Dru sprinted to Merath’s side, grabbing his hand as tears streamed down her face.

“Merath! I’m so sorry, I—I don’t know what happened, I… I can’t—” Her voice broke, hitching under the weight of panic and grief.

 

Merath coughed, red staining his lips. He reached up and pulled her close by the back of her head.

“Ain’t your fault,” he rasped, his breath shallow and rattling. “I thought I had more time… more time to train you properly.”

 

She clutched his wrist, her eyes wide and desperate.

“Train me? What’s happening to me? What did I do?”

 

With trembling fingers, Merath fumbled beneath his cloak, producing a silver chain—tarnished but elegant. A pendant hung from it, carved with a swirling sigil that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

He pressed it into her palm, curling her fingers around it.

“This… belonged to your father,” he said, each word dragged from deep within. “I was meant to give it to you when the time came.”

 

Dru stared down at it, uncomprehending.

“My father? But you never—”

 

“I promised to protect you,” Merath cut in, his voice cracking. “But I can’t anymore. Someone will recognize this pendant. It might help you… or it might mark you. I don’t know anymore.”

 

Around them, the tavern stirred. Low voices. Shuffling feet. Fear in every eye.

 

Merath’s bloodied hand tightened around hers one final time.

“Run, Dru,” he whispered. “Run… and don’t look back.”

 

She wanted to scream, to beg, to fix this—but there was no time.

 

She leaned in, pressed her forehead to his, and whispered a shattered, “I’m sorry.” Then she rose.

 

Eyes followed her. Voices rose. A chair scraped. Someone lunged for the door.

 

Dru turned and fled into the storm.

 

She ran through Elmere, cries for guards and murder trailing behind like hunting hounds. Each shout pierced the wind, louder than the thunder rolling over the distant hills. Her boots slipped in the mud as she darted through alleys and past shuttered windows, heart pounding so loud she could barely think.

 

She didn’t look back.

 

The pendant throbbed in her clenched fist, still warm with Merath’s blood—her father’s. His words echoed in her mind like a tolling bell, louder even than the accusations already rising in the town.

 

Murderer. Witch. Monster.

 

By the time she reached their hillside home, her breath was ragged and her limbs numb. She threw open the door, the old wood groaning in protest, and went straight to the chest at the foot of her cot. Her hands trembled as she stuffed her satchel with what little food and coin they had left. She hesitated only a moment before unhooking Merath’s travel cloak from the wall. It still smelled of smoke and iron. She wrapped it around her shoulders like armor.

 

Thunder grumbled again, farther off now.

 

She moved to the hearth, grabbing the flint and dagger hidden behind the stones. Then, kneeling, she pried up the loose floorboard. Beneath it: a worn, leather-bound book and a handful of odd trinkets Merath had never explained. She didn’t know why she took the book—only that it felt right. Like some part of him lived inside it.

 

The wind howled through the open door, carrying with it the ominous toll of a warning bell.

 

They know.

 

She slung the satchel over her shoulder, clutched the pendant to her chest, and ran again—into the night, into the unknown.

 

---

 

Dru moved like something hunted, guided only by moonlight breaking through storm clouds. The pendant bounced against her chest with every step, its weight far heavier than silver. She didn’t stop—not when her legs trembled, not when her lungs burned.

 

She kept to game trails and shadowed paths, avoiding roads. Every snapping branch, every rustle of leaves sent her heart lurching.

 

Her mind spiraled, replaying the tavern again and again.

The blood.

Merath’s eyes.

The power that had flashed out from her.

 

What am I?

 

When dawn crested the hills in pale gold and gray, she finally collapsed beneath a hawthorn tree. Cloak wrapped tightly around her, she sank to the ground.

 

Everything ached. Her thoughts. Her limbs. Her heart.

 

She stared down at the pendant, tracing its sigil with a thumb.

“Who were you?” she whispered to the father she had never known. “And what did you leave behind in me?”

 

No answer came—only the distant call of birds and the cold brush of morning wind against her cheeks.

 

Curling into Merath’s cloak, she let the weight of grief drag her into sleep. No dreams came—just the heavy black of exhaustion, thick and still as the grave.

 

---

 

She didn’t stir again until the sun hung high in the sky, baking the earth beneath her. She woke with a shiver, the night’s chill still clinging to her skin despite the heat.

 

For a heartbeat, she didn’t know where she was. Her heart thundered with the instinctive panic of waking somewhere unfamiliar.

 

Then memory hit—

The tavern.

The storm.

Merath.

The blood.

The axe.

 

She sat up fast, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob rising in her throat. Her fingers found the pendant again, now warm from the sun, and she held it tightly, as if it could tether her to something solid.

 

But the world didn’t feel solid anymore.

And neither did she.

 

Drawing a steadying breath, she looked around and tried to recall Merath’s teachings—how to read the wind, how to find direction, how to move unseen.

 

The Port of Dusk was the nearest settlement. A long journey, and dangerous—but her best chance.

 

With a final glance eastward—toward Elmere, toward what had been—she turned west.

 

---

 

She traveled for eight long days. Her feet blistered, her body bruised, but still she pressed on. And at last, on the eighth, the scent of salt drifted on the wind.

 

The sea was near.

 

Ahead, through the thinning trees, crooked rooftops emerged from the misty horizon.

 

The Port of Dusk awaited.

 

The journey had been anything but kind. Dru had slipped past patrols by the skin of her teeth, hiding in brambles and creek beds whenever the sound of boots or the glint of steel reached her. Once, a highwayman had nearly stumbled upon her, but the foul stench of sweat and cheap liquor gave him away, drifting on the breeze just in time.

 

Yet it wasn’t the men who lingered in her mind—it was what flew above them all. A shimmer of crimson scales far off in the sky, massive and slow-moving, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch for miles. One glimpse had stopped her breath cold. Whatever it was, it hadn’t seen her. But she knew it could have.

 

As she neared the town, the path widened into a road thick with travelers. A cluster of people—farmers with carts of vegetables, sun-worn pilgrims clutching prayer beads, merchants balancing crates, and cloaked wanderers of every sort—gathered near the gate. The Port of Dusk loomed beyond, its walls tall and weathered, with sails and spires rising in the distance like jagged shards of bone and sky.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

 

It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Elmere had been a sleepy knot of stone homes and quiet paths. This place breathed movement, noise, and stories she couldn’t begin to understand.

 

The closer she got, the more her stomach twisted. Voices clashed in a dozen accents, the smell of salt and fish mixed with horses and sweat, and everywhere she looked, people bustled with purpose. She felt like a leaf in a rushing river.

 

At the gate, two guards in dark blue surcoats stood watch. One stepped forward, his weathered face drawn in a bored expression.

 

“State your business,” he said.

 

Dru froze. Her mouth opened, but no words came. She hadn’t planned this far. She hadn’t expected it to feel like this—so large, so foreign, so loud. Her thoughts scrambled for something, anything believable.

 

The guard looked her over, one brow raised, clearly unimpressed.

 

“First time outside a village?” he asked, voice dry as dust.

 

She hesitated, then gave a stiff nod.

 

He sighed and shifted the spear in his hand. “Gonna make any trouble?”

 

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Swallowed. Finally, barely above a whisper, she said, “No.”

 

He stared at her for a moment longer, then snorted. “Then stop wasting our time and get on.”

 

He stepped aside without ceremony. Just like that, she was inside.

 

The moment she passed through the gate, the noise hit her like a wave—shouting vendors, clattering carts, the distant clang of ship bells and forge hammers. It was overwhelming. The streets twisted like veins, clogged with travelers, workers, and townsfolk of every shape and size. Elmere had been a whisper compared to this.

 

She ducked her head and pressed forward, doing her best not to stare. After a few minutes of weaving through the throng, her breath quickened. The crowd was too loud, the smells too sharp—spices, fish, sweat, smoke. Her heart pounded.

 

She slipped into the first alley she could find—narrow and shadowed, the noise of the street muffled behind her. It was barely wide enough for two people to pass, but it was blessedly empty. She pressed her back to the wall and slid down until she was sitting on the cool stone, wrapping Merath’s cloak tight around her. Just to breathe.

 

What am I doing? she thought. She had no plan, a handful of coins left, and nowhere to go.

 

But she was alive.

 

And she had a pendant. A name. A clue.

 

Dru sat in the silence for a long time, until her hands stopped shaking. Then she stood, brushed herself off, and stepped back onto the street.

 

She approached a woman selling bread and cleared her throat. “Um… excuse me, do you—uh—know a place to stay? That’s… cheap?”

 

The woman gave her a quick once-over, taking in the oversized cloak and tired eyes. “You want the Kindred Lantern,” she said, pointing down a side street. “Two streets down, take a left. They don’t ask many questions.”

 

Dru nodded quickly, murmured a thank you, and turned away, clutching her few remaining coins in her pocket. It wasn’t much, but it was a place to start.

 

She followed the directions through the winding alleys, sticking to the edges of the crowd. The buildings leaned in close here, casting long shadows even in the afternoon sun. She kept her head low, the pendant hidden beneath her shirt, one hand resting on the coin purse at her hip.

 

The Kindred Lantern couldn’t be far now.

 

As she stepped out onto a broader street, someone brushed her shoulder—hard. She stumbled, barely catching herself.

 

“Hey—!”

 

But the figure was already moving—a wiry man slipping through the crowd with practiced ease. Something cold dropped into her stomach. She reached for her hip.

 

The coin purse was gone.

 

“No,” she breathed, panic rising like bile. “No, no—”

 

Without thinking, she raised a hand and shouted, “Stop!”

 

The man glanced back—and in that instant, something sparked from her palm. A crackle of blue light surged forward in a jagged arc, like a bolt of chain lightning. It struck the thief square in the back with a sharp crack. He cried out and collapsed into a fruit cart, sending apples rolling in every direction.

 

The street froze. People turned. Someone screamed.

 

Dru stared at her hand, stunned, heart pounding against her ribs. The magic had answered her panic—wild and unshaped. Tiny sparks still danced between her fingers, hissing softly like embers kissed by rain. The hairs on her arms stood on end, and the faint scent of ozone hung in the air, sharp and electric.

 

The thief groaned from the cobblestones, smoke curling from his coat.

 

Dru ran toward the fallen man, her breath catching in her throat. She hadn’t meant to hit him—hadn’t even known she could. Dropping to her knees beside him, she looked at the rising smoke and stammered, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean—”

 

A shadow moved beside her.

 

A cloaked figure knelt, calm and deliberate. His hands glowed with a soft golden light as he placed them gently on the thief’s back.

 

“Be healed, child,” the man said, his voice low and powerful, like distant thunder. “Your judgment comes not on this day.”

 

The glow faded, and the thief’s groans softened into steady, pained breathing.

 

The hooded man turned his gaze on Dru. His face was half-hidden, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity.

 

“I believe this belongs to you,” he said, tossing her coin purse into her lap.

 

She caught it clumsily, blinking in disbelief. “Thank you… I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

 

“No,” the man said, rising. “But you could have.”

 

As he stood, the edge of his cloak shifted, revealing a silver pendant resting against his dark robes—an elegant, skeletal hand cradling a droplet of black onyx. The symbol of the Goddess of Death, half-hidden, almost easy to miss.

 

“You should come with me,” he said, then turned and walked into the alley’s shadows without waiting for an answer.

 

She looked around at the gathering whispers—watchful eyes peering over shoulders, lips murmuring words she couldn’t quite catch. Panic stirred in her chest again. What had she done? How long before someone called the guard?

 

Without thinking, Dru clutched the returned coin purse to her chest and hurried after the cloaked man, her boots echoing against the cobblestone as she slipped into the alley's shadow.

 

He didn’t look back, but his pace slowed just enough for her to catch up. They moved quickly, winding through narrow backstreets until the noise of the main square faded behind them. Just as Dru began to wonder if she was making a mistake, the man turned sharply and tugged open a narrow wooden door, pulling her gently but firmly inside.

 

The room beyond was warm, dimly lit by a roaring fire in the hearth. The smell of sweat and ale filled the air.

 

The man shut the door behind them, looking at her again—this time fully—and offered a nod that was almost reassuring.

 

“You're safe here. For now.”

 

“Thanks for helping him,” Dru mumbled as she sat down, placing a silver coin on the table and ordering a drink. The man raised an eyebrow, settling into the seat across from her.

 

“That’s a bit of coin for a place like this,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Most folks throw copper and keep their heads down.”

 

Dru shrugged, not quite sure why she’d offered the silver. “Just seemed like the thing to do,” she muttered.

 

The man studied her for a long moment, eyes flicking to the pendant still visible beneath the edge of Merath’s cloak.

 

“You’re not from around here,” he said—not accusing, just certain.

 

Dru shifted. She wasn’t sure if it was her clothes, her silence, or something else that gave her away.

 

He leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “Most folks come to Dusk looking for coin, passage, or a place to disappear. You look like you haven’t figured out which one yet.”

 

She said nothing.

 

“So,” he continued, lifting his mug, “what kind of nowhere-town teaches magic without control?”

 

Dru’s shoulders stiffened, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug as she avoided his gaze. “Nowhere,” she said, too quickly. “I didn’t... it just sort of happens sometimes.”

 

The man gave a low whistle, not unkind. “A NatCast, then. Rare enough, especially in humans.” He studied her more carefully now. “Usually means a dragon took an interest somewhere in your bloodline. Or something older did.”

 

Dru blinked. “A what?”

 

“Natural Caster,” he said, gesturing vaguely as if it were common knowledge. “Magic in your bones from birth. Not taught, not trained. It just is. Most of your kind don’t make it to adulthood unless someone catches them early.”

 

He leaned forward, the candlelight catching the edge of a silver chain at his neck. “That blast you threw—chaotic, loud, instinctual. And powerful. You're lucky the guards didn’t fry you on the spot.”

 

Dru looked at the green-tinged bread and pushed it away with a wince. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she said softly. “He just—he stole from me and I panicked.”

“You panicked,” he echoed, nodding slowly. “Well, welcome to the Port of Dusk. Where panicking gets you killed or conscripted.”

He tilted his mug toward her in mock salute. “So tell me, NatCast girl in a dead man’s cloak—what’s your plan now?”

She jolted with the comment. "Who said this belonged to a dead man?" She asks defensively, already starting to pull the dagger from her belt*

He raised both hands calmly, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Easy. I meant no offense. But you’re wearing grief like a second skin—and that cloak's a size too big, stitched with care but worn with love. Doesn’t take a diviner to guess."

Dru hesitated, hand still hovering near the hilt of her dagger. Her lip trembled just slightly before she bit down on it.

He softened his voice. “He mattered to you. And I didn’t mean to dig at the wound. Just... if you want to survive in a place like this, you’ve got to know when to bare your teeth and when to play the stray dog.”

She let go of the dagger, her expression hardening to hide the fresh sting of memory. “He died because of me.”

A beat of silence passed before he replied, voice low. “Then live like he meant you to.”

"I don't know how me meant to. I don't even know who he really was." Dru muttered to herself, downing her drink. Only thing I do know", she pulls the small amulet from her shirt, "Is that he said this belonged to my father, but nothing about who, or where, or even why!" As she talks, the anger in her voice starts to grow until she shouts the last part.

The tavern quieted for a beat, a few patrons glancing over before returning to their drinks. Dru’s breath came in sharp bursts, her hand clenched tight around the amulet, knuckles white.

The man across from her watched silently, the firelight flickering across his thoughtful expression. After a moment, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I don’t recognize the sigil,” he said, voice low and measured, “but it’s not something you find on a market trinket. The craft is old… intentional.”

He tapped a finger on the table, gaze flicking back to her. “I don’t know what it means, but I’ve got a contact in the Ivory Mountain. Scholar type. If anyone could dig up something on a mark like that—it’d be him.”

Dru’s eyes widened slightly, her anger giving way to cautious hope. “Why would you help me?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Because I’ve seen what happens when people don’t get the answers they need. And because,” he added with a faint smirk, “your magic nearly blew a man in half. You’re going to need help staying ahead of the wrong sort of attention.”

Looking at the man, Dru leaned back. "How much is your help going to cost me? I don't have a lot of money."

He chuckled and dropped his hood, long black hair falling to his shoulders. His eyes locked onto hers, glowing faintly with the same energy that had healed the thief.

"Blood has been spilled unjustly by your hand," he said, voice low but steady, "and it shall be redeemed on this path."

Dru didn’t sleep much that night. The man’s words echoed in her mind like distant thunder. Blood has been spilled... redeemed on this path. Whatever that meant, it didn’t sit well.

By morning, the Port of Dusk was already alive. Dockworkers shouted over crashing waves, gulls circled overhead, and the brine-slicked air clung to every surface. Dru moved with unease, her pendant tucked against her chest, Merath’s cloak pulled tightly around her.

The man from the Kindred Lantern walked beside her in silence. He hadn't offered a name, and Dru hadn't asked. Something about him demanded distance even as it drew curiosity.

They reached the docks after weaving through rows of open markets and the smell of baked fish. Dozens of ships rocked lazily in the bay. Sailors hollered, barrels rolled, and a ship’s bell rang out.

“Ivory Mountain’s not exactly on the main route,” Dru said, scanning the crews. “Even if we could find one going inland, I don’t know how much I could afford.”

The man gave her a sidelong look, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Fortune smiles. I’ve paid for our passage.”

She blinked. “You what?”

He stepped forward, speaking briefly to a half-elf with weathered skin and a salt-stained coat. They exchanged coin and a firm handshake. The sailor gave Dru a curious glance, then jerked a thumb toward a mid-sized sloop preparing to cast off.

“Dawn,” the man said, returning to her side. “Be on board before the tide turns.”

“Why are you helping me?” Dru asked, her voice hushed.

He looked at her, eyes once more glowing faintly. “Because your path intersects with mine. And whether you believe it or not… the mountain is calling.”

That Night…

The gentle roll of the ship lulled Dru into sleep, wrapped tight in Merath’s cloak. For a time, it was peace.

But the dream came, uninvited.

A stone chamber lit by flickering candlelight. Figures robed in dark reds and blacks chanted low around a circle etched in silver and bone. A shadow loomed behind them—tall, regal, ancient. The silhouette of a throne. Fangs caught the glow of candlelight, just for an instant.

Among the robed figures, three stood slightly apart. Their faces were hidden, but she felt a strange pull. One reached up—about to remove their hood.

Lightning tore the vision away.

She jolted awake, heart pounding, just as another crack of thunder split the sky above. The cabin shook. A trunk slid across the floor. Voices screamed above deck.

The door burst open. The hooded man—his eyes glowing faintly in the stormlight—reached out. “On your feet!”

Dru scrambled upright, the ship lurching violently as a wave struck broadside. They staggered through the narrow hall to the upper deck, rain slashing down like thrown daggers.

Chaos reigned.

 

A mast shattered. Ropes snapped and whipped through the air. Someone screamed a prayer in a language Dru didn’t know.

 

She gripped the railing just as a flash of green lightning lit the sea—revealing a monstrous wave rising like a cliff face. It shimmered, like something moved within it.

 

The man beside her cursed. “This storm’s not natural.”

 

Above them, clouds twisted in impossible patterns. A flash—like wings—then nothing.

 

Then the wave hit.

 

Dru’s breath caught, fingers white-knuckled around the railing. Time slowed. She saw every terrified face on deck. The fear. The certainty of death.

 

And something inside her snapped.

 

“No!” she screamed—not in defiance, but desperation.

 

The air pulsed. Stormlight bent—colors bleeding and twisting. The sigil around her neck burned hot. Her eyes flared with searing white light as wind caught her hair like flame.

 

She thrust her hands forward—

 

—and the world exploded.

 

A shockwave of raw magic burst from her. The wave met it—and split. Not cleanly, but like a hammer through glass. Water exploded in all directions. The ship bucked, but held. Upright. Alive.

 

Silence.

 

Then the storm resumed, but the worst had passed.

 

Dru collapsed to her knees, smoke curling off her fingertips. Sailors stared. Some prayed. Others gaped. The hooded man watched, unreadable.

 

“Well,” he said quietly as the rain softened, “that answers a few questions.”

 

She crumpled, unconscious, light fading from her eyes. Steam hissed from her hands. The rain fell gently now, like the storm itself had been cowed.

 

The man caught her before she struck the deck, cradling her head. “She’s burning herself up,” he muttered, brushing a singed strand of hair from her brow.

 

“Is she alive?” the captain barked, boots slapping wet across the deck.

 

“She’ll live.” He lifted her with surprising gentleness and followed the captain below.

 

---

 

Below Deck – Later

 

Dru lay curled in a hammock, wrapped in a thick blanket. Sparks still crackled at her fingertips before fizzling out like dying fireflies.

 

The captain stood nearby, wringing out his coat. “What in the nine hells was that?”

 

The man sat on a crate, elbows on his knees. “Honestly? No idea.”

 

“You’re telling me she just—held back the storm?”

 

He shrugged. “Maybe it blinked.”

 

The captain snorted. “Storms don’t blink. That wave should’ve swallowed us whole, and next thing I know, the air’s humming like a struck bell.”

 

“She do that often?”

 

“I don’t think she knows she can.”

 

The captain gave a low whistle. “So what, she’s some kinda walking tempest?”

 

“More like a lightning rod in boots.”

 

The captain chuckled. “Remind me to charge her extra for passage.”

 

The man stood, gaze fixed on Dru. “She’s not the one who should be paying.”