The mist hung low over the sea like a living thing, curling around the hulls of ships and cloaking the jagged cliffs of Driftport. The Last Haven loomed ahead—a ragged island of crumbling docks, makeshift buildings, and the restless cries of sailors and Raiders who had survived the voyage.
Edric Halvorn's ship, The Iron Falcon, sliced through the gray waters. The young prince stood at the bow, his cloak whipping behind him, eyes fixed on the chaotic harbor. Driftport was nothing like the orderly ports he had known at home. Ships leaned against each other, masts cracked and patched with scrap. Men shouted over one another, swinging axes, rolling barrels, and haggling for food, water, or weapons.
This is a test of patience, not courage, Edric thought, tightening his grip on the railing. And I will not fail it.
Below deck, sailors scrambled to secure lines as smaller vessels jostled for position. One of the knights leaned over, whispering, "My prince… the rumors were true. Raiders swarm this place, and not all of them survive the voyage."
Edric's lips curled into a thin smile. "Let them try. This island may be wild, but it is a bridge to the Continent. We control this bridge, we control our destiny."
Elira's merchant ship, Sea Whisper, drifted toward the harbor with careful precision. She clutched her journal, her eyes scanning every detail: the splintered docks, the patched sails of battered ships, the wary glances of hardened men and women who clearly had little patience for strangers.
She noticed a figure on a sleek ship cutting through the waves ahead—a prince, no doubt. His bearing was commanding, but there was a recklessness about him that made her stomach twist in unease. Ambition without caution is dangerous, she scribbled in her journal, glancing back at the approaching harbor. And this place does not forgive fools.
The Sea of Trials had been harsh, but Driftport was an entirely different test. Every corner of the island carried whispers of death and opportunity in equal measure. Elira adjusted her satchel and stepped carefully toward the gangplank, already plotting how she might document the island without drawing the wrong kind of attention.
Ronan crouched low on the deck of the Sable Marauder, eyes scanning the harbor with practiced calculation. Driftport was a nightmare dressed as a port: chaos, opportunity, and danger all in equal measure. He could see men selling stolen goods, brawls breaking out over water rations, and ships patched together with more hope than skill.
Perfect, he muttered under his breath. Exactly the kind of place I need.
He had no interest in glory or kingdoms. Here, he could move unseen, trade discreetly, and gather resources for the real prize: survival—and the chance to finally vanish from the world that hunted him. He observed the other ships, noting the prince's vessel, the merchant ship with the scholar, and a few other Raiders who had made it through the Sea of Trials. Their paths would cross, he knew, and when they did, it would be a delicate dance between caution and advantage.
The Iron Falcon jostled against the docks as Edric barked orders, his knights moving to secure ropes and protect the prince from the rough welcome of Driftport.
Elira disembarked carefully, notebook in hand, eyes darting as she documented the scene. She nearly collided with a sailor rushing past her, muttering a curse.
Ronan slipped quietly from the shadows, observing both newcomers with a wary eye. When a brawl erupted near the Splintered Oar—a tavern notorious even among hardened Raiders—he moved in, not to help, but to keep the chaos contained enough for his own safety.