The smell of brine and sweat clung to Ronan Vale like a second skin. He crouched low on the deck of the Sable Marauder, a smuggler's ship barely seaworthy, and watched the sailors move with frantic energy. Most didn't notice him. Good. That was how he liked it.
He wasn't here for glory, or for knowledge. He wasn't here to impress kings or scholars. He was here for one thing: survival. And maybe, just maybe, a fresh start—if he lived long enough to reach it.
Ronan's past was a shadow that followed him relentlessly. His old crew had betrayed him, leaving him with a bounty on his head and few allies who could be trusted. Out here, on the edge of the known world, there were no obligations, no betrayals yet—but plenty of risk. That suited him fine.
A cry from the crow's nest caught his attention. Sailors scrambled as a wave slammed into the side of the Sable Marauder, sending a crate of cargo sliding toward the edge. Ronan leapt, catching it just before it tumbled into the gray, churning sea.
"Careful, friend!" one of the sailors shouted, glaring at him.
Ronan smirked. "Careful? I'm alive, aren't I?"
The truth was, he lived by instincts honed from betrayal, theft, and knife fights. Every motion was calculated. Every glance a measure of friend or foe. He didn't trust anyone—but he knew how to survive among fools who did.
Through the mist, he saw another ship—a sleek vessel brimming with soldiers and knights. The Iron Falcon, he recognized from port gossip. That prince—reckless, spoiled, and ambitious—was aboard. The thought made him laugh quietly under his breath. Let him throw his life away for glory. I'll be the one still standing at the end.
Ronan adjusted the straps of his satchel, feeling the familiar weight of his weapons and tools. Survival wasn't just instinct; it was preparation. Knife hidden in his boot, dagger strapped to his chest, a small vial of healing herbs tucked away. And most importantly, the ability to read people, to exploit mistakes.
The Sea of Trials rose and fell around him, waves like living predators, mist curling in thick, ghostly fingers. Sailors screamed, barrels rolled, ropes snapped. And Ronan moved through it all like a shadow, always observing, always calculating.
Somewhere beyond the haze, he knew, lay the Last Haven. He didn't care about glory there. He didn't care about honor. It was a waypoint, a pit stop before the real prize—the continent itself. And if he played his cards right, no prince or scholar would stand in his way.
Ronan crouched at the ship's railing, eyes scanning the gray horizon, and whispered to himself:
"The world is a cruel place. Survive it, and you earn your freedom. Fail, and you're nothing but a story whispered by the dead."
He grinned, the edge of madness in his expression. The sea roared back, daring him to falter. Ronan Vale didn't flinch. He never did.
And with the mist thickening ahead, and the promise of the Last Haven rising from it, he made a silent vow: I will see the continent, and I will live to tell the tale.