The jagged cliffs of Veracchia's coastline rose like ancient sentinels from the crashing sea. Below, La Sirena cut through rolling waves, the hum of its mana engine a steady heartbeat in the quiet dawn.
They would not risk docking at the city of Port Clairy. Too many eyes, too many questions. Instead, the family guided the corvette to a hidden cove nestled between steep cliffs and wild hills, where the air was salty and the only witnesses were gulls circling high above.
It was here, at this forgotten stretch of crag and tide, that a shadow from their past lay buried.
Niegal stood at the rocky edge, eyes cast toward the restless sea. Beside him, Elena moved slowly, the burn in her chest a constant reminder of the fragility she hid beneath her stillness.
This was the place where his beloved nephew, sixteen-year-old Phineus, son of Aurora and Alejandro, had fallen years ago. The boy and his platoon had been incinerated by a devastating mana bomb, a cruel weapon wielded by the Inquisition during a desperate rescue mission.
Elena and Esperanza had barely escaped with their lives.
Niegal's face, usually carved from iron, softened just enough as he knelt by the water's edge.
They had brought with them small paper boats, delicate vessels bearing candles and offerings. One by one, they set them afloat on the tide, sending whispered prayers to the souls carried beneath the waves.
Elena hesitated, then stepped close to Niegal. For a brief moment, they lit a candle together, flames flickering in the sea breeze, fragile against the vast night.
They did not speak, but in that silence, a fragile truce blossomed. A tentative peace between storm and lion, neither yet mended, but both willing to share the space for now.
With La Sirena safely moored, the family prepared for the long trek inland.
They avoided Port Clairy's bustling streets, choosing instead to skirt small villages and worn trade roads.
The countryside was a patchwork of tension. Some towns welcomed magic-users openly, revering the Storm and the Lion as living legends; welcoming gang and all magic users, altars dotting their borders with small offerings, folded notes sprawled with prayers, strings of beads knotted with intentions.
Others forbade magic outright, patrolling their borders with mana rifles and relics that could sniff out even the faintest trace of enchantment.
Esperanza and Aurora moved like shadows through the outskirts, vigilant and wary, while Elena leaned on Niegal's steady presence when the ache in her chest flared too fiercely.
At the sprawling riverbank where they made camp, the night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and whispering reeds.
Around the fire, Juan listened in awe as Elena recounted tales of battles past.
"Your parents were legends," he said, eyes wide as sparks danced above their heads. "I heard stories growing up, but they never told me this."
Elena smiled, her voice steady despite the pain.
"I was the wrath of Guabancex, the Storm's fury made flesh. We leveled enemy strongholds with lightning and fire… The Inquisition didn't stand a chance when we fought together."
Esperanza rolled her eyes, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
Juan grinned. "You really scared me."
But beneath the firelight's warmth, Elena's wound festered like a hidden storm. Every step grew heavier, every breath a battle.
Niegal watched her closely, the lion's pride tightening with every sign of her struggle.
He sensed the growing distance, the silent walls she raised around her heart.
And beneath the surface, a darker feeling stirred.
Something vast and unsettling was on the horizon.
Niegal growled under his breath.
Elena ignored him, having no tolerance for his outbursts anymore. Not when she can't breathe without wanting to cry with every breath.