.
"They vanished," one sailor swore. "Caught by the jaws of the Forbidden Island. Even now, they are trapped, unable to escape."
"Nonsense," said another, pouring himself another cup. "The Black Mark got them. All of them, every last man. You cannot sail against a curse."
"Every one of them?" asked a third, already half drunk.
"Yes. Every one."
I leaned against a beam, listening without comment. History, when told by drunkards, becomes entertainment. Let them argue whether devils or curses killed men they never knew. My concern was simpler: survive long enough to set foot on land again.
And then, one morning, the shout came from the lookout. A shoreline. I looked up and saw it myself, first a faint line on the horizon, then slowly thickening, rising, turning into promise. My chest eased, my breath deepened. Land. Relief tastes sweeter than rum.
Takhbay. That was the name whispered across oceans, praised and cursed with equal heat. A city unlike any other, where pirates and merchants lived side by side, where deals replaced daggers, where greed was the law and everyone obeyed it willingly. Even its enemies admitted grudging respect. Civilization, built not on peace, but on profit.
The gates were our first glimpse. Enormous, carved of white marble with veins of gold, standing proud like some rich man's arrogance. And inside the gates, life unfolded in a chaos that somehow felt orderly. Barrels rolled down the cobbles, flags cracked in the wind, banners blazed like captured rainbows. Vendors called from stalls with voices trained to wrestle coin from pocket. Children ran wild, jugglers tossed fire into the air, and somewhere a troupe of musicians filled the street with flutes and drums. The air was thick with spice, sweat, and smoke. Yet beneath all of that, there was another scent. Not perfume, not food, not the sea. Magic. You could taste it on your tongue. Takhbay was alive in a way other cities only pretended to be.
Elhaan, ever the practical one, told us we would rest tonight and search for the Daggers Oath tomorrow. A wise decision. Even heroes must nap, though none of us were heroes. He found an inn for us. Two rooms only: one for him, and one for the four of us. Myself, Zaman, Yuki, and Arnold. Crowded, yes, but after a month at sea with hammocks and fleas, four beds in a single room felt like the palace of a king.
The inn was not what I expected. Port inns are usually dark, damp, and sticky with spilled ale. This one shone with polish. The wooden beams were carved with patterns, the floorboards scrubbed so clean you might believe they were new. Our room held four beds with sheets that smelled faintly of lavender, a scent so rare among sailors that I sniffed twice just to be sure it was real. The shutters opened easily, letting in fresh air. A basin of water stood ready in the corner, cool and clean. I almost laughed. In this inn, you could believe you were human again.
We ate in the common hall, a long room filled with the smell of food and the clatter of talk. Merchants, sailors, wanderers, all crammed together, trading stories as quickly as they traded coins. Our meal arrived steaming: fish roasted whole, its skin crisp and salted; bread baked fresh, so hot it steamed when torn; a stew thick enough to stand your spoon upright. I ate until I thought I might sink the bed later. After weeks of hard tack and dried meat, this was a feast. Even Arnold, who rarely spoke, muttered something that might have been a compliment.