Edric stepped onto the deck of The Iron Falcon, boots clattering against the wooden planks. Sailors scurried around him, hauling ropes and securing barrels, their faces lined with fatigue and skepticism. Many had sailed these waters before, and they whispered of tempests and monsters, of ships swallowed by the relentless gray waves.
He ignored their muttering. Fear was for the timid. He was a prince, heir to Halvorn. Destiny was not something to be avoided—it was something to seize.
The wind tore at his cloak, and he adjusted his grip on the railing, feeling the salt spray sting his skin. The waves rose and fell like living beasts, and for the first time, Edric felt the thrill of true adventure—the kind of danger that demanded everything, yet offered everything in return.
"Prince Edric!" called Sir Caldor, his voice strained over the roar of the wind. "The men are uneasy. The Sea of Trials isn't forgiving. Are you certain this is wise?"
Edric's gaze did not leave the horizon. "Wisdom is measured by results, not caution. We are sailing to a land unseen by any but the brave. That is reason enough."
A sudden crash of waves rocked the ship, and Edric stumbled slightly. He gripped the railing, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. This is life, he thought. This is the proving ground.
From the crow's nest, a sailor shouted, pointing to a thick mist curling across the water. "Storm forming on the starboard side! We'll be caught if we don't adjust the sails!"
Edric's mind raced, calculating the angle of the wind, the size of the waves, and the response of the crew. He barked orders with the authority of a commander, directing men he barely knew. Each command was precise, calculated, and carried the weight of responsibility. Still, beneath the surface, his heart leapt—not with fear, but with the intoxicating pull of the unknown.
Below deck, barrels rolled and ropes snapped, sending a sailor sprawling. Edric ignored the chaos, his eyes fixed on the endless gray horizon. Somewhere beyond, he knew, lay the Last Haven—the final waypoint before the Shrouded Continent. He could almost see it: a ragged island rising from the mist, crowded with desperate Raiders, survivors, and the whispers of those who had come too close to death to speak.
And beyond that… Edric thought, tightening his grip on the railing. Beyond that lies what everyone seeks, yet few live to claim: the continent itself.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the wind tear at his hair and cloak, imagining the glory that awaited. Maps could not chart it, men could not prepare for it, and yet it called to him—an impossible prize for a boy born to be a king.
A cheer rose from the crew as the storm began to abate slightly, the waves calming just enough for a steady course. Edric opened his eyes and smiled, a mixture of determination and thrill burning in his chest.
Let the Continent test me, he thought. I will not be found wanting.
With that, the Iron Falcon pressed onward, slicing through the gray, churning sea, carrying the prince—and the weight of his father's expectations—toward the unknown.