By the time we reached the piers, the city noise had softened into something gentler. Gulls cried overhead, and the salt wind carried away the warmth of the streets. We sat at the edge, feet dangling above the water, wooden swords laid aside.
Grandpa should be close now, I thought. If I watched long enough, maybe I'd see the first hint of a sail.
The sea stretched endlessly before us—no islands, no ships, nothing but blue upon blue. I knew the stories, of course. Smaller islands hidden beyond sight, places where ships gathered before venturing farther still. And beyond even that… things from folktales and old library books. Creatures with too many eyes. Shadows beneath the waves.
Someday, I told myself. Someday I'd cross it.
I leaned forward, squinting at the horizon, when something strange caught my eye.
The water rippled—once, then again—as though a stone had been tossed far out of reach. A faint hum followed, so distant I wasn't sure I'd heard it at all. The surface shimmered, just slightly, touched with the barest hint of rose.
I blinked hard. The salt air was drying my eyes, that had to be it.
Still… I couldn't shake the feeling that the ocean was watching us back.
"Arthur?" Roland's voice cut in. "You coming, or are you planning to swim to your destiny?"
I straightened, forcing a grin, and hefted the wooden sword back onto my shoulder. Katherine was already walking ahead, pretending not to watch me out of the corner of her eye.
"Coming," I said, and together we turned away from the sea.
We followed the familiar stone paths back toward the heart of Ardor, the festival's noise swelling again as if the city itself were breathing us in. The wooden swords rested across our shoulders like badges of some imagined order—light, harmless, and entirely ours. A few passersby chuckled at the sight of us. One child stared wide-eyed, tugging at his mother's sleeve, and for a moment I stood a little taller.
By the time we rejoined the main thoroughfare, the festival had reached its full stride.
Banners stretched from building to building, dyed in the deep blues and golds of Arcadia, their fabric snapping crisply in the coastal wind. Bells rang from temple steps, marking the hour, while drums echoed from the inner districts, steady and proud. Merchants shouted over one another in a dozen accents, hawking silks from the southern dunes, cured fish from the northern shoals, and spices that had crossed more sea than most sailors ever would.
This was Founding Tide—so named for the ancient spring when the first fleets of men returned victorious from exploration beyond the northern seas, their holds heavy with rare herbs and beast tusks. What began as a celebration of survival had grown, over centuries, into something far grander: a reminder of dominance, prosperity, and unity across the continent.
Arcadia stood as the largest of the Seven Great Kingdoms, its borders stretching from the fertile inland plains to the jagged coasts of the northern sea. Tens of millions lived beneath its banner—farmers and fishermen, scholars and soldiers, nobles draped in velvet and dockhands with salt-cracked hands. Wealth flowed through Ardor like the canals beneath our feet, fed by trade routes that touched every known shore. Coin bought comfort here, influence bought silence, and lineage often decided one's place long before effort ever could.
Power rested with the Crown and its councils, though the academy—old, stubborn, and respected—served as both the sword and spine of the realm. From its halls came generals, magistrates, and scholars alike, trained not just in skill, but in loyalty. For most, the festival was a day of rest. For the city, it was a day of display.
Laughter spilled from taverns long before midday. Performers reenacted half-remembered legends in the streets—heroes made taller than truth, monsters made smaller than fear. Nobles watched from shaded balconies while common folk crowded below, shoulder to shoulder, equal at least for the length of a song.
And through it all, the city gleamed.
Yet beneath the music and color, there was an undercurrent—quiet, unspoken. Guards lingered longer at intersections. Priests murmured blessings twice instead of once. The sea breeze carried its usual salt and promise, but something else rode beneath it, faint and difficult to name.
Arthur did not notice it then. Not truly.
He was too busy laughing as Katherine swatted at his arm for swinging his sword too close to a fruit stand, too busy making sure Roland hadn't been separated from them in the crowd. The morning still belonged to youth, to noise, to warmth.
But the festival, like the tide it celebrated, was already turning.