The Princess and the Blood of Eternity

Chapter 7: A Man Named Davik

Months earlier, months before the pirates had begun their attack on the Matriarch's ship in the Western sea, a man by the name of Davik stepped off a small rowboat and onto a rickety wooden dock on the edge of the bustling city of Gholand, the home and center of the Forged Empire, and ruled over by the council of Nobles.

He couldn't help but grimace, causing the sword scar on his cheek to tug at his right eyelid. He'd been away for too many years. And yet, the stale air carried the familiar scent of dust and humidity with just a hint of soot from the city's forges.

Fumbling for the metal flask kept in his coat pocket, he took a double swig before counting the seconds till the burning-liquid would stop his hands from shaking.

His life couldn't be all roses. His stint in the navy, followed by a promotion into the secret service of the Nobles, had its share of problems. The things he'd seen... Thirty-five years was a long time to be a military man. Duty and loyalty in the face of some heinous missions.

Regrets? Plenty, but it wasn't his place to question his superiors. He had a job to do. He had a family to feed. Best not dwell on it. Best to remember that the past was dead.

He turned to regard the two sailors who'd rowed him ashore. "My thanks, friends." Neither one paid him any attention. Dressed in ratty-mismatched clothing with their feet covered in tar, they mindlessly waited for him to leave so they could return to their junk rig, waiting just offshore. Normally, it would be problematic for him, being seen on foreign craft. The shipbuilders of Gholand rarely used ribbed sails on any of their craft. To be seen riding one could make trouble amongst the loyalists. But for today—today he was in a good mood because he'd finally returned home.

Thumbing them each a silver, he watched them fail in their reaction to the glint of reflective silver that passed their eyes. Then the sound of coins bouncing around the bottom of their boat had them leaping from their benches. The one nearly lost his oar. An accident like that could've resulted in the captain having him whipped.

Davik nodded. "Thank the captain for letting me use his rowboat. Avoiding the wait for space on the docks probably saved me a whole day." He looked at the packed docks and lines of waiting boats that filled the harbor. "I must say, the city looks remarkably lively today."

"It's the weather," said the one with his wool cap askew as he focused on his newly gained unshaven silver coin. "With the trade winds drying up, and the season ending early—most crews are scrambling to unload before their return journey. They don't want to get stranded in the Straights in the east."

Davik nodded like he'd expected as much. "I see. Well, farewell, and thank you for the information." He might've heard as much on his return journey if he hadn't purposefully kept to himself.

Scooping up his weathered duffel bag, he adjusted his long wax-coated trench coat before proceeding down the dock. On a good day, Davik functioned with the grace of a younger man. Today was not one of those days. The long sea journey had left him with stiff joints and a sore back. His forty-plus years weighed on him like an outstanding debt.

The rest of his attire matched that of the typical Gholand citizenry. Heavy linen pants with patches over the knees, shirt, and muck boots. Nothing particularly special. Black on black, a product and advantage for the soot present in the air and the natural blackish-gray dye found in the eastern desert on the island. He kept his gray hair buzzed short, a holdover from his days in the navy.

To the north sat the island's barrier mountains, and to the east lay an extensive desert. Wedged between those two natural barriers, beyond the massive expansive docks, sat the city proper, which was about a mile from where he currently stood.