LEORA
The wind in Ter smells of salt and drying fish, a stark, clean scent that scours the memory of ozone and blood from my lungs .
I stand at the railing as the ship glides into the harbor. The city sprawls before us, a chaotic tumble of whitewashed stone and terracotta rising from the sea to the steep green hills beyond. It is loud. Seagulls scream, dockworkers shout, and the clanging of bells rings out from the temples scattered across the skyline. But it is a vibrant, living noise, devoid of the suffocating, silent terror that draped Lliandor like a shroud.
Beside me, Imas is a statue carved from salt-stained wood. He watches the city with the narrowed, assessing gaze of a tactician, but his hand grips the railing so tight his knuckles are white.
He is terrified. Not of an enemy, but of the unknown.
"Kaynvu," he murmurs, the name tasting strange on his tongue. "The end of the world."
"Or the beginning," I counter softly.
He gazes down at me. The charcoal color of his skin is stark against the rough wool of his tunic, but his violet eyes havelost their predatory gleam. They are just eyes now. Beautiful, haunted, and remarkably human.
The ship bumps against the dock with a heavy, jarring thud. Ropes are thrown, caught by burly hands on the pier. The gangplank descends with a groan.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod, though my stomach flutters with nerves. I adjust the hood of my cloak, hiding my face. Old habits die hard.
We disembark. The pier is a riot of movement. Dark elves in practical, brightly colored clothing move alongside humans, orcs, and creatures I don't recognize—hulking, scaled beings unloading crates with effortless strength.
I shrink closer to Imas, expecting the flinch, the sneer, the crack of a whip.
But no one looks at us.
A human woman walks past, carrying a basket of bread. She is laughing at something a dark elf sailor said. She is not cowering. She is not marked. She walks with her head up, her spine straight.
I stop dead, staring at her.
"They are free," I whisper.
Imas follows my gaze. A muscle feathers in his jaw. He sees it too—the casual, impossible equality.
"This is Ter," he says, his voice low. "Duke Gheshei’s city. They say he is mad." He pauses, watching a dark elf merchant haggle with a human smith over a stack of horseshoes. "Or perhaps he is the only sane one among us."
We move through the streets. The architecture here is different—less imposing than Lliandor, more organic. Buildings seem to grow out of the rock, connected by arched bridges and winding staircases. The air is warm, humid, and alive .
We head toward the Emberforge Stronghold, the massive fortress that dominates the cliffs overlooking the sea. It is a placeof legend, a sanctuary where the old laws of caste and cruelty hold no sway .
The gates are open.
We pass through without challenge. Inside, the stronghold is a bustling town unto itself. We find an inn near the outer wall, a modest stone building with a sign depicting a hammer and anvil.
Imas pays the innkeeper with coin earned on the ship, his movements stiff and formal, clinging to the remnants of his dignity like a shield. The innkeeper, a cheerful Zagfer woman with flour on her apron, doesn't blink at his accent or his scars. She hands him a heavy iron key and points us up the stairs.
The room is small. It holds a narrow bed, a washbasin, and a single window that looks out over the harbor.
It is nothing like the opulent prison he kept me in at House Imas. The walls are bare stone, the floorboards creak, and the air smells of beeswax and lemon.
It is the most beautiful room I have ever seen.
Imas closes the door and locks it. He stands there for a moment, his back to me, his shoulders rigid.
"It is... modest," he says, his voice tight.
I walk to him. I hug his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against the rough wool of his tunic. I can feel the tension in him, the deep-seated fear that he has failed me by bringing me to this small, simple life.
