The Duskvein looked like it had crawled out of an old sailor's tale, stitched together with tar and shadows. Its dark hull, scarred and lean, gave the impression of a predator—quiet, patient, and dangerous. Unlike the merchant ships in Caldera, whose painted sides advertised prosperity, the Duskvein wore its purpose like a secret.
Erin stepped away from Lenya, curiosity overpowering anything she might say to call him back. He drifted toward the swelling knot of people congregated near the docks where the ship had anchored. He wasn't the only one drawn to it. A small crowd had already begun to gather—dockhands leaning on crates, merchants pausing their haggling, even a few street kids who sensed excitement in the air.
"Not a trader's ship," a man nearby muttered, chewing on a pipe stem. "Sails like that? Definitely smugglers."
"Nah," grumbled another. "Mercenaries, I'd wager. Look at her build—fast and made to carry light cargo."
"Pirates," someone whispered.
Lenya barely glanced up from her hammering. "Lot of guesses. None of 'em matter much till you know what's inside."
Erin didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the gangplank, where two figures appeared.
The first man was broad-shouldered and weathered, his movements deliberate, like a shipwright studying the tides. His coat—deep blue and sun-bleached at the edges—was rolled at the sleeves, exposing forearms etched with faded tattoos. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent years taming unruly seas. There was no swagger, no theatrics—only a presence that made people step aside without a word.
The second was leaner, younger perhaps, though he wore the sly grin of someone who'd been through enough trouble to stop counting. His gloves were frayed at the fingertips, and a satchel hung casually from his shoulder. Where the first man moved like a tide, this one moved like the wind—shifting and unpredictable, but always purposeful.
Erin's curiosity burned brighter. Who were they?
Before Lenya could stop him, he slipped away and wove through the growing crowd, coming to a halt near the front. He watched as the two men crossed the pier, heading toward Overseer Borren, a stout man with a belly that rivaled a hogshead barrel. Borren's broad mustache twitched as the two men approached.
"Borren," the older figure said in a low, even voice, "we've brought the shipment."
"You're late." Borren's voice carried, as it always did.
"Wind wasn't kind." The younger man smirked, his tone more relaxed. "Let's just say we had to take the scenic route."
Borren grumbled something unintelligible and waved them toward a storage shed, where a few dockworkers stood waiting. Erin shuffled closer, ducking behind a stack of barrels to eavesdrop.
"Cargo first," the older man said. "Then we'll discuss business."
Business? Erin strained to hear as the men lowered their voices. He caught only fragments—words that hung like baited hooks.
"…charting the routes…"
"…piece of Ward's legacy…"
"…last of its kind, they said…"
Ward's legacy? Erin's pulse quickened. Olaus Ward. He knew that name. He'd seen it scrawled in his father's journal—a sailor, an explorer, and a mapmaker who charted routes long thought impossible.
"Can't help you," Borren said gruffly. "Caldera's merchants don't deal in ghost stories."
"Ghost stories have a way of surfacing," the younger man replied. "We're not leaving empty-handed."
Erin's breath caught. His mind pieced the conversation together like the final edges of a puzzle. Routes. Legacy. Maps. They were looking for Olaus Ward's Map.
Without thinking, he stepped forward. "You mean Ward's Map, don't you?"
The three men froze.
The older figure turned first, his gaze sharp as a harpoon. "What did you say?"
Erin swallowed but held his ground. "Olaus Ward's Map. You're looking for it, aren't you?"
The younger man raised an eyebrow, his grin faltering. "Who's this kid?"
"Someone with answers, maybe." The older man's tone was unreadable. He studied Erin for a long moment, his eyes searching. "How do you know about Ward's Map?"
Erin hesitated, then spoke carefully. "I've… read about it. My father kept records—he was a sailor. He believed Ward's routes weren't just myths. He wrote about them in his journal."
"His journal, huh?" The younger man's interest sharpened. "You have it with you?"
"No," Erin admitted. "It's at home. But I can show you." He took a step closer, emboldened by their attention. "You're looking for Ward's Map, and I know where you can find information about it."
The older man exchanged a glance with his companion. Erin couldn't read their expressions, but he sensed their doubt.
"Why would we trust you?" the older one asked at last.
"Because I know things," Erin said firmly. "And because you don't have any better leads."
For a moment, neither man spoke. Then the younger one chuckled under his breath. "He's got spirit, I'll give him that."
The older man still seemed unconvinced. "What's your name?"
"Erin. Erin Salore."
The name hung between them, and Erin thought he saw a flicker of recognition—or maybe curiosity—pass through their gazes.
"Fine, Erin," the older man said at last. "Bring us something useful, and we'll talk."
"I will," Erin promised.
Without another word, he turned and bolted up the pier, his heart racing.
When Erin pushed open the door to his house, the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the small shop. Maris stood by the counter, arms folded, her expression sharp.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. "You've been at those docks all day, haven't you?"
"I—" Erin faltered. "I was just—"
"Enough," she snapped. "You know your chores, Erin. You're not a dock rat. You're not your father. You're staying here and doing what's expected."
"But—"
"No more arguing." She pointed toward the stairs. "To your room. Now."
Erin clenched his fists but obeyed, stomping up to his room and slamming the door. He threw himself onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling as twilight bled into night.
This was it. This was his chance. He couldn't let it slip away—not after all the years he'd spent dreaming of something more.
Erin sat up, his heart pounding. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, his hand trembling as he wrote.
Ma,
I'm sorry. I know this will hurt you, but I need to go.
I can't stay here anymore—not when the world keeps calling to me. Every time I look at the horizon, I feel like I'm suffocating, stuck in a life that isn't mine. I need to see what's out there, Ma. I need to know if my Father's stories, his dreams, meant something.
You've given me everything—love, safety, a home—and I'll carry that with me wherever I go. But this life… it's too small for me. I feel like if I don't leave now, I'll regret it forever.
I love you more than anything, and I'll come back, I promise. I just need to know what's waiting for me beyond these shores. Please don't hate me for wanting more.
Your son,
Erin
He folded the note carefully and set it on his desk. Then, with deliberate steps, he moved to the cabinet where his father's belongings were kept. He slid out the worn leather journal and tucked it into his satchel.
The house was silent as he crept down the stairs, his heart thundering in his chest. He paused at the door, looking back once, before slipping into the night.
Outside, the streets were quiet, the sky a blanket of stars. Erin turned toward the docks, his father's compass hanging heavy at his side.
Whatever happened next, he wouldn't turn back.