The version of winter gracing Ollora is much milder than the version that’s settled into the northernmost parts of Erus. Specks of freezing rain mixed with flurries of snow strike any and all exposed skin without mercy, hastened by a bitter wind. Drawing my hood tight, I raise the cowl of my armor as I walk beside Ryc.
The portside town of Galyne is nothing notable.
If I’ve visited it in the past—which I’m confident I have—I don’t recall it.
There are many towns like this one throughout Eldoterra. A series of gray stone buildings weathered by rain, wind, and sea. This one sits along the coastline of the Clarecier Bay, much too close to Ashemere for my comfort. Only those brave enough, skilled enough, or foolish enough would reside here.
Were the skies clear, the vampires’ homemightbe visible in the mountains to the northeast.
“This weather works in our favor,”Ryc says, his voice resonating in my head as he glances in my direction.
I’ll take him at his word.
Sure, the low visibility helps.
But the near constant assault on my being does not.
We walk east, into the cold wind carrying the faintest scent of blood. It lies mostly hidden by the salty tang of the water. In this weather, the street lies mostly empty as townsfolk bunker down for the incoming storm Cyran mentioned before we departed. Those daring enough to venture from the warmth and security of their homes do so at a quick and pragmatic pace.
Shutters and curtains drawn, windows lie darkened, adding to the isolated feel of Galyne. Today is not a day anyone should be venturing forth, yet… here we are.
Of course, I’m not going to insist we disregard this opportunity.
I need access to those archives.
The sooner I know what it takes to mend a soul crystal, the sooner all of this can be put to rest.
Earlier, when Ryc said we were leaving for Illa Ysari, I expected to ferry directly to the island. Apparently, that can’t be done. To reach its shores, we have to ferry byboatand Galyne is the closest port to the island. The arrangements Ryc made were inquiries for safe passage from private couriers.
With our visit being unsanctioned, discretion is a necessity.
Though, I’m not confident four people clad in black armor and cloaks stalking through the streetisn’tattention drawing—even with the weather.
Eve and Cyran follow behind, not a word passing between the four of us as we make for the docks. If either did have anything to say, their words would be lost to the wind.
At the end of the street, the docks come into view, peeks of brown emerging from white. A few boats appear, bobbing rather precariously on storm-stirred waves, and my eyes narrow.
None of the boats are anything more than simple passenger vessels.
They’re not the grand ships I’ve seen come into the North Docks.
They’re nothing I expect to be capable of carrying us through hellish winds, snow, and waves to reach an island.
Anxious dread fills my stomach.
We’re sure to capsize.
And demons… don’t swim.
The only lake in the hells exists in the Layer of Treachery and it’s hundreds of feet deepfrozen solidice.I may visit the North Docks to watch from rooftops, but there’s a reason I stay well away from the water. Drawing closer, barely visible on the horizon through the snow, sit roughly half a dozen ships.
Pieces quickly fall into place.
The water here with the storm must be too shallow for ships of their size to moor properly. It’s safer for them to remain at sea. Though I could be entirely wrong and piecing together things that I shouldn’t based on parts of conversations I’ve picked up over thesummer.
As we step onto the dock, Ryc takes my hand, leading me down a crate-littered walkway. Before long, the ground below becomes water, and I find myself staring at the dizzying rush of waves.
Nausea sweeps over me, and lifting my eyes, I’m met with a fae male a short distance ahead. He lifts a hand in greeting, the wind tearing at his jacket and short cropped silver hair. He doesn’t bother pulling himself from the stack of crates he leans against, and instead watches our approach with sharp brown eyes.
