Chapter 5: After the Storm
Dawn broke gently after the tempest, as if nature itself regretted its prior fury. The sky over Tiruva blushed in hues of pink and orange. The ocean, so violent the day before, now lay calm, glassy except for the soft lap of small waves on the shore. The air smelled new and clean—a mingling of damp earth, salt, and the faint sweetness of blooming hibiscus.
Kelan stepped out of his family's cottage into a world transformed by the storm. The ground was littered with coconut fronds and bits of thatch. A few huts bore scars: missing shingles, a collapsed corner here or there. Yet smoke already curled from hearth fires as villagers woke and surveyed the damage. Life continued; people moved with resolve rather than despair, salvaging what could be saved, beginning repairs.
Kelan's muscles protested as he walked, reminding him of yesterday's extraordinary exertions. He pressed a hand to his forehead—only a mild ache remained. A night's rest and Aisina's herbal brew (pungent with turmeric and betel leaf) had largely chased away the splitting pain that followed his overuse of Mind-Touch.
All around, neighbors called greetings and compared notes. Kelan could hear snatches of conversation: "The fishing shed lost its roof completely!"… "We'll help you rebuild, don't worry."… "Any word from Suda's farm?"… "Yes, they're fine, just a few banana trees down." There was relief and camaraderie in those voices; the storm's worst had passed and no lives were lost.
Kelan set to work immediately alongside his father. They first cleared their own yard of debris—stacking fallen palm leaves and broken pots to one side—then joined a crew of men mending the village meeting hall's torn roof. By midmorning, a rhythmic hammering echoed across the village as people nailed, wove, and repaired in unison.
The storm's wrath, while fierce, had been mercifully brief. Soon the sun climbed high, drying puddles and coaxing steam from the soaked earth. Chickens tentatively ventured out to peck at worms brought up by the rain. Children, ever resilient, turned the remaining pools of water into play, splashing and laughing as their mothers scolded half-heartedly while sweeping out flooded floors.
Around midday, Kelan found a moment to walk the beach. It was customary after big storms to search the tideline for whatever the sea had churned up—sometimes curiosities from far-off lands drifted in on strange currents. With a woven sack in hand, he strolled along the sand, eyes scanning the jumble of seaweed, driftwood, and shells.
Before long he encountered Mira, Pell, and Jorin a little further down, already scavenging. Pell was hefting a barnacle-crusted plank with foreign markings on it, while Mira triumphantly held up an old glass fishing float that had washed up intact. Jorin waved Kelan over, pointing to something half-buried.
Kelan jogged to them, his feet sinking in the wet sand. They greeted him cheerfully. The mood was buoyant today—everyone was simply thankful to have come through safe.
"Look at this!" Mira said, brushing sand off a small wooden box that Jorin had just dug out of a tangle of kelp. The box was dented and its iron latch rusted, but its craftsmanship was of a style unknown on Tiruva. Etched on its lid was a motif of a rising sun over waves.
Kelan knelt to help. Together they pried the salt-stiff latch open with Jorin's fishing knife. Inside, cushioned in sodden straw, was a curious brass instrument—an intricate compass, though the glass was cracked and seawater had long invaded its workings.
"Must be from a ship," Pell murmured, turning the device over. He pointed to faded letters on the wood box's underside: Morning Star – Auristaz.
Kelan exchanged a look with Mira. Morning Star was the name of a merchant brig from the mainland that had visited two seasons ago. Rumor had it the ship was lost on a return voyage. This debris seemed to confirm those whispers.
Carefully, Kelan closed the box again and stowed it in his sack. "I'll take this to Grandmother and the council. Maybe it can be returned to Auristaz… or at least they'll appreciate knowing what became of that vessel."
Jorin nodded. "Better with them than with me; I've no use for a broken compass." Still, the youth looked a bit awed at holding something that had come from so far away—and through such a trial at sea.
They continued combing the tide wrack. Kelan found a length of frayed, exotic-looking rope (likely from a foreign ship's rigging), some bright red cloth torn and wrapped around a piece of driftwood, and a handsome chunk of polished driftwood he thought to carve later. But aside from the compass, nothing of obvious high value appeared.
As they worked, they chatted amiably about the rebuilding efforts and the upcoming tasks. Inevitably, talk turned to Kelan's looming departure. It was easier to discuss in the daylight and after facing a storm together.
"I heard old Maru saying the storm was an omen—like the Sea-Mother protesting you leaving," Pell said quietly, tossing a stick for a stray dog that had bounded up to investigate the commotion.
Kelan paused, a strange seashell in hand. "Yes, I heard murmurs of that," he admitted. "Maru has never liked any change in our ways. But Grandmother said—and I believe—that if the goddess was angry, she wouldn't have spared us as she did. The storm could have been far worse."
Mira nodded vigorously. "Exactly. A few roofs off and some soggy rice doesn't scream divine wrath to me. If anything, perhaps the goddess was showing us why someone like you is needed. You saved people, Kelan. Imagine if no one with Mind-Touch had been here—Nila could have been crushed, that boat destroyed." Her hazel eyes looked at him earnestly through wind-tousled hair. "Maybe the goddess was proving to the doubters why your gift matters."
Kelan felt a warmth of humility and pride flush through him. He hadn't thought of it that way. He had simply done what needed doing. But he realized his actions likely did quell much of any lingering opposition to his journey. The villagers saw that his unusual ability, rather than being some frivolous trick, was a profound boon in times of crisis.
"Maybe so," he allowed, giving a bashful shrug.
They walked on, filling their sack with smaller items of rope and timber that could be reused. Mira collected pretty shells here and there—she liked to string them into jewelry.
When the sun reached its zenith, they decided to head back for the communal midday meal being organized for the workers. Kelan hefted the sack over his shoulder. It clanked where the brass box shifted inside.
Approaching the central clearing, they saw that some industrious aunties had already set up a serving area with banana leaves spread out and piles of food—cold taro pudding, roasted breadfruit, and fish that had been caught that morning by a few brave souls venturing out after the storm.
Under the shade of the great banyan tree, villagers gathered to eat, sitting on mats or overturned buckets. There were scratches and bruises aplenty among them, bandaged with strips of clean cloth, but also laughter and even a few playful songs being sung by children darting about. Adversity had knit them even closer.
Kelan spotted his family and went to join them. He set down his haul carefully at Grandmother Sireen's feet. "Storm gifts," he said with a smile.
Sireen curiously opened the wooden box and examined the waterlogged compass and the engraved name. She raised her eyebrows. "A tale rides in with the tide, I see. We will see this returned to its origin."
First Mother Nala, sitting nearby nibbling on boiled plantain, leaned over to peer. "Morning Star...Ah, I remember that ship's captain. He'll not be calling again." There was a moment of respectful silence for sailors lost at sea, then Nala patted Kelan's hand. "You've done well to bring this. Such things have a way of finding their rightful place. Perhaps you'll carry it back to Auristaz and impress that magistrate of theirs."
Kelan chuckled. "Perhaps."
As the afternoon stretched on, Kelan split his time helping mend a damaged section of the community fish-drying racks and assisting his mother and other women in re-thatching a neighbor's roof. It felt good to work in normalcy, to sweat at ordinary tasks under the sun, to banter and share simple company. At times he almost forgot the clock was ticking down on these everyday moments.
Late in the day, as golden light began to slant once more, the council mothers convened a brief meeting—this time with only themselves and Kelan present—to discuss the forthcoming imperial visit. Word had arrived via pigeon from a larger island that the magistrate's ship had set sail and was on schedule, storm delays minimal. They would arrive within a week.
In the open-air courtyard beside the council house (for the main hall still needed some storm repairs), Kelan sat respectfully while the matriarchs determined what items and messages would accompany him. The brass compass box was deemed a fitting goodwill gift to present to the Imperial Academy—"It shows we give back what washes to us, that we respect their property and tragedies," Sireen noted. They also decided to send a beautifully woven pandanus mat (made by Maru, who preened a bit at this honor) as a gift to the Emperor's sister, and a bound copy of Tiruva's genealogy and lore that Sireen had been updating over years—so that "they know who we are," as Nala said firmly.
Kelan was asked to speak about his thoughts on going. With measured honesty, he admitted he was anxious but also determined. He promised to represent their island with integrity and to return with whatever knowledge or advantages he could gain for Tiruva. His sincerity earned him gentle smiles and nods of approval.
When that meeting concluded, the evening was again at hand. The day had been long and full, yet Kelan felt more energized than exhausted. The storm's aftermath had given him purpose and kept his mind from wandering down fearful paths about leaving home.
Before retiring that night, Kelan took another solitary walk to his favorite rocky point west of the village. The sea was calm and dark now, lit only by a sliver of moon. The breeze was mild, carrying the scent of night flowers and wet earth.
Standing on the rocks where tide pools glimmered with starlight, Kelan reflected on how swiftly life can change. Only days ago, his biggest concerns had been finishing a skiff and dreaming idly of maybe seeing the world beyond the reefs someday. Now, in barely a week's time, he would be that traveler, the one sailing off under an imperial banner.
He crouched by a tide pool, the same one he had visited before the council meeting. Tiny fish darted under the reflection of his face. He realized something then: as much as he cherished this quiet coastal life, a part of him was ready for the journey. The storm had shown him what he was capable of; the council had shown their faith in him. It was time to embrace whatever lay beyond the horizon.
He touched the driftwood pendant at his throat—a habit he'd developed since Jorina gave it to him. It grounded him, reminding him of who he was: a son of Tiruva, shaped by salt and sand and community. That would not change no matter where he went.
Straightening up, Kelan gazed out over the wide ocean. Far across that water, Auristaz and its wonders waited. A few more dawns and he would set sail.
The stars above were the same here and there, he knew. He found the guiding star in the south—the one sailors used to navigate toward Auristaz's latitude—and made a silent wish on it for safe passage and wisdom.
Then he turned and made his way home under the canopy of the night, footfalls soft in the cooling sand. His destiny was unfolding, and with each step, the unknown felt a little less daunting and the path a little more clear. Whatever storms had come and would come, he would meet them as he always had—steadily, with hope lighting his way.
Chapter 6: The Wise Woman's Counsel
Late the next evening, when the bustle of storm recovery had settled, Kelan found himself walking up a narrow path of crushed coral toward the island's seaside shrine. The sun had set an hour before, leaving a sky of deep indigo. A nearly full moon had risen, silvering the tops of palms and casting the shoreline in gentle light. Old Jorina, the shrine keeper, had sent word through First Mother Nala that she wished to speak with Kelan privately.
Though Kelan had received counsel from many in recent days—his family, the council, friends—he felt a flutter of nerves at the thought of speaking alone with Jorina. The shrine keeper was a figure of quiet power in their community. Some said she was "goddess-touched," prone to visions and deep intuition.
The shrine itself sat on a low promontory at the north end of the bay—a simple open-sided hut of driftwood and stone, housing an ancient carved statue of the Sea-Mother with arms outstretched. Beside it, a rickety pier extended a short way into the gentle surf; it was here Jorina liked to sit and listen to the waves.
As Kelan approached, he saw Jorina's slight figure already out on the pier. She stood very still, leaning on her cane, gazing up at the moon. Her long white hair, unbound tonight, spilled down her back almost to her waist. She wore a wrap of dark blue cloth covered in intricate patterns of stars.
Kelan respectfully slowed as he stepped onto the creaking pier boards. Though she must have heard him, Jorina didn't turn immediately. He stopped a few paces behind her. "Honored Jorina," he said softly, using the reverent form of address. "You asked for me?"
Jorina turned then. Even in the low light, Kelan could see her eyes—clouded with age, yet still reflecting the moon's brightness. She was well into her eighties, tiny and wrinkled as a dried sea-apple, but exuded an ageless calm. She smiled, and the web of lines on her face shifted gently. "Thank you for coming, child."
She beckoned him forward. Side by side they stood at the pier's end, waves lapping quietly at the pylons below. For a long moment, Jorina simply breathed, in and out, her gaze on the horizon where the water met the night sky.
"You leave soon," she finally said, not so much a question as a gentle statement of fact.
"In five days, Wise One, if the gods will it," Kelan answered. The sea air was warm, but he felt a slight chill of anticipation as he spoke the timeline aloud.
Jorina nodded. "The gods do will it, I think." She regarded him kindly. "How is your heart, Kelan?"
Kelan blinked. Of all the counsel and advice given to him, few had asked how he truly felt. Trust Jorina to go straight to the essence. He considered how to answer. With her, he felt he could not lie or put on a brave face. "It is…conflicted," he admitted quietly. "I am excited to learn and see what lies beyond the waves, but I'm also afraid—of failing our people, of not returning for a long time... of being lonely out there."
Jorina reached and rested her thin hand on Kelan's forearm. Her skin was cool despite the warm night. "All natural feelings," she assured. "Courage is not the absence of fear, but the carrying on with fear beside you."
Kelan managed a small smile. He had heard that saying before, but from Jorina's lips it felt newly comforting.
The wise woman then motioned for him to sit. She herself carefully lowered to a cross-legged seat on the pier's end, laying her cane across her lap. Kelan joined her, legs dangling over the water. The moon's reflection shivered in the gentle current, a long ribbon of light pointing toward the open sea.
From a pocket in her robe, Jorina produced a small pouch. She opened it, withdrawing a pinch of dried herbs which she cast into the water. A fragrant, spicy smell wafted up—probably a mix of sage and local tree resin. It was an offering to the goddess of the sea, Kelan knew, commonly done in blessing rituals.
They watched the water swallow the herbs. Then Jorina closed her eyes and hummed a few bars of an old chant. Kelan recognized it as a protective prayer used when launching new boats. He closed his eyes too, letting the melody wash over him along with the hush of the waves. He felt the familiar tingle at the nape of his neck he often felt in Jorina's presence, as if some unseen current passed from the wise woman into the very air.
When Jorina's humming ceased, Kelan opened his eyes. The older woman's eyes remained shut for a moment longer, her face serene. Then she gazed at Kelan searchingly. "Visions come to me more freely in places like this," she said, almost apologetically. "The boundaries between worlds are thinner by the water under moonlight."
Kelan nodded, heart quickening. He had heard tales of Jorina's visions and how they guided some of the council's decisions in years past.
"I sought insight for you," Jorina continued. "Some came, in pieces. I will share them, but remember: the future is like the sea—ever shifting. No vision is certain fate."
"I understand," Kelan said softly. He wasn't entirely sure he did, but he would listen with an open mind.
Jorina's eyes drifted to the horizon again. "I saw a lone hawk, far from land, battling a storm's winds yet not beaten by them." Her voice was lilting, as if reciting poetry. "I saw it finally glide to a great tree, in a forest of unfamiliar trees. Many smaller birds were around it, colorful plumage, making a cacophony. Some welcomed the hawk, some shrieked at it. But the hawk endured, perched high."
She paused, letting the imagery sink in. Kelan absorbed it, gooseflesh rising on his arms despite the warmth. A hawk alone... that could be him, leaving Tiruva, flying to the mainland (the forest). Other birds could be the other youths, or people in Auristaz, some friendly and some hostile. It sounded plausible enough to be a metaphor for what he might face.
"I also saw a bright star falling from the sky into a vast dark ocean," Jorina said more quietly. "At first I thought it an ill omen—a falling star often is. But then the star did not drown; it became a spark that lit a great beacon under the water, shining upward."
Kelan frowned slightly, puzzling that one out. A star falling (him leaving home?), becoming a light in the depths. It was a hopeful image after initial peril. Perhaps it meant that though he might feel like he's fallen or lost, he would find a way to shine or be useful even in the deep unknown. At least, that's what he dared interpret.
Jorina turned and fixed Kelan with her pale blue eyes. Moonlight silvered her wiry hair, giving her the look of a specter or goddess herself. "Kelan, you carry much love and wisdom from here with you. That is your anchor. When confusion or loneliness assail you, sound that anchor in your heart and you will not drift off course."
"I will," Kelan promised, his voice husky with emotion. "I'll remember."
Satisfied, Jorina reached into her pouch again and brought out a small object that glinted. It was a pendant—one Kelan had never seen her wear. She held it out on her palm. It was a carving of what looked like a soaring bird (maybe a hawk or seagull) made of driftwood, polished smooth by years of sand and salt. A simple flax cord looped through a hole in its center.
"This is for you," she said. "I shaped it from driftwood that came to our shore the year you were born. I had a feeling it was meant for something special. I have blessed it at every full moon since. Wear it, and think of home. It may not have power in a mage's sense, but it carries our prayers."
Kelan gingerly picked up the pendant. He recognized the softness of the wood—almost silky from age. The carving was simple yet elegant, capturing a sense of motion in the bird's wings. His throat tightened. "Thank you, Wise Mother," he whispered, overcome.
He immediately slipped the cord over his neck. The wood felt warm against his chest, as if it had soaked in Jorina's lifetime of warmth.
The old woman smiled—a rare, full smile that made her eyes crinkle shut. "The first time you feel truly lost out there, hold that and remember this sky, this sea, this air. Remember you are a child of Tiruva, and our love travels with you."
They sat a while longer in companionable silence. Kelan found himself talking then, more freely than he had with anyone yet, about his hopes and fears. He confessed his worry whether he'd find any friends in Auristaz, or if he'd be an outcast. Jorina chuckled and assured him that the gods seldom drop someone in a place without also dropping a few guiding figures or kindred spirits. "Keep your mind and heart open, and you'll find those who resonate with your spirit," she said.
He admitted he feared his own temper or mistakes bringing trouble (thinking of how he nearly lashed out at Biran, or how using magic in front of strangers might provoke fear). Jorina reminded him that ethics and restraint had been ingrained in him from youth. "You have a good compass within," she said, tapping his chest lightly. "Trust it, even if others around you lose theirs."
When it was time to part, Kelan felt lighter, as though a burden he hadn't realized he was carrying had been gently lifted off. Jorina slowly rose with his help. As they walked off the pier, she gave him one final, sidelong look. "One more thing: when you stand on the ship's deck, leaving Tiruva, do not look back with sorrow. Look forward with determination. The island will be here awaiting your return, however long it may be. And the Sea-Mother shall watch over the space between."
Kelan bit his lip and nodded. Imagining that moment of departure was hard; he suspected sorrow would come whether he willed it or not. But he understood her point: go with purpose, not regret.
At the base of the promontory, where the village path started, Jorina blessed him formally. She traced a small symbol in the air with a finger—an old rune of safe voyage—then briefly placed her palm over his eyes (he closed them) and then his heart. He felt the slightest pressure, and then she was gone with a whisper of robes, back up the path toward her shrine.
Kelan opened his eyes. The wise woman was but a pale shape moving under the moonlit palms, and soon even that faded.
Letting out a long breath, Kelan tilted his head up to gaze at the moon. In a few nights, it would be full. By then, likely, he would be sailing under its light, on a ship bound for Auristaz.
He touched the driftwood bird pendant on his chest, finding comfort in its smooth, worn texture. The night was quiet except for the faint symphony of insects and the distant breaking of waves on the reef. Quietly, he whispered a prayer to the Sea-Mother and the ancestors to bless not only him but also those he left behind—that his journey might ultimately bring good for them all.
Then Kelan walked home, footfalls crunching softly on coral bits. Unlike the previous night's tension, tonight he felt a serene resolve within. He had sought the counsel of Tiruva's wisest and felt as prepared in mind and soul as one could be for the great unknown.
Whatever awaited out there—be it hawk's storms or beacon's light—he would meet it, guided by the ever-steady star of home glowing in his heart.
Chapter 7: The Price of Power
In the handful of days left before the arrival of the imperial ship, life resumed a semblance of its normal rhythm on Tiruva—though with an undercurrent of anticipation that touched everything Kelan did. Each daily activity became tinged with a sense of impending farewell. As Kelan mended fishing nets with his father on a bright afternoon, he found himself memorizing the exact timbre of Arran's humming of a work tune, knowing he wouldn't hear it for a long while. As he helped his sisters gather breadfruit in the grove, he took extra time to show them the best way to twist the fruit off the stem without damaging the tree—a lesson to last while he was away.
Not everyone, however, was treating him with gentle deference. Biran, in particular, had been conspicuously avoiding Kelan since the storm. At first Kelan thought it was shame for Biran's outburst at the net-mending or awkwardness after Kelan's heroics during the storm. But as days passed, Kelan sensed a simmering resentment still emanating from the older youth.
It came to a head two days before the ship's due date. Kelan was at the beach in the afternoon, helping patch one of the larger fishing nets under the coconut palms. He sat cross-legged in the sand alongside several other young men, weaving new flax twine into a torn section of net. The mood was light—they joked about who had the swiftest fingers, who tied the ugliest knots. Some girls were nearby, stripping pandanus leaves for future weaving, occasionally laughing along or offering teasing critiques of the boys' net-mending prowess.
Biran sauntered over, spear-fishing harpoon in hand, fresh from free-diving at the reef. He had a stringer of fish—an impressive catch of groupers and parrotfish, indicating he'd been at it for hours. The group fell quiet as his shadow fell across the net they were working on.
"Patching nets again, are we?" Biran said by way of greeting, not bothering to hide the disdain in his tone. He propped his harpoon against his shoulder. "Must be nice sitting and chatting in the shade while others bring in the evening meal." He nodded toward his fish with a tight smirk.
A few of the younger boys bristled. Jorin opened his mouth, but Kelan, sensing the tension, spoke first in an even tone. "This net will ensure tomorrow's catch is plenty, Biran. We all contribute."
Biran's dark eyes narrowed on Kelan. Perhaps it was Kelan's measured, almost placating tone that set him off. Or maybe he'd harbored ill feelings since that day in the nets, feeling upstaged. He spat to the side in the sand. "Look at the hero of Tiruva," he sneered softly, just loud enough for those nearest to hear. "Spends a week playing the humble helper, but soon to go play pet mage for the Empire."
Kelan felt his jaw clench. Nearby, Mira (who had paused her pandanus leaf stripping) frowned at Biran, but he ignored her.
"I've no illusions about what I'm doing, Biran," Kelan replied carefully. "No need for insults. We're all working for our people here."
Biran took a half-step forward, harpoon thumping the sand. "Our people. Huh." He looked Kelan up and down. "In three days you won't be among 'our people.' You'll be with them. Perhaps you already fancy yourself above us."
It happened so fast: one moment Kelan was hearing this unfair jab, and the next his temper flared hot. Perhaps it was accumulated stress or simply Biran's goading finally breaching Kelan's calm, but he stood up abruptly, netting twine dropping from his hands. "That's enough, Biran," he said, voice low but edged.
Gasps came from a few onlookers; open confrontations were rare, and many remembered Biran's earlier near-fight. The situation could turn quickly.
Biran stepped forward as well, until he and Kelan were face-to-face on the sand. Biran had a few inches of height and certainly broader shoulders, but Kelan met his glare without flinching. The air between them crackled with challenge.
"Or what?" Biran said in a near whisper. His free hand twitched near the harpoon shaft. "You'll knock me down like you did that log? Show everyone here what a mighty sorcerer you are?"
At that, Kelan actually felt a bite of shame temper his anger. Biran was envious, yes, but also clearly hurting; he felt left behind and small. Kelan suddenly became acutely aware of the eyes watching them—some fearful, some excited. This could go very wrong if he responded in kind.
He took a breath, unclenching fists he hadn't realized were clenched. Mustering the discipline learned under his father's tutelage and Jorina's guidance, Kelan did the unexpected: he bowed his head slightly. "I don't want to fight you, Biran," he said clearly. "We've known each other all our lives. This is a hard change for everyone. But your quarrel is not truly with me."
Biran, caught off guard by Kelan's shift, blinked in confusion. He had been poised for a blow or a magical shove perhaps; instead he got calm words. It threw him off balance more effectively than any punch.
"You're angry I'm leaving and you're not," Kelan continued, straightening up again and speaking so only Biran (and maybe Mira, who hovered worriedly) could hear. "Maybe you even wish it was you. I don't know. But taking it out on me or the others won't change things. When I'm gone, Tiruva will need strong folk to protect it. Folk like you."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Biran's face. He opened his mouth, searching for a retort, but nothing came immediately.
Kelan dared to rest a hand briefly on Biran's shoulder. "I value you, even if we quarrel. And I'll return. Until then...take care of our home, hmm?" he said, voice gentle.
Biran looked utterly nonplussed. The tension in his stance seeped away. He jerked a nod, then remembered himself and shrugged Kelan's hand off roughly—but not aggressively. "Just...don't get yourself killed out there," he muttered, looking away. Then, awkwardly, he hefted his fish stringer. "These need cleaning," he mumbled to no one in particular, and strode off toward the water tubs by the fish shed.
A collective breath was released by those around. Murmurs started up immediately—some praising Kelan's level head, others chiding Biran's attitude. Mira stepped up to Kelan and gave him a steady, approving look. "You handled that well," she said under her breath. "Better than I think I would have."
Kelan managed a small smile. "I just hope he finds his peace."
The net-mending resumed, though the rhythm had been broken. Before long, they finished what they could for the day. As they dispersed, Kelan caught sight of Biran at the far end of the beach, aggressively gutting fish with swift jerks of his knife, but his posture was slumped, not angry. Kelan considered going to say something more but thought better of it. Enough for now, he decided. Biran needed to wrestle with his own feelings.
That evening, Arran clapped Kelan on the shoulder after hearing the story from one of the other boys. "You've become wise beyond your years, son," he said simply. Kelan only shrugged, thinking he just did what felt right. Perhaps those lessons in restraint and empathy were bearing fruit. It gave him a swell of confidence: navigating human conflict might be as important on his journey as any supernatural gift.
As twilight deepened, Kelan took a solitary walk by the lagoon, reflecting on how Biran's outburst had oddly solidified Kelan's resolve rather than shaken it. He realized that for all Biran's envy, there were likely many in Auristaz who would look at him with similar or greater skepticism—who was this island boy with power? Kelan vowed to remember what Jorina and his father had said: stay true to yourself, act with integrity, and earn respect through deeds, not brash displays. The price of power is responsibility and discipline, he thought. And he was willing to pay it.
He looked up at the stars—tonight bright and clear. He found the hawk constellation and traced it to the North Star, the direction he'd soon travel. Two days left. Only two.
In that moment, Kelan felt fear flutter in his stomach again. But he breathed deeply of the warm night air and felt the weight of the driftwood pendant on his chest. No, he wouldn't let fear dominate. He had faced down a storm and calmed a friend's fury. He would face what came next.
"Two more dawns," he whispered to the sea, toes digging into the cool sand as a gentle wave washed over them. The sea made no reply but an assuring hush. Kelan turned and headed home, steady steps carrying him onward. Above, a shooting star streaked across the sky—a brief, shining arc. Kelan watched it vanish and then continued on, walking sure and unafraid into the darkness.
Chapter 8: The Envoy Arrives
The day had come at last.
It was mid-morning when the lookout's conch horn sounded from the eastern hilltop, its deep note echoing over the village. Kelan felt his stomach flip even before the call went up: "Sail ho! Sail on the horizon, to the east!" The imperial ship had been sighted.
A flurry of activity swept through Tiruva. By prior arrangement, villagers gathered along the gently curving beach that served as the island's harbor, eager and anxious to witness the arrival of the Auristazi envoy. The last time a ship of significant size had anchored here was years ago for a routine tax collection; this was a far more momentous visit.
Kelan stood with his family near a palm thatched lean-to the community had erected as a ceremonial welcome area. Under it, First Mother Nala and the council mothers waited with dignified composure. They had set a small wooden table draped in a finely woven mat. Upon it rested tokens of hospitality: a wooden bowl of fresh coconut slices and a carafe of sweet palm wine, as well as a ceremonial necklace of shells and fragrant frangipani blossoms that Kelan's sisters had threaded together at dawn.
Out in the bay, the ship grew larger as it approached under full sail. Kelan watched it glide across the turquoise water, leaving a whitening wake. It was markedly bigger than the trading schooners he'd seen before, and sported three masts to those ships' two. Sunlight gleamed off its white hull. From the bow jutted a carved figurehead in the shape of a hawk with wings outstretched — the symbol of Auristaz. Even from shore, Kelan could see the colorful flutter of pennant flags from her rigging. The ship cut her sails and began to coast, aided by a team of rowers in a longboat guiding her toward a safe anchorage just beyond the reef.
The villagers murmured in awe; some of the children jumped and pointed. Many had never seen an imperial vessel up close. It loomed like a moving island itself, foreign and imposing.
Arran placed a firm hand on Kelan's shoulder, equal parts reassuring and restraining. "Breathe, son," he said quietly. Only then did Kelan realize he had been practically holding his breath. He exhaled and steadied himself.
When the ship — the Silver Hawk, Kelan could now read her name painted in gold along the side — dropped anchor, a smaller boat was immediately lowered. All eyes followed it as it made its way toward the shallows. In the longboat stood several figures: rowers in neat uniforms, two armored soldiers, and in the center a man in a crisp blue coat holding a rolled parchment.
Magistrate Rinek, Kelan surmised. He matched the description relayed in the letter: middle-aged, well-groomed, bearing the badge of office on his breast — a golden hawk emblem.
The longboat's keel kissed the sand, and one of the armored guards leapt out to steady it. He and his fellow (both tall, stern-looking men with spears and short swords at their belts) helped the envoy alight onto shore. Magistrate Rinek stepped onto Tiruvan soil and took a brief moment to survey the gathering.
Kelan, mere yards away now, observed him avidly. Rinek was of average height but held himself with an unmistakable air of authority. His hair was a dark chestnut and neatly tied back; his skin was fairer than that of the islanders, and already flushing a bit under the tropical sun. Intelligent gray eyes swept over the assembled islanders quickly, taking stock. He did not appear cruel or haughty, Kelan thought—more like a man used to formality and efficiency.
First Mother Nala approached with Sireen by her side. They both offered polite smiles. Kelan remained just behind them and to the side, as rehearsed, trying to appear poised.
"Welcome to Tiruva, Magistrate," Nala began, inclining her head respectfully. She spoke the traders' tongue (the common language) clearly. "I am First Mother Nala, leader of our council. We trust your journey was pleasant."
Magistrate Rinek returned the polite nod. "First Mother, thank you. Our journey was smooth after the passing of the recent storm," he replied in the traders' tongue, voice cultured and carrying the accent of the capital. "I hope your people fared well." His eyes flicked briefly to a nearby hut still missing some thatch—a subtle sign he noted evidence of the storm.
"We weathered it safely, with minimal damage," Nala answered. "The Sea-Mother is kind."
Rinek's lips curved in a courteous, if impersonal, smile. "I am pleased to hear it."
Sireen stepped forward then, bowing her head slightly as she raised the shell-and-flower lei. "Magistrate, allow us to offer a simple island greeting." She gently placed the garland around Rinek's neck. He seemed faintly surprised at the intimate gesture but recovered quickly.
"Thank you… Lady Sireen, is it?" he asked.
She smiled. "Yes, I am Sireen. I serve as elder of Kelan's clan." At the mention of Kelan, Rinek's attention visibly sharpened, but before he could inquire, Sireen gestured toward the shaded table. "Please, join us for refreshment after your long voyage. We have fresh coconut water and fruit."
Magistrate Rinek hesitated a moment—likely mindful of schedule—but then inclined his head. "You are most gracious." He removed his flat cap (revealing sweat-slicked hair beneath) and followed the women under the lean-to. The two guards remained a respectful distance back, standing at attention.
Kelan's heart drummed. He stood behind his grandmother, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible until called. Still, he noticed Rinek's gaze flick towards him appraisingly as they all settled in the shade. The envoy's eyes lingered a half-second on Kelan's face, perhaps noting his youth or measuring his demeanor.
Nala poured a cup of the cool coconut water and offered it to Rinek. He accepted it, taking a grateful sip—no doubt parched from the tropical heat.
As he drank, his assistant, a young woman with ink-stained fingers who had accompanied him (and currently hovered with parchment and quill at the ready), leaned in and murmured something. Rinek nodded and cleared his throat softly.
"First Mother," he said, getting to business, "as outlined in our correspondence, I am here to receive the delegate your esteemed community has chosen for the Emperor's program. May I meet this young person?"
"Of course." Nala's lined face turned toward Kelan. She extended a hand, beckoning him forward. "Magistrate Rinek, this is Kelan, son of Aisina, whom we send to represent Tiruva."
Kelan stepped forth and performed the respectful half-bow they had practiced—right fist to left palm and a deep nod. He then met Magistrate Rinek's eyes evenly. "Honored Magistrate," he said in a clear voice, "I am Kelan. It is my privilege to answer the Emperor's call." He managed to keep his voice steady, though he felt a slight tremor in his hands that he hoped was not visible.
Rinek examined Kelan with frank curiosity. The weight of that gaze was intense but not hostile. He noted Kelan's sturdy build from labor, the simple but clean clothing, the calm way he held himself. Perhaps Kelan even caught the hint of approval in the magistrate's eyes.
"You speak the common tongue fluently, I hear," Rinek observed. "And your grandmother indicates you are of, ah, a gifted lineage."
Kelan felt heat in his cheeks but kept his composure. "Yes, sir. I have been taught the tongue since childhood. And it's true I carry a small gift—what we call Mind-Touch. I hope to develop it further under Imperial guidance, for the benefit of all." He chose his words carefully, showing humility without dismissing his ability.
Magistrate Rinek gave a thin smile and nodded. "Very good. The Academy will be most interested in your... Mind-Touch." He said the term a bit clinically, as if cataloging him in his mind. He gestured slightly, and his scribe unfurled a scroll—likely Kelan's writ of passage.
He took the scroll from her and presented it to Kelan. The thick parchment bore the Emperor's seal in red wax. "This is your official warrant, identifying you as an imperial delegate and pupil. Keep it on your person during travel and present it upon arrival at the Academy. It will ensure you safe quarter and provisions."
Kelan accepted the document with both hands. For a beat, as his fingers touched the seal, a wave of reality washed over him. This was it—he was effectively now under imperial edict.
"I will guard it," he said solemnly.
Beside Kelan, Sireen placed a supportive hand on his back for a moment, then addressed Rinek. "We have also prepared some letters and gifts for the Imperial court." She motioned, and Arran stepped forward with the small wooden chest they had packed. Within were the carefully wrapped brass compass with the Morning Star nameplate, the rolled genealogy manuscript tied in blue ribbon, and a decorative pandanus mat in a protective oilskin.
Magistrate Rinek raised an eyebrow as the chest was opened for him to inspect. He gingerly picked up the brass instrument case. "This crest... the Morning Star, an Auristazi ship lost at sea recently..." He glanced up, impressed. "This washed ashore here?"
"Yes, in the last storm," Kelan answered. "We found it and wished to see it returned to the proper owners or families, if possible." He figured speaking up himself would show initiative.
Rinek nodded, clearly pleased. "A most thoughtful gesture. I will see it delivered to the Admiralty. They will be grateful for closure." He set it aside and skimmed the rolled manuscript and noted the fine mat. "Your community's generosity will be remembered," he said formally.
First Mother Nala took that as cue to begin closing the ceremonial portion of the welcome. "We hope that Magistrate Rinek and all on your ship will accept a small feast we've prepared for midday, before your departure," she offered. Indeed, some villagers were already roasting fish and taro by the treeline for a parting meal.
Rinek smiled apologetically. "You honor us greatly. However, the tides are turning, and we must make other island calls yet today. I regret we cannot linger for a full feast."
Nala inclined her head in understanding (Kelan could sense a slight relief from the council, who likely also were eager to conclude proceedings). "Of course. We shall send some of our food with you for your crew to enjoy." She clapped her hands and immediately a couple of women hurried to pack banana-leaf bundles of the prepared fish and fruits to send to the ship's boat.
During this brief hustle, Magistrate Rinek turned to Kelan once more. He produced a thin ledger from his coat and handed it to Kelan. "This is a travel log and diary provided by the Academy for each delegate. You are encouraged to record observations and learning during your voyage and training. It will be reviewed when you arrive."
Kelan accepted the blank ledger. It smelled of new leather and parchment. "Yes, sir," he said. He couldn't help but note how every aspect was organized and documented. The Empire wasted no opportunity to gather information, even from the youths themselves.
At last, all was prepared. Kelan felt a strange tug-of-war inside: part of him was coiled with anticipation to get started now that the waiting was over; another part felt an urge to cling to each extra minute on shore.
His mother stepped forward, breaking protocol slightly, to adjust the collar of his tunic and smooth his hair one last time. Magistrate Rinek pretended not to notice the maternal fussing. Aisina's eyes were wet but she held her composure, only whispering, "Be well, my son," as she stepped back.
Grandmother Sireen simply squeezed his hand firmly. His father, Arran, stood tall and gave him a single nod that spoke more than words could.
Kelan realized nearly the whole village had arrayed at a respectful distance, watching silently. These faces—sunlined, concerned, proud—would be the last images of home he'd see for a long while. He burned the sight into memory: children perched on a fence rail, dear friends arm in arm, elders holding staffs with hands gnarled from decades of labor.
First Mother Nala finally raised her voice to project. "Go with our blessing, Kelan of Tiruva. Make us proud in Auristaz as you have here at home."
On that cue, Kelan bowed deeply to the assembly. "I shall return with the sunrise of knowledge for our people, First Mother," he said, voicing a poetic promise they had composed together.
It felt both staged and deeply genuine.
With that, it was time. The rowers were ready, holding the boat steady in the gentle surf. Kelan needed to wade out to it—there was no dock high enough for this vessel.
Kelan turned to his family and embraced each in turn—first his sisters who clung and sobbed openly, then his mother who pressed her forehead to his in farewell, then his father who clasped him in a rare tight hug at last. Grandmother Sireen he saved for last; she placed something small in his palm—a tiny woven charm in the shape of a fish. "To keep you fed and safe," she said with a tremulous smile.
He closed his fist over it and nodded, not trusting his voice at that moment.
Then Kelan stepped into the warm lagoon water. Two of his childhood friends spontaneously dashed forward to flank him. Mira on one side and Jorin on the other took his arms to help him keep balance carrying the chest and bundle of scrolls as he walked through the lapping waves. At the boat, the imperial sailors took these items from him and stowed them carefully.
Kelan climbed into the longboat, aided by a guard's outstretched hand. He was surprised to see Magistrate Rinek had also stepped into the surf to push the boat off; the envoy's crisp trousers were now soaked at the hems—a perhaps unintended show of humility or eagerness to depart.
As Kelan settled on a bench in the boat, he looked back at the shore. The entire beach erupted in cheers and a Tiruvan farewell song—voices rising in a heartfelt if slightly discordant harmony. His throat tightened, overcome by the outpouring. He raised a hand high in salute, blinking back tears he would not allow to fall.
Rowers leaned into their oars. The boat glided away from the familiar shallows. Within moments, water separated him from his home—first yards, then tens of yards. Figures on the shore grew smaller, but Kelan could still make out his mother's form blowing him one last kiss, his father's arm wrapped around her shoulders, his sisters hopping and waving wildly.
Kelan forced himself to turn forward in the boat, toward the awaiting Silver Hawk. As Jorina had instructed, he did not look back with sorrow now, but forward with purpose. His chest ached, yes, but he lifted it proudly and set his gaze on the grand ship and the unknown beyond.
The cadence of the oars thumping against wood became his new heartbeat. With each stroke, he carried Tiruva with him—its song still echoing in his ears, its salt still on his skin, its hopes resting on his shoulders.
The envoy gave a command and the sailors shipped oars as they reached the ship's side. A rope ladder unfurled down. Kelan gripped it and climbed, rung by rung, without looking down. He felt the magistrate and guards close behind.
When he stepped onto the deck of the Silver Hawk, a cheer went up from some crew who had watched the spirited island send-off below. Kelan flushed, not sure if it was for him or just the general excitement of departure.
A petty officer showed him to the railing. "You can see them a final time from here," the kindly older man said sotto voce.
Kelan peered over the starboard side. Far below, the longboat was returning to shore. On the beach, the crowd remained, watching their delegate board safely. From this height they looked so small, yet he felt their presence immensely.
He raised his arm in one final wave. A tiny flutter of arms on the beach answered. Then one by one, as the ship's crew readied to sail, the villagers began to disperse, duties calling them back.
Within minutes, the anchor was weighed, sails unfurled with a snap, and the Silver Hawk caught the wind. Slowly, majestically, the ship began to move, turning her prow from Tiruva's bay toward the great open ocean northward.
Kelan remained at the stern rail, eyes glued to the diminishing outline of his island. The lush green hills, the tall palms, the curve of the bay, all growing smaller. The roofs of his village were hard to distinguish now individually—just a mosaic of light brown in a sea of green.
A hand gently clasped his shoulder. He started and looked back to see Magistrate Rinek standing there. The magistrate's expression was not unkind. "Hard to leave, isn't it?" he said quietly.
Kelan could only nod. He found his voice after a moment. "They are—my whole world," he replied softly.
Rinek nodded. "That feeling, hold onto it. It will motivate you when training is hard. But also know, the world is much wider than that horizon." He pointed ahead, where the sky met the sea in a seamless union. "Your people sent you so you could return to them with that wider world in your grasp."
Kelan absorbed that and straightened a bit. "Yes, sir."
The magistrate offered a brief almost-fatherly squeeze on Kelan's shoulder, then moved off to confer with the first mate.
Kelan stayed at the rail until the last green speck of Tiruva—his Tiruva—vanished from view. Only then did he close his eyes, let a few silent tears escape, and whisper a goodbye.
When he opened them again, he looked not back at what was gone, but forward at what was to come. The Silver Hawk sliced through the gentle swells, bound for distant islands and, eventually, the imperial capital. Somewhere ahead, under that vast sky, a new chapter of his life awaited.
Drawing in a steady breath, Kelan felt for the driftwood pendant under his shirt and clutched it briefly. "Guide me," he murmured, not sure if to the goddess, his ancestors, or perhaps to himself.
Then he squared his shoulders and stepped away from the stern. He had work to do even here—people to meet, a journal to write, lessons already to learn aboard the ship.
Behind him, far astern, the spirit of Tiruva watched over the wake he left. Ahead, the promise of Auristaz beckoned. And Kelan, son of the islands, sailed on—heart heavy with love and light, mind open and determined—into the great unknown, one steady step at a time.
Chapter 9: Heart's Dilemma
The Silver Hawk had been at sea for two days, and already Tiruva was a distant memory on the horizon. Kelan stood at the ship's bow in the early dawn, the salty wind tousling his hair. The water ahead was calm, the sky a canvas of pink and gold as the sun peeked over the edge of the world. Behind him, Auristaz lay somewhere beyond that sunrise, invisible but inexorably drawing closer.
Though the day was tranquil, a storm still brewed inside Kelan. Each morning aboard had begun the same way: with a few moments of disorientation as he woke in his hammock below decks—rocked by the ship's motion, not the gentle sway of palm fronds as he was used to in his cottage. Then the ache of longing for home would set in, followed by a flutter of excitement that he was actually on his journey. It was a tangle of emotions he had no experience untangling.
That dawn, Kelan quietly left the cramped cabin he shared with two other island youths picked up along their route and sought solitude at the bow. There, amid the creak of timbers and cry of gulls that had begun to follow the ship, he let his thoughts unfurl.
He missed home fiercely. That was undeniable. He missed the sound of his sisters giggling as they did chores, the scent of his mother's herb garden after rain, the way the air cooled and filled with insect song at twilight. On this vast ocean, the rhythms of life were different—bells marking shifts, foreign songs of sailors as they hauled lines, the omnipresent slosh of waves against the hull at night.
Yet, he couldn't deny the thrill that underlay it all: he was finally doing it, venturing beyond the reef that had bounded his world since birth. Every time the ship's lookout shouted the sighting of a new island or distant sail, Kelan's heart leapt at the prospect of discovery. Already, they had anchored briefly off a neighboring island Kelan had never seen; he gaped at its towering black cliffs and the unfamiliar dialect of fishermen who delivered fresh fruit to the ship.
These contradictions tore at him. Was it wrong to feel happy when part of him was so sad? Did longing for home mean he wasn't brave enough for what lay ahead? Or did enjoying aspects of the journey mean he was disloyal to those he left behind? Each question chased its tail in his mind.
A quiet voice drew him out of his reverie. "Couldn't sleep, eh?" It was Danel, one of the two other youths sharing his cabin—a lanky, bookish boy from Nehrim Island. He, too, had been unable to rest and had come up deck to watch the sunrise, apparently.
Kelan offered a half-smile. "Too much on my mind."
Danel stepped up beside him at the rail. He was only a year older than Kelan but carried himself with a thoughtful gravity. "Me too," he admitted, adjusting his spectacles (he was proud of them; ground glass lenses were a rarity on islands). "I keep thinking about home…and what awaits us in Auristaz…and then home again, like a loop."
Kelan's eyes lit with recognition. "Yes, exactly! My thoughts chase each other." He hadn't spoken much yet about his feelings, wary of burdening others, but here was someone voicing the same internal dilemma.
Encouraged, he continued softly, watching the dawn light shimmer on swells. "One moment I'm excited by everything I see on this ship, every new face. The next, I feel guilty for...for enjoying any of it, because shouldn't I be missing my family so much that nothing else matters?"
Danel leaned elbows on the rail. "I think—" he began, then hesitated. "I think it's possible to feel both. Missing them doesn't mean we can't also be curious and happy about new experiences. And being curious and happy doesn't mean we love them any less."
Kelan exhaled slowly. Put that way, it sounded reasonable. It was what he'd tell someone else in his shoes. Why was it so hard to give himself permission to feel it? Perhaps because he feared losing the memory of home if he let himself embrace the present fully.
"I dreamt of them last night," Kelan confessed after a pause. "My little sisters, chasing chickens in the yard. It was so vivid I woke up expecting to hear them. And instead—" he gestured at the quiet, empty deck around them, the endless water.
Danel nodded. "I've had dreams of home every night so far," he said. "I think our minds are adjusting. We've spent our whole lives on one tiny patch of land, and suddenly we're floating in infinity. It'd be stranger if we didn't feel unmoored."
"Unmoored." Kelan tried the word; it fit perfectly. "Yes. Like a boat without anchor or rudder. Drifting."
Danel glanced at the horizon, then back at Kelan. "Maybe we have to find new anchors. At least for a while. The old ones—our families, our villages—are still with us, but out of reach for now." He patted his satchel, which he'd brought up with him; Kelan knew he kept a journal and letters in it. "I write to my parents each day, even though I can't send the letters yet. It helps somehow. Like I'm still connected."
Kelan thought about the blank travel log in his trunk below. He hadn't touched it yet, partly out of stubbornness (feeling writing in it made his departure too official). Perhaps he should.
Their conversation continued quietly until the sun fully rose and the day's duties called them separate ways. But it left Kelan in better spirits. Hearing that his internal emotional whirlpool was shared made it easier to navigate. They were not alone in their loneliness, paradoxical as that seemed.
Later that day, Kelan did take out his travel log and begin writing. He wrote about the departure, describing each family member so he wouldn't forget details. He wrote about Biran's confrontation and resolution, reflecting on what it taught him about handling conflict. And he wrote about the dream of his sisters, how hearing their laughter in his mind was both comfort and torment.
When he set down his quill, he felt as though he had hung up some of those worries on the lines of the pages, like taking heavy clothes off and letting them air out.
That evening, on a gently rolling sea under a canopy of brilliant stars, Kelan felt calmer than he had since setting sail. He stood at the stern, looking at the distant faint outline of an island they'd pass by midnight, and allowed himself to feel a flicker of excitement for reaching the imperial capital in a few more days. He realized he could treasure his home and still kindle curiosity for what lay ahead; the two emotions could coexist, even complement each other. Homesickness would keep him grounded; excitement would propel him forward.
"Thank you," he whispered, unsure if it was to Danel's wise words, to Jorina's pendant under his shirt, or to the benevolent night for gifting him perspective.
Perhaps it was to all of them, pieces of a mosaic of support guiding him along his path of awakening.
With a small, resolute smile, Kelan stepped away from the stern and made his way to his hammock below where, for the first night since leaving, he drifted into dreams without tears on his cheeks, ready to meet the dawn and whatever it brought with an open heart.
Chapter 10: Setting Sail
With the island of Tiruva no longer even a smudge on the horizon, the Silver Hawk became Kelan's entire world. On the third day of the voyage, he began to settle into the rhythm of life at sea. It helped keep the heartache at bay to learn the ropes—literally and figuratively—of ship life.
"Hold that line taut, lad!" came the voice of Teric, a sandy-haired midshipman barely older than Kelan but already well-seasoned. Kelan braced his legs against the tilt of the deck and pulled hard on the rope securing the mainsail's spar. Above him, white canvas billowed in the steady trade wind.
Teric checked the tension and grinned. "Not bad. You've the making of a sailor if this magic business doesn't work out," he teased.
Kelan chuckled, tying off the cleat. "I'll keep that in mind." In truth, the work felt good. His muscles appreciated the activity after days of relative idleness and emotional intensity.
Captain Reyna observed their exchange from the quarterdeck with a faint smile. Kelan had quickly grown fond of the captain. She ran a disciplined ship but treated the young delegates as part of the crew rather than burdens. Perhaps it was her own islander upbringing (she had mentioned being from an archipelago province) that made her sympathetic.
The Silver Hawk sliced through a moderate chop, her bow throwing spray. Kelan took a moment to simply relish the view. All around was the endless expanse of the Sea of Aur. The water was a deep sapphire blue, whitecaps dancing here and there. In the far distance off the port side, the green outline of another island was visible—a larger one called Harun, they had passed at dawn without stopping.
There were nine youth delegates aboard now, picked up from various islands along their route. Kelan had gradually gotten to know each. Danel and Pevara (a cheerful, stocky girl with a talent for fishing knots) were among his closest companions thus far. Others included Lina from Harun, a shy girl with a rumored gift for sensing storms; Aran (the foresight-blessed boy rescued from Harun's fearsome cliffs); Jori from a southern atoll (only fourteen, gifted with an enchanting singing voice that calmed an entire crying infant herd one night); and Telar, a tall serious boy from Ibras who rarely spoke but was said to calculate sums faster than a merchant calculator.
Despite different backgrounds, a camaraderie had grown among them in these few days. Perhaps it was the shared strangeness of their situation, but they formed their own little "crew" within the crew.
That morning, as Kelan coiled a line, Pevara approached carrying two wooden mugs of the spiced tea the sailors brewed. She handed one to Kelan. "You look like you could use a break."
"Grateful," Kelan said, accepting it and taking a long sip. The tea was strong with ginger and licorice root—invigorating.
Pevara leaned on the rail next to him. "I keep thinking—what will it be like when we see the city? They say you can smell it miles off, for one thing."
Kelan raised an eyebrow. "Smell it?"
She laughed. "Aye! Not all pleasant smells either. Danel was telling me about sewers and smoke and crowds... but also bakeries and flower markets. I can hardly imagine it. Our little village could probably fit in one corner of one district of Auristaz City."
Her wonder was contagious. Kelan found himself picturing it too: maybe something like the busy harbor of Port Aurum where he'd once been, multiplied a thousandfold. It was daunting yet somehow exciting.
"I've only seen pictures in books," Kelan admitted. "Stone towers taller than palm trees. Streets so packed you can hardly walk. It might overwhelm us at first."
Pevara bumped his shoulder amiably. "Overwhelm us? Hah. We wrestled sharks for breakfast back home, we'll be fine."
Kelan laughed, appreciating her joking bravado. In truth, he knew there would be an adjustment. But increasingly, as the days put distance between him and home, he felt his perspective shifting. The sea had a way of making one think in wider terms. He began to see the journey itself as a kind of liminal space—neither in his old life nor yet in the new, a place to gradually shed one role and grow into another.
That noon, Captain Reyna held a brief orientation for the delegates on deck. She unrolled a chart and showed them their progress—a little dotted line curving through island chains toward a larger landmass sketched at the top. "We're here," she tapped, "and Auristaz City lies here, at the mouth of the Aur River."
Kelan studied it intently. Seeing the map made his heart thump. They had already come so far up the chain of islands that his home was a mere speck far to the south.
Magister Rinek joined them partway through this explanation. "We expect to reach the capital by tomorrow late afternoon," he informed them. "Upon arrival, you will be received by Academy officials and formally enrolled. There will likely be an induction ceremony with the Emperor's sister in attendance, so prepare to be presentable and respectful." His eyes drifted pointedly to the lads with scruffier appearances or lackadaisical postures.
Kelan stood a bit straighter. He still wore his simple island tunic and trousers; most of them did, though the captain had issued each a clean set of generic gray ship clothes for better durability during the voyage. Kelan silently resolved to neaten up and make sure his speech was polite and confidence steady when the time came. He flashed back to the council hall and how he'd spoken up there. He would channel that same calm boldness.
As evening fell on the fourth day, excitement among the young delegates was palpable. City lights were rumored to sometimes glow in the sky's reflection on clouds, but nothing was seen yet. Still, they knew landfall neared.
In a rare moment of leisure, Kelan and the others gathered near the bow after supper to share their hopes and trepidations.
"I can't wait to step on a street that isn't moving under my feet," Lina murmured, and they all laughed softly—sea legs were a running joke now.
"I wonder if they'll have a big feast for us," Pevara mused. "With foods we've never tasted."
"They will test us, certainly," Telar said quietly, polishing the lens of a curious handheld device he carried (someone said it was a "spyglass" he'd been gifted). "To decide what training fits us. I've been reviewing my numbers and alchemy tables, to be ready."
Aran, the foresighted boy, just said, "I have a feeling everything will change at sunset on our first day there." He offered no further detail despite groans begging him to elaborate.
Kelan listened more than he spoke, content tonight to absorb the camaraderie. At one point Danel nudged him. "You're quiet. What's on your mind, Kelan?"
He considered before answering. "I was thinking of my island's evening sounds. By now, at home, the crickets would be starting, and my mother likely telling my sisters to get ready for bed." He smiled softly at the image. "And here I am under a completely different sky, with people I barely knew a week ago, feeling... oddly at peace."
Danel extended a hand and gave Kelan's shoulder a brief, brotherly squeeze. "We've got you, friend. And soon enough, letters can reach home so they'll know you're well."
As the stars blinked into existence one by one, Kelan silently thanked whatever kind fate or design had set these fellow travelers with him. In them he saw reflections of his own heart's journey—some fear, some eagerness, all tempered by kindness.
He touched the driftwood bird under his shirt. Its edges had warmed and smoothed further from constant wear. It felt like a direct link to Jorina's blessing and Tiruva's spirit.
Only a little longer now, he thought. The unknown beckoned just beyond the dark veil of the horizon. He was as ready as he could be.
Kelan retired earlier than most that night. He lay in his hammock in the gently swaying lantern light belowdecks and opened his travel log to write one last entry before arrival—an entry not of uncertainty, but of resolve:
I carry the dawn of Tiruva in my heart as I sail into the night of the new world. When morning comes, I will meet it standing tall, guided by all I've been given and all I've learned on the journey. I will not squander this chance. I will honor my home with every step forward.
He set down his quill and read those lines once, then closed the book. He felt sleep coming on strongly, a deep restfulness earned by acceptance of whatever would be.
Above, through the open hatch, he saw one bright star directly in the ship's path. It might have been a planet, for how steady and clear it shone. He took it as a good omen—a cosmic beacon leading them onward.
"Almost there," he whispered to himself, and to the star, and to the memory of everyone behind and the promise of everyone ahead.
And with that, Kelan drifted to sleep to the creaking lullaby of the ship's timbers, dreaming not of farewells this time, but of future horizons painted with the colors of hope.