Darkness.
Not the darkness of night beneath storm clouds, but something deeper. A silence that pressed in on him from every side. No wind. No waves. No thunder.
For a long while, there was nothing.
Then slowly, like a distant memory drifting to the surface, came laughter.
A child's laughter.
Warm sunlight shone across a stretch of golden sand. The sea was calm and bright, its waters glimmering like polished glass beneath the afternoon sun. Seagulls wheeled above the shoreline, their cries sharp against the gentle rhythm of waves rolling in.
A boy ran along the beach.
Barefoot, his feet kicking up sprays of warm sand as he sprinted forward. His dark hair whipped wildly in the sea breeze, and in his small hands, he clutched something tightly to his chest.
A wooden toy.
A lion carved from pale driftwood.
The boy laughed breathlessly as he ran.
Behind him, heavy footsteps thundered across the sand.
"Stop running, Nik!"
A pair of strong arms suddenly grabbed him from behind.
The boy shrieked with surprise as he was lifted high into the air.
Then the man tossed him upward.
For a moment, the boy hung weightless against the brilliant blue sky before falling back down into the man's waiting hands.
The boy burst into laughter.
"Again! Again!"
The man tossed him up once more.
Higher this time.
The boy squealed with delight.
"Stop! Stop!" the child laughed breathlessly. "Stop!"
But the man only chuckled and lifted him once more before finally setting him down on the sand.
The boy stumbled slightly, still giggling.
The man crouched beside him.
He was a large man with weathered skin and thick dark hair touched with gray. His arms were strong from years spent hauling ropes and nets. The scent of salt and tar clung to him like a second skin.
A sailor.
The boy looked up at him.
His father.
"Nik," the man said gently, brushing sand from the boy's hair. "Why did you run from your mater?"
The boy's laughter faded.
His small hands tightened around the wooden lion.
"Mater wants me to give Leo away," he muttered.
The man raised an eyebrow.
"And?"
Nikandros scowled fiercely, his young face twisting with anger.
"Leo is mine," he said stubbornly. "No one else can have him."
His father smiled slightly.
"Nik… Leo is a wooden lion."
He reached down and tapped the toy lightly.
"A toy for little children."
The boy's grip tightened.
His father leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.
"Tell me something," the man said. "Are you a little boy… or are you a strong young man ready for the seas?"
Nikandros' eyes widened.
For a moment, he looked down at the toy lion in his hands.
Then back up at his father.
"No," he said quickly. "I'm a man. Not a boy."
His father laughed warmly.
"That so?"
He scooped the boy up again and hoisted him onto his shoulder.
"Then a man will do what his mother asks."
Nikandros hesitated.
His small fingers loosened slightly around the wooden lion.
Finally, he nodded.
"Okay."
His father smiled.
"That's my son."
Saltwater exploded from Nikandros' lungs.
He jerked violently as his body convulsed.
"Ghh—!"
Water poured from his mouth as he coughed and choked, his chest burning as air forced its way back into his lungs.
He rolled onto his side, retching violently.
More seawater spilled onto the sand beneath him.
Nikandros coughed again and again, his entire body trembling as he dragged ragged breaths into his aching chest.
Pontus…
The storm was gone.
The roaring winds had vanished.
All that remained was the slow, steady crash of waves against the shore.
Nikandros collapsed onto his back, gasping for air.
The sky above him was pale gray, streaked with the faint light of dawn. Dark clouds still drifted across the horizon, but the fury of the storm had passed.
His clothes were soaked.
His entire body ached.
For a long time, he simply lay there, staring up at the sky while his breathing slowly steadied.
Then he groaned and rolled onto his stomach.
Sand stuck to his wet skin as he pushed himself onto his elbows.
"Where the fuck… am I?"
The beach stretched endlessly in both directions.
White sand.
Broken driftwood.
Pieces of shattered ships scattered along the shoreline.
The wreckage of the battle.
Nikandros spat seawater from his mouth and tried to stand.
His legs trembled beneath him.
Gods…
He barely managed to stay upright.
Then—
"AHHHHHHH!"
A scream shattered the quiet morning.
Nikandros froze.
The sound came from somewhere further down the beach.
He turned sharply toward it.
And saw something that made his stomach twist.
A man lay on the sand.
A Rosarian.
Nikandros could tell immediately from the dark blue uniform soaked with seawater and blood.
The man's stomach had been torn open.
His insides spilled across the sand like glistening ropes.
And surrounding him—
Creatures.
Four of them.
They crouched over the sailor's body like starving animals, their pale hands digging into the exposed flesh as they tore pieces away.
Nikandros felt his throat tighten.
"The Drowned…"
The creatures lifted their heads at the sound of his voice.
Their skin was gray and bloated, stretched tightly over bones that seemed almost too large for their bodies. Long strands of seaweed clung to their hair, and seawater dripped constantly from their mouths.
Their eyes were wrong.
Milky white.
Dead.
One of them shoved a fistful of the sailor's flesh into its mouth and began chewing.
The sailor screamed again.
Or tried to.
Blood bubbled from his throat instead.
Nikandros took a slow step backward.
Then something grabbed his ankle.
His heart nearly stopped.
He looked down.
Another drowned had crawled from the water behind him.
Its pale fingers wrapped tightly around his leg.
The creature's mouth opened wide, revealing jagged black teeth as it pulled itself toward him.
Nikandros reacted instantly.
"Fuck off!"
He kicked downward with his free foot.
His heel smashed into the creature's face with a dull crack.
The drowned's head snapped sideways as its grip loosened.
Nikandros ripped his leg free and scrambled backward across the sand.
The other drowned were already turning toward him.
Their milky eyes fixed on their new prey.
Nikandros staggered to his feet.
Think. Think.
Then he saw it.
His rapier.
The elegant blade lay half-buried in the sand a few paces away, its silver hilt glinting faintly in the morning light.
Nikandros lunged forward and grabbed it.
The familiar weight steadied him.
Behind him the drowned began to rise from the sand.
One of them still clutched a bloody piece of the sailor's flesh in its hand.
Nikandros didn't wait.
He turned and ran.
His boots pounded against the wet sand as he sprinted up the beach toward the tree line further inland.
Behind him he heard the drowned shrieking.
The sound followed him like the cries of hungry gulls.
Nikandros pushed himself harder, ignoring the pain in his legs and the burning in his chest.
The sand gave way to rough grass and tangled roots as he reached the edge of the forest.
Without slowing he plunged into the trees.
Branches whipped against his face as he forced his way deeper into the undergrowth.
Only when the sounds of the drowned faded behind him did he finally slow.
Nikandros staggered forward a few more steps before collapsing against the trunk of a large tree.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
His body trembled from exhaustion.
Shipwrecked.
Alone.
Stranded on some cursed shore filled with drowned monsters.
Nikandros let out a bitter laugh.
"Well… Pontus," he muttered hoarsely.
"You kept me alive."
He looked down at the rapier still clutched in his hand.
"Now what?"
Nikandros blinked slowly.
The world swam before him, shapes and colours shifting as his head pounded with a dull, relentless ache. For a moment, he thought the storm had returned, that the sea still tossed him like driftwood.
But the air was still.
Quiet.
Only the distant cry of birds and the soft whisper of wind through leaves surrounded him.
Nikandros blinked again.
Something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
His left eye.
He tried to focus with it, but there was nothing there, no light, no shape, no colour. Only darkness.
A cold knot formed in his stomach.
Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his hand and touched the side of his face.
His fingers met damp skin… and then something hollow.
Nothing.
Nikandros froze.
For a heartbeat, he simply sat there, staring into the forest with his remaining eye as his hand trembled against the ruined socket.
Then the memory returned.
The duel.
The Rosarian officer.
The flash of steel.
The burning pain as the blade sliced across his face.
Nikandros clenched his jaw.
"So… you took my eye," he muttered bitterly.
Strangely, the wound did not hurt. The skin around it felt tight and raw, but the sharp agony he expected was absent.
Perhaps the sea had washed the pain away.
Or perhaps Pontus simply had a cruel sense of humour.
Nikandros covered the empty socket with the palm of his left hand and leaned heavily against the trunk of the tree behind him.
His body still felt weak, his muscles trembling from exhaustion.
What now?
The question lingered in his mind like a dark cloud.
He had no ship.
No crew.
No food.
No idea where he even was.
For the first time in many years, Nikandros Pontikos felt something dangerously close to helplessness.
He closed his eye and exhaled slowly.
No.
He would not give up.
Nikandros had never been the kind of man who surrendered to fate. The sea had tried to drown him more times than he could count, and yet he still lived.
He would survive this as well.
He had to.
He had someone waiting for him.
Violette.
Her name alone stirred something deep within him.
His beautiful Violette.
He would return to her.
Somehow.
A sharp cracking sound shattered the silence.
BANG.
Nikandros' head snapped upright.
Gunfire.
The sound echoed faintly through the forest.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his rapier.
Another shot rang out.
BANG.
Nikandros slowly pushed himself away from the tree.
"There are others here…" he murmured.
Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.
Keeping his left hand pressed firmly against his ruined eye, he began moving carefully through the forest. His boots crunched softly over fallen branches and damp leaves as he followed the distant echoes of gunfire.
The sound grew louder as he walked.
BANG.
BANG.
More shots.
More shouting.
Nikandros pushed through a thick cluster of bushes and suddenly the trees opened.
The forest gave way to another stretch of sandy shore.
And there—
A ship.
Nikandros stopped instantly.
The vessel sat anchored just offshore, its sails fluttering in the wind.
But it was not Rosarian.
And it certainly was not a pirate vessel.
Two large lions one gold and the other silver decorated its white sails.
Nikandros grimaced.
"Albion…"
He spat into the sand.
"Traitorous cunts."
On the beach below the ship, several men stood with rifles and pistols raised.
They wore red coats trimmed with silver and gold.
Albion soldiers.
Their weapons flashed repeatedly as they fired into a group of kneeling men nearby.
Rosarians.
Nikandros blinked in surprise.
The Rosarian sailors were unarmed, their hands raised in surrender.
"Please!" one of them shouted desperately. "Mercy!"
The Albion soldiers showed none.
Another volley of gunfire rang out.
The Rosarians collapsed into the sand.
Nikandros frowned.
That made no sense.
The Rosarian Empire and the Twin Kingdoms of Albion had been allies for decades.
So why were they slaughtering each other?
Had something changed?
Had he been gone that long?
He watched silently from the edge of the trees as another Rosarian attempted to crawl away.
A pistol shot cracked.
The man fell still.
Nikandros allowed himself a small, grim smile.
"Couldn't have happened to a nicer people," he muttered.
The smile vanished instantly.
Cold steel pressed against his throat.
"Don't move."
Nikandros froze.
A man stood behind him, his sword resting lightly against Nikandros' neck.
"Who are you?" the man demanded. "And why are you spying on us?"
Nikandros slowly raised his free hand in surrender.
"I am no spy," he said calmly. "The ship I was on was destroyed in the storm. I woke up on this island not long ago."
He gestured toward the beach.
"I heard the gunshots and came to see what was happening."
The man remained silent for a moment.
Then he said sharply, "Get up."
Nikandros obeyed.
The sword never left his throat.
"Walk," the man ordered.
They descended from the treeline and crossed the sand toward the other Albion soldiers.
By the time they arrived, the Rosarian sailors were all dead.
Their bodies lay scattered across the beach like discarded cargo.
One of the Albion men turned as they approached.
His clothing marked him clearly as an officer.
"Arthur," he said. "You're back."
The man behind Nikandros nodded.
"Yes, Ser James."
He nudged Nikandros forward slightly.
"And I've brought you a prisoner."
Ser James studied Nikandros carefully.
"This man claims he woke up here after his ship was destroyed," Arthur continued.
Ser James' eyes narrowed slightly.
He stepped closer.
"Why are you covering your eye with your hand?" he asked.
Nikandros answered simply.
"My eye is gone, ser."
The officer's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Show me."
Nikandros hesitated.
Then he lowered his hand slightly, revealing the empty socket.
Ser James' eyes widened in visible surprise.
Nikandros quickly covered it again.
Ser James leaned closer, examining his face.
"You have a cut beneath the socket," he observed. "A wound from a blade."
His gaze shifted downward.
To the rapier still clutched in Nikandros' right hand.
"That is a fine weapon," Ser James said. "Who did you steal it from?"
"I did not steal it," Nikandros replied calmly. "It was a gift."
The officer smiled faintly.
"I see."
His eyes sharpened slightly.
"You are a pirate," he said. "From the ship the Rosarians were fighting."
Nikandros felt a flicker of surprise, but he hid it well.
"Am I?" he said casually.
Ser James chuckled.
"Yes. You are."
He shrugged lightly.
"And that is quite fine with me."
Nikandros frowned slightly.
"I thought Albion and Rosaria were allies."
Ser James stared at him as if he had just said something absurd.
"Allies?" the officer repeated.
He shook his head.
"We were."
His expression darkened.
"But after the Battle of Davisport, Rosaria became our greatest enemy."
Nikandros said nothing.
The name meant nothing to him.
Clearly he had missed more than a few events.
Ser James turned slightly toward Arthur.
"Arthur."
"Yes, ser?"
"Take this man to Edward. Tell him to patch up that eye."
Arthur nodded.
"Yes, Ser James."
Ser James looked back at Nikandros one final time.
"Once he is treated," he said calmly, "bring him back to me."
Arthur grabbed Nikandros by the shoulder and began leading him toward the ship.
Nikandros walked silently beside him.
Arthur led Nikandros across the narrow plank that connected the shore to the ship. The wooden boards creaked beneath their boots as the waves slapped against the hull below. Nikandros kept one hand over his ruined eye and the other firmly around the hilt of his rapier.
He glanced up at the ship as they climbed aboard.
It was a solid vessel, broad, heavy, and built for war rather than speed. The sails above still carried the twin lions of Albion, fluttering proudly in the breeze. Men moved across the deck with hurried purpose, some hauling ropes, others carrying crates or barrels.
The smell of salt, gunpowder, and blood hung thick in the air.
Arthur guided him toward the rear of the ship.
"Keep moving," Arthur muttered.
Nikandros did not resist. For now, it was wiser to cooperate than test his luck surrounded by armed soldiers.
They reached a small hatch near the stern. Arthur pushed it open and motioned for Nikandros to climb down first.
Nikandros descended the ladder slowly.
The air below deck was warmer and far heavier. The scent hit him immediately, sweat, medicine, blood, and rot all mixed into a thick, choking smell.
They stepped into a long room.
Beds lined both sides of the room.
Some were little more than wooden frames with thin mattresses, while others were simply blankets laid across the floor. Every one of them held a man.
Some groaned quietly in pain.
Others lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling.
One man near the far wall clutched a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around what remained of his arm. Another had his leg bound in crude splints, his face pale and slick with sweat.
A soldier further down the room coughed violently, spitting dark blood into a rag.
Nikandros grimaced slightly.
He had seen plenty of wounded men before, battlefields and pirate raids always left their share of broken bodies, but the sight still stirred an uncomfortable heaviness in his chest.
A voice broke the silence.
"Arthur?"
Nikandros turned.
Beside one of the beds stood an elderly man. His back was slightly bent, his face covered in deep wrinkles carved by time and worry. His hair was thin and gray, pulled loosely behind his head.
But what caught Nikandros' attention most were the strange pieces of glass resting in front of the man's eyes.
spectacles.
Nikandros had heard of them before.
Little lenses meant to help men see more clearly.
At least that was what sailors claimed.
The old man adjusted them slightly as he studied the two newcomers.
"Arthur," he repeated. "What are you doing down here? And who is that beside you?"
Arthur stepped forward.
"Doctor," he said respectfully. "This man was found by me spying on us."
He nudged Nikandros forward slightly.
"Ser James ordered me to bring him to you."
The old man's sharp eyes shifted toward Nikandros.
Arthur continued.
"He's missing an eye. Ser James wants to make sure the wound heals."
The doctor nodded slowly.
"I see."
He stepped closer, his gaze studying Nikandros carefully.
Nikandros felt slightly uncomfortable beneath that look. The old man's eyes were surprisingly sharp for someone so aged.
"What is your name?" the doctor asked.
"Nikandros," he replied.
The old man nodded again.
"Well then, Nikandros… sit."
He pointed toward an empty bed near the wall.
"Over there."
Nikandros walked across the room and lowered himself onto the mattress. The bed creaked beneath his weight.
Arthur remained standing nearby, arms folded across his chest as if guarding a prisoner.
The doctor approached slowly.
Up close, Nikandros could see stains of dried blood across the man's sleeves.
"Let me see it," the doctor said calmly.
Nikandros hesitated only briefly before lowering his hand from his face.
The cool air touched the empty socket.
The doctor leaned in closer.
"Hm."
He adjusted his glasses and examined the wound with careful attention.
"A clean cut," he muttered.
Nikandros snorted faintly.
"Didn't feel very clean at the time."
The doctor ignored the remark.
"A blade strike," he continued. "Very precise."
Nikandros' mind flashed briefly back to the Rosarian officer's calm smile and elegant swordplay.
"Yes," he said quietly. "A very skilled man."
The doctor nodded.
"Well, you are fortunate."
Nikandros raised an eyebrow.
"Losing an eye is fortunate?"
"It could have been worse," the doctor replied calmly. "The blade missed your brain and your throat. Many men would not have survived such a wound."
He reached for a small wooden box sitting on a nearby table and opened it.
Inside were cloth bandages, small bottles of liquid, and several metal tools.
Nikandros watched carefully.
"You're not planning to dig around in there, are you?" he asked dryly.
The doctor gave a small chuckle.
"No."
He soaked a cloth with a clear liquid that smelled sharply of herbs.
"This will sting," he warned.
Nikandros braced himself.
The cloth touched the wound.
Fire erupted across the side of his face.
"Ah, Pontus take you!" Nikandros hissed through clenched teeth.
Arthur smirked slightly from across the room.
The doctor remained calm as he cleaned the wound carefully.
"Yes," the old man said mildly. "That usually means it is working."
Nikandros grumbled something under his breath.
After several moments, the doctor finished cleaning the socket and wrapped a firm bandage across the side of Nikandros' head.
"There," he said.
Nikandros rolled his shoulder slightly.
"That's it?"
"For now."
The doctor closed the wooden box and folded his hands together.
"The wound should heal well if infection does not set in."
Nikandros glanced around the crowded room.
"With all these sick men?"
The doctor sighed quietly.
"Yes… that is always the concern."
He looked back at Nikandros.
"You are lucky to be alive, young man."
Nikandros shrugged slightly.
"Luck has never had much to do with my survival."
The doctor studied him for a moment, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"You are not a man of Albion," he observed.
"No, I am not."
"Rosarian?"
Nikandros' lip curled slightly.
"Certainly not."
The doctor nodded slowly.
"What are you then?"
Nikandros smiled faintly.
"Aelyrian."
The Doctor nodded.
Arthur finally stepped forward again.
"Are you finished, Doctor?"
The old man nodded.
"For now."
Arthur gestured toward the ladder.
"Come on," he said to Nikandros. "Ser James is waiting."
Nikandros stood from the bed.
His body still ached, but the bandage over his eye felt secure.
He glanced once more around the room filled with wounded soldiers.
Then he followed Arthur back toward the ladder.
Whatever Ser James wanted—
Nikandros suspected this strange new chapter of his life had only just begun.