Volmira drew her first breath of Valorian air and found it thick with salt and loam: the sea's tang, the earth's weight. She and Rosum had slipped through the shadows of the night, silent as mist, until they emerged into the Vlachy encampment at the edge of the port. Here, at the boundary between shore and sea, the tribe lived in easy harmony with nature — goats, baskets, laughter, cooking fires, fishing nets, children chasing each other in loops of sun.
How ordinary, she thought.
Tripolian sensibilities would have recoiled at the mud under the goats' hooves or the way sweat glinted on the backs of the workers. But Valorian life did not pretend. It smelled of labor and firewood and seaweed, a honesty she both admired and distrusted. It was a strange feeling …
It was strange there was any feeling at all …
She felt something stir in her chest — a tiny spark of judgment, of fascination, of disquiet.
Status quo was supposed to be unmoved by emotion. And yet, emotion was already moving her.
As dusk deepened, casting orange light across faces bright with effort, Volmira realized this place hummed with magic. Something in their bones. Something older than the Assigner's decrees. Something that pulled the threads in directions he did not expect.
Maybe that was why Mila had come here.
***
I floated then — neither asleep nor awake, caught in the space between thought and memory.
Stars bloomed. Stars died. Universes pitched sideways. I was nothing more than a mind drifting through reflection, lost in the larger breath of the cosmos.
The White Snake emerged from stardust, coils of primordial light and cold, red eyes burning with clarity.
"I was born among the stars, at the first flicker of the universe," he said.
How theatrical.
The claim felt both grand and absurd. "Would it be easier to think I was mortal, too human to matter?" he asked. The question echoed in the emptiness.
I wondered if anything of humanity remained in him.
"Are you so drawn to pitying me," he hissed, "because you see your brother in me? Your Areilycus? So alike you fear the cost if you cannot love me, too?"
Part of me wanted to recoil, to deny. Part of me trembled at the thought of losing him if I did not. He leaned close, his scales whispering against my skin.
"Because you do not pity me now," he said, "you do not value me. And if you cannot find the silver in me, then you will never deserve him."
"I do not seek to redeem you. I pity you, but I will save him anyway."
"When you find your mercy, come back. I'll be waiting."
And the dream unraveled.
***
The witch tent smelled of herbs so unlike the ones Cleo brewed in her downtime on Tripolis.
Volmira and Rosum entered quietly. The witch mother stirred a low-burning fire, tossing in strange powders and garlic and things that made the shadows dance. Runic pieces, totems, old relics from unknown eras, hung from the walls. She had seen some of the symbols on the walls in Millenia.
"You are exceptionally welcoming people," Volmira noted as the village witch stirred a pot of herbal concoction she referred to as 'tea.'
"The woman of description you have provided was here," the witch mother confirmed. "Once she got what she wanted, she left with a pirate."
"And what is it she was seeking?"
The witch mother ogled the Ros' horns and smirked at his shyness trying to mask them with the hood of his cloak.
"Information."
"We are here to bring her home. Mila is not Valorian, she does not belong here," Rosum said.
"This is exactly where she belongs," the witch said. She threw a concoction of red sparrow powder, cloves and black garlic into the low-burning fire which immediately sprouted into a large flame licking the ceiling of the tent without catching blaze.
"No, she does not," Volmira protested.
"What do you know? Before the times of the sea queen," she began, talking to the flame, "the Vlachy were the most powerful sorcerers alive. We had the power to summon the demon. To ask favors of him. Until Vajda Uruk struck a deal with him. A bad deal born of spite and jealousy."
Ros and Volmira exchanged worried glances. The demon?
"We lost access to him, we lost the ability to summon him at will and ask him to do our bidding."
The flames transformed into three figures. A girl, a boy in one another's arms while a large snake hovered over them with extended fangs.
"He rid the Vajda of the unwanted, washed away the sin which was committed on his person and in return … We were to never speak to him again."
Rosum instinctively shielded Volmira from the fire snake that tried to lick her robes.
"You will take a message to your father, children," the witch mother commanded, the snake returning to heel and nuzzling against her bare hand with his obscenely large head.
Volmira could not bring herself to speak up as if the magic of the witch tied her tongue to the roof of her mouth, stitched it clean.
"I have a new bargain for him."
***
The sea-breeze ruffled Bonnie's hair near the mainmast, carrying the salt-sting of the ocean and the memory of Salacia's song. The sirens had lifted their net; they were gone with two of Edward's crew.
Bonnie's arms folded as she stood, listening to the muted quarrel echoing from the captain's quarters. Areilycus, unperturbed, leaned against the rail, gazing out at the sweeping blue horizon.
Perched on his shoulder was the baby dragon: scales shimmering like sun-kissed water, tail curled softly. It craned its neck to nuzzle him, seeking warmth.
Ari's hand moved lightly, stroking the dragon's head. He drew in its vitality as though it fed him — because it did.
"Seems the Captain and Mila will be busy for a while," Bonnie said, keeping her voice casual, though the worry lingered in her eyes toward the sealed door.
Ari nodded toward the sea, not toward the room. "My sister is extraordinary at arguing."
"So is Edward."
He snorted, half-amused. Bonnie's eyes flicked between him and the dragon. "And what about you, Lord of Light? Can you be content among mortal quarrels and petty anger?"
Ari turned to her, light in his eyes. "Even one made eternal finds fascination in the brief sparks of human emotion."
The dragon exhaled a tiny ember, settled its wings with soft rustle against Ari's collar. Bonnie watched, mild amusement shading into something gentler she would've denied if asked.
"He adores you," she said, leaning against the rail.
Ari smiled, gentle. "He is a she," he corrected, voice warm. "I shall call her 'Bonnie.'"
Bonnie blinked, cheeks coloring. She playfully slapped his shoulder. "You name a beast after me?"
"I name a creature of light after a kind woman," he answered steadily. "She feels … I cannot explain it without confusing you. She feels like you."
Bonnie turned away, looking at the sea. "There's not much kindness in me," she muttered, though the edge was gone from her words.
Ari tilted his head, invitation in his eyes. "Tell me — how did you come aboard the Lioness?"
Her fingers traced the wood of the ship's railing, rough and real. The sea air tangled in her hair.
"Once," she began, her voice a low murmur barely audible over the lap of waves against the hull, "I was nothing more than a daughter with great ambition."
She paused, watching a gull glide overhead. "Edward left the city when he was fifteen aboard a ship so broken it was a marvel it sailed. He was chasing whispers of Isla Rhea. Dreams bigger than his sails." She laughed, short and sharp. "He was gone seven years before he had a ship and a crew. Never found that island, but he found loyalty."
The gull's call faded; her voice dropped. "I was starving. I tried to rob him when I saw the wealth of the Lioness. Thought it'd be easy."
She glanced at her cutlass, fond as one might touch an old scar. "Instead he gave me a path: a place among his crew, not prison or gutter."
Ari's shoulder brushed hers. "You love him?"
She laughed at first, sharp. "In a way."
The breeze tousled Ari's golden hair; the deck creaked beneath their feet in steady rhythm. For a moment, everything felt simple, true, anchored.
"What does it feel like..." Bonnie's voice softened, "…to be eternal?"
Ari's smile was wistful. "I kind of love it. I like never meeting Lady Death."
Yet when he spoke of his sister, his tone changed. "Mila struggles. Sometimes she cannot imagine her purpose is endless."
Bonnie frowned with concern. "She loves you, you know."
Ari looked away to sea. Then back. Quiet: "And I love her."
"No," Bonnie corrected, "She loves you. You might have started a war with the Creator for her."
Ari's reply was low, as though he'd tucked it into the wind. "We have always been one. You wouldn't understand."
Bonnie sighed, turned back toward the water. "No, I wouldn't. And I don't want to."