Summer, year 568 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The arrangements with Caspian were settled by nightfall, and the next morning Kharg and Ivar arrived at the docks to board the Wolf Song. Before stepping aboard, Kharg turned to Farad and clasped his hand warmly, his voice full of sincerity. “I hope to be back soon.”

  “I hope so too, you’ve been a pleasure to have around,” Farad said with a smile. “A pleasure and a source of unexpected work. Have a safe journey and give my best to Lord Akgun.”

  The Wolf Song was a sight to behold, sleek and well-maintained. The aged wood had been freshly polished, and the scent of tar clung to it. A figurehead at the bow in the shape of a wolf mid-howl gave the ship an unmistakable look that clearly marked it as part of the Silverwolf fleet. Though she was not the largest vessel in the harbor, she carried an air of dignity and strength that made her stand out. Sailors bustled about the deck, preparing for departure under the first mate’s barked orders. Malte drove them hard, pacing the quarter-deck like a man who mistrusted leisure.

  Kharg and Ivar headed up the gangway together, their fine attire marking them as men of status. The first mate had been moved to bunk with the sailors to accommodate Kharg, who took over the small but comfortable cabin just below the quarter-deck. Ivar and Caspian shared the only guest cabin, a snug space with two narrow bunks and a single porthole.

  As Kharg adjusted his coat, Fafne launched himself from his shoulder, his silvery wings catching the salty wind. The little dragon swooped above the deck, his sleek form gliding effortlessly between the masts. A few sailors glanced up, murmuring in surprise as he perched on the rigging and chirped in curiosity.

  One of the younger crew members gaped. “What in blazes is that?”

  “A faerie dragon,” Malte answered gruffly, eyeing the creature as Fafne tilted his head at the man’s reaction. “Not something you see every day.”

  Kharg glanced at him in surprise, very few non-scholars had heard about faerie dragons and even fewer would have been able to recognize one.

  One of the older sailors made a warding gesture. “Dragons and ships don’t mix,” he muttered, half to himself.

  “Nonsense,” Malte snorted. “Superstitions be damned. A clever creature like that might just bring us good fortune.”

  At that moment, Fafne let out a delighted trill and flitted down to land on Kharg’s shoulder once more, nuzzling against his jaw as if in agreement.

  Kharg grinned slyly, a glint in his eyes. “Seems he approves of the ship.”

  Arthan, overhearing, chuckled. “Aye, well, let’s hope he’s as keen when the seas grow rough.”

  On the quarter-deck, Kharg and Ivar watched the final preparations for departure. Three rowboats approached the Wolf Song, their crews skillfully fastening heavy ropes to the ship. Working together, the crew towed the galleon clear of the pier and out into open harbor, their oars slicing cleanly through the calm water. Arthan, the grizzled captain, tossed a pouch of coins to one of the men in payment, offering a gruff yet sincere word of thanks.

  “Clear to set sail!” Malte called out, his voice ringing sharply across the deck. Sailors scrambled expertly up the rigging, unfurling the sails in a fluid motion. Kharg raised a hand and hissed a quiet incantation to summon a steady breeze. The sails swelled gently with wind, and the Wolf Song smoothly gathered speed, gliding gracefully toward open waters and leaving the bustling harbor behind.

  Caspian emerged from below deck, still pale but eager to rejoin his friends. “Permission to come up?” he asked Arthan, who gave a nod of approval. Together, the trio stood on the quarter-deck, watching as Varakar’s bustling harbor shrank behind them. The city’s towering spires and crowded docks gradually vanished beyond the horizon, giving way to the endless, rolling expanse of open sea.

  The first few days of the voyage passed pleasantly. Calm seas and steady winds sped their progress, the latter aided by Kharg’s periodic spells. Caspian, eager to contribute, began practicing wind magic under Kharg’s watchful guidance, a development that earned Captain Arthan’s hearty approval. Somewhere along the way, the last of his spearmint leaves ran out, and he didn’t bother replacing them.

  “You’ve got a natural touch, lad,” the captain remarked one evening, clapping Caspian firmly on the shoulder.

  Each night, the trio dined comfortably in Arthan’s quarters, enjoying hearty meals, fine wine, and the captain’s inexhaustible supply of seafaring tales. One evening, Ivar surprised them by pulling out a small flute and playing a cheerful tune. Kharg and Caspian, clearly delighted, pressed him with questions.

  The first few lilting notes had barely left the flute before Fafne perked up from his perch on Kharg’s shoulder, his head tilting at an inquisitive angle. His wings flicked once and, to everyone’s amusement, he let out a soft, almost melodic trill in response to the music.

  Caspian chuckled. “Looks like you have a fan, Ivar.”

  Ivar raised an eyebrow, playing a few more notes in a rising scale. Fafne’s tail flicked rhythmically, and his iridescent eyes shone with delight as the tune danced through the captain’s quarters. When Ivar shifted to a faster melody, the little dragon stretched his neck, warbling along with the song in his own strange, high-pitched way.

  Kharg raised an eyebrow, stroking his companion’s crest. “You’d best be careful, Ivar. If he takes a liking to this, he might start demanding a performance every night.”

  Ivar merely smiled, continuing to play. Enraptured, Fafne gave a soft chirp and fluttered down from Kharg’s shoulder, landing on the table. He curled his tail around his feet and swayed gently, as if feeling the music deep in his bones.

  When the song ended, Fafne gave a wistful trill, looking expectantly at Ivar. Caspian laughed. “Well, I think that settles it. You have an admirer.”

  Ivar shook his head in amusement but lifted the flute once more, indulging his unexpected audience.

  “I had no idea you played,” Kharg said, raising a brow in genuine surprise.

  Ivar shrugged modestly. “It’s nothing compared to the bards in Varakar. I play for my own enjoyment.”

  “Well, keep playing,” Caspian said with a grin. “It’s better than any bard I’ve heard.”

  * * *

  Kharg knelt on the sun-baked deck, he racket of gulls echoing overhead. He held two lengths of fraying hemp rope in his calloused hands, the fibers rough beneath his fingertips.

  “Watch closely,” he called, voice low. Ivar and Caspian shuffled forward, squinting in the salt-dried breeze. Neither of them had ever set foot on a ship before.

  Kharg crossed the first rope over the second, looping it around. “This is a reef knot, our simplest way to bind two lines. See how the strands lie flat? If you pull it tight, it won’t slip… usually.” He cinched the knot, then gave it a tug. It held.

  Caspian’s eyes widened. “Why ‘reef’ knot?” he asked, reaching out to touch the twisted fibers.

  Kharg smiled, tracing a finger over the rope’s worn loops. “Because it’s what you use when you reef a sail—roll it down to reduce surface area. Enough wind could tear a full sail apart if you’re not careful.” He handed Caspian a spare coil. “Here, try it.”

  Caspian fumbled with the lines, his fingers knotting the ropes awkwardly. Ivar leaned in, nudging him. “You’ve got it backwards, swap hands.”

  “I see,” Caspian murmured. The second attempt slid into place, the two ropes lying snug, the knot cinched. He stood, triumphant. “Like this?”

  “Exactly.” Kharg clipped the ropes to a nearby pin. “Now, let’s move on. Those sails won’t trim themselves.”

  He waved them toward the mast. Canvas panels flapped overhead, their edges frayed from countless voyages. Kharg showed them how to belt a sail to the yardarm, then let it fall free so the wind could catch its broad sweep. He pointed skyward. “When night falls, look here.” He traced a path among the distant stars. “That cluster up there is the Southern Cross. Follow these three stars for true south.” Ivar squinted upward, trying to memorize the pattern, while Caspian p braced a hand on the rail to steady himself.

  A movement at the corner of his eye made him look up at the dorsal fin of a large shark on the port side, shadowing the ship. A closer look revealed a whole school of them. The sun was about to drop below the horizon, casting long shadows that made the sharks a bit difficult to see beneath the surface.

  A sudden cry from the crow’s nest broke the tranquil quiet. “Black Cliffs ahead!”

  Kharg peered north and saw dark, jagged formations that rose sharply against the fading light. They resembled partially submerged mountain peaks of dark stone, similar to those of the Stormspire Ridges. A thought stirred in his mind. What if these were the remains of long-forgotten peaks, long since drowned by the unforgiving tides? He had heard tales of the Isle of Sarya, a land said to have been cursed by the gods for its people's rebellion and sunk beneath the Ocean of Memories’ dark waters. Could these cliffs be echoes of that long-forgotten tragedy?

  The idea nagged at him until finally, he turned to Caspian and Arthan, who stood nearby, staring thoughtfully at the ominous shapes. “Arthan,” Kharg asked, his voice thoughtful, “do you think these cliffs might once have been mountains? Maybe even part of a lost land like Sarya?”

  Caspian, intrigued, tilted his head. “Sarya? Isn’t that the legend about the island that angered the gods and was swallowed by the sea?”

  Arthan’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the cliffs. “Aye, I’ve heard the tale,” he said after a moment, his voice grave. “Sarya’s people were said to have defied the gods, their hubris leading to their doom. The gods, in their wrath, shattered the isle and cast it beneath the waves. Some sailors swear these cliffs are all that remain, though most dismiss it as sailor’s talk.”

  Kharg pondered this, his gaze fixed on the foreboding shapes. “If that’s true, then these cliffs carry more than curses, they carry history.”

  Arthan’s expression darkened slightly. “Perhaps. But history has a way of taking those who dwell on it. What I know for certain is that these waters are cursed. A maelstrom sometimes forms in their waters, and it’s said no ship that gets too close survives. The currents here are treacherous enough, and the rocks themselves have claimed more lives than I care to count even without the whirlpool to add danger.”

  Then Arthan gave a sharp order, and the helmsman adjusted their course, steering them farther away from the cliffs. “We’ll give them a wide berth,” he muttered. “No sense tempting fate.”

  The Wolf Song shifted its path, the sails billowing as the ship angled away from the perilous formations. Kharg lingered at the railing, studying the cliffs that seemed to vanish into the mist. The idea of a lost realm, swallowed by divine wrath, unsettled and fascinated him in equal measure. Kharg couldn’t help but glance back time and time again, his unease echoed by Fafne who warbled softly as though sensing the malevolent energy that hung over the cliffs.

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  Caspian joined him, his voice low. “Do you think there’s any truth to it, Kharg? A whole land gone, swallowed by the sea?”

  Kharg smiled casually. “Who can say? But if the legends are true, then it’s a reminder—power and pride, unchecked, can lead to ruin.”

  Caspian stroked his chin, his look contemplative. “A sobering thought.”

  “I heard a tale about Sarya once,” Ivar said, “but that story spoke of an Isle far, far to the south.”

  The crew moved in near silence for the rest of the evening, their usual camaraderie stifled by the cliffs’ looming presence and the weight of the legends they bore. Even Fafne seemed subdued, letting out a soft moaning sound as if sensing the weight of the lore that hung over the waters.

  Kharg remained at the railing a while longer, the wind brushing against his face as the ship sailed steadily onward, leaving behind one mystery while journeying toward countless others.

  * * *

  By the fourth day, the skies darkened. Storm clouds massed on the northern horizon, and the wind grew restless, carrying the scent of rain and distant thunder. Jagged streaks of lightning flashed in the distance, and the waves grew choppier, slamming into the ship with unnerving force. Heavy rain began to fall, drenching the deck and sending Ivar retreating to the safety of the cabin. Only Kharg and Caspian remained untouched by the downpour, having conjured protective barriers of air to protect themselves from the rain.

  Fafne let out an irritated chitter, his wings fluttering as he huddled against Kharg’s collar, tucking his tail tightly around himself. The faerie dragon usually enjoyed open skies, but the howling winds and rolling waves unsettled him. A sudden gust sent a sharp spray of seawater across the deck, and he hissed in protest, burrowing deeper beneath Kharg’s coat.

  “Not a fan of storms, are you?” Kharg murmured, shielding the little dragon with his gloved hand.

  A distant rumble of thunder made Fafne shudder, his scales darkening slightly as his unease grew. He hummed low in Kharg’s mind, a sensation of discomfort brushing against his thoughts. It was not quite words but enough to convey his dislike of the storm.

  “You and half the crew,” Caspian quipped, tightening the wind barrier around them. “Though I must say, having this magic is quite the luxury.”

  Kharg’s lips quirked, but his focus remained on maintaining their protective spell. Through the heavy rain, he noticed the wary glances of the sailors. At first they were envious, but soon grateful as the mages’ efforts spared them from the worst of the elements as Kharg raised air walls along the railing to protect them from the worst of the wind and stinging rain.

  Just then, a sudden, powerful gust of wind ripped across the deck, and Fafne dug his claws into Kharg’s coat, clinging on for dear life. His usual graceful demeanor had vanished, replaced by raw instinct. Kharg steadied himself, adjusting the currents around them, and with a final flick of his tail, Fafne produced a disgruntled chirp before cautiously peeking out from beneath Kharg’s collar.

  “You’re not the only one who prefers calmer weather,” Kharg reassured him.

  A crack of lightning split the sky, followed by an earsplitting boom. Fafne yelped and squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a soft, warbling noise of distress. Kharg felt a strange, tingling sensation in his mind as the little dragon’s fear rippled through their bond. For the briefest moment, the air around them felt charged—then it was gone.

  Kharg smiled warmly. “You’ll get used to it.”

  * * *

  Kharg and Caspian braced against the storm, their combined magic steadying the Wolf Song. Everyone battled wind and waves together, hauling at the rigging under Malte’s sharp commands. Kharg conjured globes of light to illuminate the deck, earning a chorus of rough thanks from the sailors.

  By the fifth morning the sea lay flat and bright as they roused themselves from the night’s trials. The storm's fury had left them all with tired eyes and heavy limbs, but their spirits seemed undiminished as they resumed their duties with quiet efficiency. Kharg stood at the railing of the quarter-deck, his blue coat now slightly salt-stained but still regal. He gazed out at the serene waters, feeling a deep satisfaction at having helped guide the ship through the storm. Caspian joined him, looking slightly worn but much more at ease than the night before. Ivar, too, emerged from the cabin, his usual composure returned after a hearty breakfast prepared by the ship's cook.

  “I'll admit,” Ivar said, adjusting his coat, “I didn’t quite expect the sea to feel so... alive.” His words drew a laugh from Caspian, who leaned against the railing beside him.

  Kharg smiled, his expression thoughtful. “The sea has a will of its own, much like the winds or the earth. It’s powerful, unpredictable, and demands respect. You both did well, considering this was your first storm.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Caspian said, giving Ivar a playful nudge. “You were the one hiding below deck.”

  “I call it strategy,” Ivar retorted with mock indignation. “Someone had to ensure the wine didn’t spill.”

  Their laughter cut through the lingering tension, and even Arthan, overseeing the morning preparations, let out a gruff chuckle. “You’ll do well enough on the sea, lads,” he said, his voice gruff but approving. “Just remember, storms like that are part of the journey. They test the ship, the crew, and the passengers. And last night, all of you passed.”

  Arthan locked eyes with Kharg, his tone turning solemn. “Your wind magic made all the difference. Between you and young Caspian, we saved hours of toil—and likely worse.”

  Kharg inclined his head humbly. “The ship and her crew earned my respect long before I stepped aboard. It’s a pleasure to lend my skills.”

  The morning passed in smooth sailing, the Wolf Song cutting through the water with ease. Kharg took the opportunity to teach Ivar and Caspian more about the ship’s workings, explaining the names of the sails and their functions. They took turns helping the sailors, learning to tie knots and adjust the rigging under the crew's patient guidance. Fafne, ever curious, flitted between the masts, drawing amused grins from the men.

  As the Wolf Song cut through the calm waters, a sharp cry rang out from the crow’s nest above. The lookout, perched high in the rigging, waved an arm and called down, “Something ahead! North-by-northeast!”

  Arthan’s attention snapped toward the horizon and he unhooked his spyglass to scan the distant waters. A tense silence descended, the steady creak of the ship’s timbers the only sound.

  After a moment, Arthan spoke, his voice steady but grim. “Wooden flotsam,” he said, lowering the glass. “Looks like the remains of a wreck.”

  With a curt nod, he barked an order to the helmsman. “Two points to starboard. Keep her steady, no need to rush into trouble.”

  The helmsman complied, straining against the wheel as the Wolf Song groaned into its new course. The superstitious sailors murmured uneasily among themselves, knowing well the dangers that could lurk near a wreck, especially after a storm.

  A strange hush settled over the deck as they stared at the wreckage. Even the ever-present wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Fafne, who had been resting lightly against Kharg’s collar, suddenly went rigid. His silver scales darkened to a muted gray, and he let out a low, uneasy trill, his claws tightening on Kharg’s coat.

  Kharg frowned, reaching up to soothe his companion, but a strange chill had already sunk into him. It wasn’t just the sight of the wreck, it was the finality of it. These sailors, whoever they had been, were gone. No magic could undo what the storm had claimed.

  For the first time in a long while, Kharg felt small against the vastness of the sea.

  He had always known the ocean could be cruel, but seeing its raw, merciless truth laid bare before him. Shattered wood, lost souls, and an ending that no one had foreseen stirred something deep in his chest. A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of fate’s indifference.

  A shadow moved beneath the waves, sleek and predatory. Then another. The fins of sharks cut silently through the wreckage, circling the remnants of the lost ship as if paying their own grim tribute. Kharg’s throat tightened. Somewhere, not long ago, voices had laughed on that deck. Hands had hauled ropes, and sailors had called orders. Now, there was only the sea’s eerie quietness.

  Fafne called out in a soft, mournful chirp and pressed closer against Kharg’s neck, his tail curling around his arm in a rare show of distress.

  Caspian, standing beside him, exhaled slowly. “Nothing left,” he murmured.

  “No bodies,” Ivar noted grimly. “Just wreckage.”

  Kharg tilted his head in agreement but stayed silent. All around him he heard the whispered prayers to Orravos, the mother-goddess of the sea. Arthan removed his weathered cap and bowed his head, his lips moving in silent reverence. One by one, the sailors followed, offering their respects in the only way they knew how.

  Kharg hesitated, then finally let out a slow breath and did the same. He wasn’t sure if the gods cared for prayers, nor if they ever listened, but perhaps for the dead, it wasn’t about being heard. It was about being remembered.

  Arthan replaced his cap, his expression unreadable, and gave the quiet order. “Resume course.”

  The Wolf Song slowly turned away, leaving the wreckage to the endless expanse of the sea.

  Kharg lingered at the railing a moment longer, Fafne still nestled against him, before finally pulling his eyes away. The Wolf Song resumed its original heading, the somber mood lingering among the crew as they left the wreck behind. Kharg, standing near the railing, found himself ruminating on the sheer power of the sea and the fragility of those who dared to cross it.

  * * *

  The next few days at sea passed smoothly, the Wolf Song cutting through the waves with an impressive swiftness. Thanks to Kharg’s wind magic, and the occasional contribution from Caspian, the galleon sailed at nearly one and a half times its usual speed. Both Malte and Arthan remarked on the efficiency, nodding in quiet approval at their young passenger’s contributions.

  During the journey, dolphins occasionally appeared alongside the ship, leaping gracefully through the water and darting in the wake of the galleon. The sailors delighted in the sight, laughing and pointing out the playful creatures to one another. “A good omen,” some whispered. “Every sailor knows dolphins mean safe waters ahead.”

  From time to time, distant sails appeared on the horizon, their outlines barely visible in the wavering heat of the noonday sun. They passed without incident, a silent acknowledgment between ships sharing the vast expanse of the Still Sea.

  On the final night of the second week, Kharg had just completed his evening meditations when a distant call reached his ears from the crow’s nest. “Light ahead!”

  Fafne, who had curled up into a tight ball against his collar, stirred, his silver scales twitching as if responding to something unseen. The little dragon’s wings flexed, and he let out a soft, inquisitive trill.

  Kharg barely had time to react before Fafne perked up fully, his body tensing with sudden excitement. The sensation reached Kharg’s mind in a brief, fleeting impression, recognition, familiarity.

  “What is it?” Kharg murmured, sitting up straighter.

  Fafne’s tail flicked against his arm, his bright eyes locked on the cabin door. The dragon let out a sharper trill, nudging Kharg’s cheek insistently. Curious, he dressed quickly and stepped out onto the deck.

  The cool breeze greeted him, carrying the sharp salt of the open sea. Kharg rested his hands on the railing and nodded toward a steady light burning ahead in the dark.

  “There,” he said quietly. “Narath’s Tooth.”

  Caspian leaned closer, following his gaze. “That little point of rock?”

  “It doesn’t look like much from here,” Kharg replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “But that flame marks the mouth of the Bay of Nar. First of the two lighthouses. If you see that, you know you’re on the right approach.”

  Ivar squinted into the wind. “The first?”

  “We have a second on the cliffs south of Sitch Nar. You won’t miss it once we round the promontory. Between the two, even in a storm, you can find your way in.” He gave a small, satisfied nod toward the distant glow. “Narath’s Tooth burns bright enough to be seen for miles.”

  Caspian studied the light again, perhaps imagining the harbor beyond it. “Comforting,” he murmured.

  Kharg smiled faintly. “It is… if you’re the one coming home.”

  As soon as they were in the open air, Fafne launched himself from Kharg’s shoulder, wings catching the night wind. He darted upward, soaring in a tight loop above the ship before settling back down, his scales glinting in the lantern light.

  Kharg smirked, reaching up to scratch beneath his chin. “You remember this place, don’t you?”

  Fafne gave a pleased chirp, his eyes locked on the distant glow of the lighthouse, his whole body thrumming with anticipation.

  A few hours later, they had rounded the cape and set course due east. Kharg had seen it countless times before, but this was the first time he’d approached his city by night from the sea. The towering structure seemed almost magical, the fire atop it flickering defiantly against the dark sky. His chest swelled with a quiet pride, this was home.

  The Wolf Song was rocked by massive swells as dawn broke and the sun peeked over the horizon when the lookout’s shout echoed across the ship. “Land ho!”

  Kharg joined his friends on the quarter-deck, gesturing grandly toward the sight ahead. Sitch Nar was coming into view, its grandeur revealed in the light of the rising sun. Two massive wave breakers extended protectively around the harbor, their stone walls weathered but enduring. Beyond the harbor, the city rose tier by tier, built on the natural slope of the land. From the distance, the buildings glistened in hues of white and gold, their facades reflecting the morning light.

  “There it is!” Kharg exclaimed, his voice filled with pride. “Behold, Sitch Nar!”

  He gestured with a sweeping flourish, but a sudden gust of wind caught his hat. He lunged after it, snatching it from the air just before it could sail overboard. His friends laughed, and even a few of the men chuckled good-naturedly at the sight.

  As they drew closer, Kharg pointed out landmarks with an almost childlike enthusiasm. “There,” he said, gesturing to a high cliff just beyond the harbor. “That’s our mansion.”

  The view from the sea was spectacular. The mansion stood proud atop the sheer white cliffs, its walls gleaming in the morning light. Waves crashed against the rocks far below, sending white spray into the air. Akgun, Kharg’s father, had built a small platform there for gazing out at the endless blue. Beyond it, the tips of pointed towers rose proudly from the mansion’s western wing, a banner of the Silverwolf Trading House fluttering high above in the morning breeze.

  “Impressive,” Caspian murmured, his tone one of genuine awe.

  “Grand, indeed,” Ivar agreed. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect anything less.”

  The helmsman, steady and sure, guided the Wolf Song toward the pier permanently reserved for their House. As they drew nearer, dockhands began to wave, preparing to secure the ship. The city loomed ahead, vibrant and alive, a symbol of both Kharg’s lineage and the adventures yet to come.