1
Doraan
Doraangazedatthelights sparkling along the shoreline, illuminating his home city in a glow of amber and gold. He longed to be there, to bathe in its desert warmth beneath the setting sun. To breathe in the scent of cinnamon and lily that hung in the air, wrapping its way through the town like the vines of a massive dragon-flower, encasing the city of Aksahri in a comforting hug. He inhaled deeply and swore he could smell a faint hint of that soothing scent even this far out at sea.
It had been nearly ten years since he last set foot upon any expanse of land. He ached to feel the soft white sand of the Aksahri beaches glide between his toes, to climb the rough, slender trunk of a palm looking out over the sprawling city streets, and to swim through the crystal-clear waters of the Awndar Sea on a scorching day.
He missed home.
He missed the mouth-watering aroma of baking pastries that would waft up through his bedroom window every morning. He missed the bustling sounds of the market as merchants haggled with the townspeople selling their wares. He missed the sound of children playing in the cobbled streets, giggling as they chased one another through the maze of vendor carts and people. He even missed those early mornings when his mother would make him go with her in secret to pray to the old gods. But, most of all, he missed his parents.
Doraan often wondered what had happened in their lives since the day their only child was ripped from their home. Did they think of him often? Were they trying to get him back? Did they have another child?
That last question always brought with it a sadness that hovered over him relentlessly, like a dark cloud, setting him on edge. It only caused far darker thoughts to form in his mind. Had they forgotten him completely? Were they happy to live their lives without him? Did they even care about him anymore?
His chest constricted, yearning to feel his mother's warm embrace and longing for her lilac and lemon perfume to fill his nose, like it had as a child. He even wished to hear his father's bellowing, jovial laugh again.
“We’re all ready to go, Cap’n,” Doraan’s quartermaster, Cormac, said in his usual gruff baritone.
After ten years of living on a ship full of pirates, Doraan had realized that what you see or hear on the outside wasn’t always what it seemed. A pirate wasn’t always a treasure-seeking, bloodthirsty marauder—a pirate was just a person like any other trying to survive the only way they could. Cormac was more of a father to Doraan than his own self-absorbed, power-hungry father ever was. His quartermaster had come to be someone that Doraan didn’t think he could ever live without. Pirate or not, he was certainly a better man than his father. A better man than himself, even.
Not that Doraan didn’t care for his biological father. It was hard not to have some feeling of adoration for one's own family, but the man had never truly treated Doraan as a son. He had always been more of a legacy to his father, just a way to further the family line.
“Who’s staying aboard theCursed Soul?” Doraan asked.
Tonight he and his crew would step foot onto his home soil for the first time in ten long years. One of the crew members, forfeiting the chance to see his loved ones, had volunteered to stay on board the ship in case any unsuspecting souls came lurking. Not that anyone could or ever had, but that wasn’t a risk Doraan was willing to take.
“Jorne will stay on board, Cap.” Cormac came up beside him and leaned his thick forearms on the starboard railing of theCursed Soul. “It has been a long time.”
Doraan didn’t miss the sorrow that laced Cormac’s words and the hard line of his bushy, graying brows.
“Yes, it has been,” was all he could think to say in response.
“A lot will have changed, no doubt. Prepare yourself, lad.” When they were alone, Cormac tended to move back into the casual conversation they shared when Doraan was still only a boy of fourteen, thrust into this life of piracy.
His shoulders rose, tension stiffening his neck. “I know. I’m prepared for it.”
Cormac’s mouth formed a thin line, his brows furrowing in concern. Doraan turned away, not wanting the look on his quartermaster’s face to further twist the cords of stress tightening along his shoulders.
“It’s time we head to Crescent Rock to weigh anchor and ready the boats.” Doraan huffed, pushing away from the railing with a wince as he shifted his full weight onto his left leg. Shooting pain radiated up his spine and all the way down to the toes that were no longer there. Cormac missed nothing as he gripped Doraan’s arm to steady him.
“You need more rest. You’re not used to walking on it yet. You’re only going to cause further injury to other areas of your body if you don’t take the time to learn how to walk properly.”
“It’s been months.” Doraan yanked his arm from Cormac’s grasp and limped his way toward the steps leading to the ship’s helm.
He knew that the spasms and pain that scorched through his back at random moments throughout the day were caused by his new odd way of walking, but he didn’t care. He needed to move around on his own. He needed to feel normal again.
“Your leg is still healing, Doraan.” Cormac only used his name when he was serious or cross with him.
“I said I’m fine,” Doraan repeated, a hint of a growl in his tone.
Seven months ago, he had been cocky and sailed his crew head long into a snare they barely escaped from. Doraan had severely overestimated their ability to overtake a larger ship. Cormac told him it wasn’t his fault, that there was no way of knowing what was waiting for them, but he had seen the doubt in the eyes of his crew even before they went after the vessel. They had followed him, their captain, and he had failed them all.
It was greed that encouraged him that day. The idea of scoring a loot large enough to last them several months and effectively restore their depleted food stores and other necessities had been too great. But it was a grave mistake, one that he would live with for the rest of his life, because not only had it cost him his left leg, but also the lives of two crew members.
The ironic thing was that he remembered thinking in the moment how lucky they were to have stumbled upon a large Sumaarian cargo ship.
Besides Neilmaar, which was on the eastern coast of Emmoria, Sumaaria was one of the richest cities in the Empire. They were completely landlocked, surrounded by the treacherous line of mountains known as the Emerald Peaks. They encircled the city like a coiled snake creating a protective shield. The peaks were filled with the only mineral deposits in all of Emmoria, making the Sumaarian’s a monopoly in the production of ore and all precious metals. It was said that you could catch glimpses of the city’s golden towers and silver spires from between the peaks, glittering in the sun. They often boasted about their streets of gold, their expansive mansions, and their intricate, silver-threaded clothing. You could always spot a Sumaarian from their clothing alone.
