Month 1, Year 1273 — Grey Harbor
The new year in Grey Harbor arrives not with trumpets or parades but with the sour tang of spilled ale and the rough laughter of men too old to celebrate and too young to surrender.
In a low-beamed tavern at the edge of the Sprawl — where the air is thick with salt, sweat, and smoke — Marcus Kennard, sixteen and infamous, claims his throne at a battered round table.
The tavern is called The Bitter Whale, a place where dockhands gamble away their week's wages and laughter hides the ache of another winter survived. Oil lamps flicker, chasing shadows across warped floorboards. In the corner, a fiddler wrestles music from broken strings while two girls from Madam Lira's brothel drift among the tables with sly invitations and brighter smiles.
Marcus — coat stained, boots muddied, silver barely enough to pay the debts stacked like dice before him — raises a dented mug to his companions: two sailors with knotted arms, a one-eyed stable boy, and Brin the Fox, a thin-lipped gambler who claims never to have lost, not once, not truly.
The first bread of the year is hard and a little burnt, but the beer is cold, the stew spicy, and the company loud enough to drown out every worry of family, debt, or fate.
"To a new year!" Marcus shouts, voice hoarse from the night before.
"May luck find us before my father does!"
Laughter erupts.
A serving girl with a painted mouth leans in, whispering something daring that makes even Brin's fox grin falter. Coins clatter, dice roll, kisses are traded for bets no one intends to keep.
In the dim light, Marcus seems both at home and adrift — the prince of nothing, beloved by the lowest, feared only by his own conscience.
Hours pass in a tangle of pleasure and reckless cheer.
Ale stains his shirt, a kiss marks his neck, and his purse grows lighter with every toast.
But dusk creeps over the city like a creditor with a long memory.
As the sun sinks, the harbor's bells toll one by one — first from the grain docks, then the high towers, then the old temple whose doors open only for coin. The Bitter Whale empties as quickly as it filled; debts and dreams, both unpaid, slip into the night.
Marcus, unsteady and flushed, leaves the warmth of the tavern behind. He pauses in the muddy alley, letting the cold air chase away the last traces of bread and bravado.
The Sprawl is alive with shouts, drunken songs, and the promises of night, but beyond the lamps the High Dock district rises in dark silhouette.
He climbs the crooked streets, boots skidding on frost, the gold-threaded manors of merchant lords peering down like watchful creditors.
At last, the familiar gates of Kennard Manor appear — black iron carved with the family's salt-barrel crest.
The light of dusk paints the windows the color of old coins. Marcus steadies himself, heart thudding with dread and defiance, and pushes open the gate.
This is where the feast ends.
The reckoning waits inside.
---
The gate swings closed behind him with a creak that echoes in the dusk. Gravel crunches underfoot as he crosses the courtyard, boots still carrying the grime and laughter of the Sprawl. The manor windows glimmer — some dark, some flickering with candlelight — and above them, the weathered Kennard crest seems to judge every step.
A servant, eyes downcast, slips out of his path and opens the heavy oak doors without a word.
The entry hall is colder than the street outside, scented with cedar, ink, and the faint bitterness of last night's wine.
At the far end stands Roger Kennard, sleeves rolled, hands resting on a ledger that's seen more honest years than his youngest son. His hair is iron-grey, his eyes darker still. The fire crackles, but nothing in the room feels warm.
Hellena Kennard, Marcus's mother, sits by the window — hands folded, knuckles white, worry biting into her brow.
Marco, the eldest, leans against the wall, posture as stiff as his pressed shirt, jaw tight.
Leonna stands half-turned away, the last light of evening gilding her hair.
As Marcus enters, Roger closes the ledger with a snap.
"I trust the new year has been… instructive, Marcus."
"Come. Stand before me. Let us see what you've learned from all your feasts and debts."
The room is silent save for the fire's low spit and the distant bells of Grey Harbor.
Hellena's lips part as if to speak, but she thinks better of it.
Marco's stare is cold; Leonna's gaze never quite meets her brother's.
Roger waits, expression unreadable, the weight of the family name pressing down like a ledger full of red ink.
Marcus's breath falters. Word of his night has reached home faster than he has. He had hoped for quiet dusk — a chance to slip to his room unseen.
He says nothing, only obeys — head lowered — and stands before his father.
Roger studies him for a long moment, the silence thick as tax season. Firelight carves the years of barter and disappointment into his face.
"Head down. That's new. I half expected you to come home singing tavern songs, not skulking like a debtor."
He sets the ledger aside.
"Look at me, Marcus."
Hellena's hands tighten on her skirt; Marco's mouth curls in judgment. Only Leonna dares glance at her brother before looking away.
Roger's voice stays even and cold.
"You know what I've heard? That my name is worth less with every night you spend in the Sprawl.
That my coin keeps a dozen drunkards in bread and my son's debts buy more curses than respect.
Is that the future you see for yourself? Or is that all you can imagine?"
The words hang — not shouted, but each syllable an accusation weighed and measured.
"You're sixteen. Old enough to work, old enough to bleed.
If you want to eat at my table, you'll earn it.
So tell me, Marcus — why shouldn't I send you to live in the Sprawl for good?
Why shouldn't I be rid of the shame you bring this family?"
The fire pops.
Hellena's eyes shine; Marco's satisfaction hardens. Leonna bites her lip, uncertain if she can shield him this time.
The room waits.
Marcus keeps his head bowed, pride swallowed. His voice is low — strained, uneasy, but not quite broken.
"I'm sorry, Father. For tonight, for everything. I know I've said it before, but this time I mean it.
I'm ashamed of what I've become.
You have every right to cast me out. I wouldn't blame you.
But that would be a waste. I still have my wits. I'm your son — your blood runs through me.
I can make something of myself. I've been lazy, waiting for the world to change me.
Give me one real chance, and I'll prove it."
Roger watches in silence. Pride stripped from the boy, fear standing in its place. There is no mockery in his eyes — only the assessment of a man weighing grain on the scales.
At last he speaks, softer but not kinder.
"A waste, you say. The world is full of wasted sons. Most end up in the gutter, not for lack of blood or brains, but because they waited for their reason to come from someone else."
He taps his ring against the ledger's edge.
"You want a chance? Then here's the offer: I cut you off. No allowance, no purse.
You get a roof and food — nothing more.
Earn your way in this city. Bring me profit, honest and counted.
Show me you're worth more than your debts and I'll consider your place at this table.
Fail…"
He glances toward Marco.
"…and the Sprawl will be your family, not the Kennards."
Roger steps close, voice low enough for only Marcus to hear.
"There's no safety net, boy. Every silver you lose is your own.
Every coin you win, I'll judge with a miser's eye."
He turns back to the fire.
"As for debts already made — those are yours. The family will not pay a chopper for your mistakes."
Hellena finds her voice at last.
"Roger, he's just a boy—"
A single look silences her. Leonna's eyes glisten.
Roger opens the ledger again.
"So, Marcus. What will you do? Crawl to the Sprawl, or prove you carry something worth my name?"
Outside, evening deepens. The hearth burns, but the world beyond the manor is cold and hungry.
Marcus's fate is sealed.
The family purse is closed; his debts remain.
He stands alone for the first time — bread and a roof his only safety.
The manor's fire gutters low.
A new year begins.