The soft light of dawn filtered through the windows of the Salore home, touching everything with its pale, golden hue. Outside, the faint hum of the waking city echoed—a cart rumbling over cobblestones, a distant call of vendors setting up for the day—but inside, silence lingered, heavy and suffocating.
Maris stood at the kitchen table, the letter unfolded in her trembling hands. The paper was slightly creased from where her fingers gripped it too tightly, her knuckles pale against the edges. Erin's hopeful handwriting sprawled across the page—neat, deliberate, and unbearably final.
"I'll come back, I promise..."
The words caught in her throat, sharp as any blade. Her breath faltered, and she sank into the nearest chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor. She stared at the words again, as though reading them differently might make them change, might undo what he had done.
But they stayed the same.
Slowly, her gaze shifted, rising to the empty space on the shelf. The hook hung bare where Kael's journal had always been, a shadowed reminder of what was missing. Her hand covered her mouth as the truth of it overwhelmed her, as though holding in the sound would keep her despair from spilling out.
"Erin..." Her voice cracked. "What have you done?"
She bent over, cradling her face in her hands. The letter lay open on the table before her like a challenge she couldn't bear to accept, and for a long time, she didn't move. Her mind raced, a whirl of memories, fears, and the unshakable ache of his absence.
Somewhere, there was the faintest spark of pride—for his courage, for the dreams he'd never dared voice aloud. But it was buried under the crushing weight of loss and worry, leaving no room for anything but grief.
She glanced toward the door, willing him to step through it, to return to her as though none of it had happened.
But the house was empty—too empty. The weight of it settled deep into her chest, rooting her to the spot as tears began to blur her vision.
For the first time in years, the home Kael had left behind felt hollow all over again.
Erin leaned against the ship's railing, his hands gripping tightly on the wood. Below, the sea rolled gently, vast and unfamiliar. Behind him, Caldera was a shadow of itself, shrinking more with every passing minute. The once-bustling docks, the familiar streets, the smell of his mother's cooking—all of it felt like another life.
He kept his eyes on the horizon but couldn't help glancing back. Guilt churned in his chest, an undercurrent that wouldn't leave him, no matter how he tried to steady himself. The excitement of finally leaving, of stepping into the stories he'd dreamed about, wasn't as strong as he had imagined. It was there, yes, fluttering deep within him like a faint spark, but it struggled against the heavy weight of everything he'd left behind
"You're quiet," a deep voice rumbled from behind him.
Erin startled slightly but turned to see Thalor, his towering form shadowed against the pale morning sky. His arms crossed over his chest, and there was an unreadable look in his sharp gaze.
Thalor moved closer, his boots thudding lightly against the deck. "Missing home already?"
Erin swallowed hard and nodded. "I just… I didn't think it'd feel like this. I knew I wanted to leave, but now…" His voice wavered, and he turned back to the sea, his fingers tightening on the rail. "I left my mom all alone. What if this was a mistake?"
Thalor was silent for a moment, studying the boy as if weighing his next words carefully.
"She'll survive," Thalor said finally, his tone steady but not unkind. "Mothers are stronger than they look."
Erin gave him a faint, almost guilty smile. "She's stronger than anyone I know."
"Then don't waste time doubting her. You'll see her again when this is all over." Thalor stepped up beside Erin, his gaze turning toward the horizon. "But until then? Look ahead with hope, not behind with regret."
Erin blinked, startled by the sudden wisdom in the older man's voice. He turned his head to meet Thalor's eyes, but the man had already shifted back into his guarded demeanor, his attention on the ocean.
Thalor cast a glance over his shoulder, his dark eyes unreadable. "Come on," he said, jerking his head toward the steps that led below deck.
Erin hesitated. The deck had felt isolating but strangely safe, a space where he could linger in his thoughts. Below, the unknown awaited—facing Thalor's crewmates made this leap into a new world feel unshakably real.
Still clutching his father's journal, he trailed after Thalor. The air grew heavier as they descended, carrying the mingled scents of saltwater, worn wood, and faint traces of smoke. The staircase creaked under their weight, and Erin's grip tightened on the railing.
The below deck had an undeniable character, lived-in and suffused with an energy all its own. Lanterns swayed gently overhead, casting flickering pools of light that fought back the shadows clinging to the corners. The cramped corridors were lined with barrels, crates, and netting that seemed haphazard yet organized, bearing the telltale marks of seasoned sailors who valued utility over aesthetics.
As Thalor led him into the mess hall, the voices of the crew spilled into the corridor—a small melody of chatter, laughter, and the occasional curse. Erin froze in the doorway, unsure of what to expect.
The crew of the Duskvein looked nothing like the merchants and dockworkers he was used to seeing in Caldera. Four figures were seated around a long, battered table scattered with half-eaten plates. Each one was strikingly distinct, their demeanor oozing experience that immediately made Erin feel out of place.
The first figure who caught his attention stood against the wall, watching with a quiet and detached air. She was shorter than Erin but carried herself with a confidence that seemed to draw more attention than she perhaps intended. Her hair, the color of autumn leaves, fell to her shoulders, sharp against her dark skin. A large scar stretched across her mouth and partially up her cheek, a mark from something violent. She hadn't spoken a word yet, but Erin could feel the intensity of her presence, even from across the room.
"Well, well," a man drawled, leaning forward. He sat near the head of the table. He was wiry, his lean frame brimming with a roguish energy that contrasted against his sharp, calculating eyes. He was tall and intimidating His auburn hair was tied loosely behind his head, and a faint scar curved along his jawline—an indication of battles past. "Who's this? Thalor, you didn't tell us you were recruiting kids now." He grinned wider. "I guess we could use a mascot."
Erin stared him down, his chin lifting. "I'm not a kid. And I'm not a mascot."
The man barked out a laugh, a short, staccato sound like flint striking steel. "Oh, we've got a tough one, huh? Tell me, Scrap, what do you think you're doing here?"
"Don't call me that," Erin snapped.
"Relax, kid!" He drawled. "You're standing there like someone's about to put a knife to your throat. We're not that mean, at least not most of us. Right, Narza?"
The woman in the corner—Narza, Erin noted—didn't respond, didn't even look his way. The man grinned as if satisfied.
"Heh, guess she's keeping quiet for now. She doesn't talk much, but me? Oh, I love to talk. Especially to greenhorns like you. Tell me, boy, what's your deal?" The man's grin sharpened. "Thalor drag you out here to swab the deck or be the anchor when we run out of rope?"
Erin's jaw tightened. "I'm here to help, and to make something of myself." His voice was steady, his resolve unwavering.
"'Make something of yourself,' huh?" the man said, amused. "Big words for someone with nothing to show for it. Alright, Scrap, What about magic, huh? Can you use magic, Or are you just entirely useless?" He leaned back again, clearly entertained.
Erin's hands curled into fists at his sides. "I can."
"Oh-ho! That's adorable, You hear that?" the man said, leaning back again, his smirk as wide as ever. "Scrap's a tough guy. Watch out, world."
"That's enough, Fenrick." The voice was low and measured, coming from across the table, a man with short brown hair and glasses glanced up from a small device in his lap. "He's a fighter, at least. Can't say the same for his odds," he murmured, adjusting something on the strange mechanism.
Erin's gaze lingered on the device. "What is that?" he asked.
The man tilted his head but didn't look up. "Something broken."
"Well, try not to break it more by staring," On the opposite side of the room, was the next to catch Erin's attention. She was tall and full of energy, her blonde hair with cyan highlights caught the dim light as it flowed with the natural bounce of her movements. There was an easygoing confidence to her as she leaned back in her chair, shooting playful glances at the crew. "I'm Ariya Serin, by the way. Don't mind him." She gestured lazily toward Fenrick. "He's just having fun."
"More like entertaining myself," he shot back, his grin unfaltering. "Don't forget to tell him, Ariya—this isn't a place for stories and starry-eyed dreams."
Ariya chuckled. "It's true," she said, turning back to Erin. "So? What's your deal, really? You some lost runaway, or do you just have no clue what you've gotten yourself into?"
Erin straightened further, his voice steady but burning with conviction. "I know what I signed up for. I want to become an adventurer—someone who can see the world for what it really is. And one day, I'll go beyond what anyone's dared. I'll explore the Void Sea."
The room fell silent, replaced with heavy, weighted stares.
The glasses-wearing man finally looked up, his hands halting over the device in his lap. Ariya sat upright, the mirth fading from her expression.
It was Fenrick who broke the silence first, barking out a sharp, humorless laugh. "The Void Sea? This guy?" He tilted his head toward Thalor.
Ariya raised a brow, curiosity flickering in her cyan-highlighted gaze as she studied Erin again. "You're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Not many dare to even think about that place.
"I'm neither," Erin replied with steel in his voice. "I'm determined."
"Oh, determined! Our mistake." Fenrick grinned with savage amusement. "That makes it all fine, right? Determined little Scrap, storming into waters that swallow entire fleets. Please, teach me how to make that work—"
"That's enough," came a quieter, measured voice from the man with glasses.
All eyes turned to him. He hadn't spoken much beyond a murmured remark earlier, but his tone now carried a distinct edge. He set the device in his hands down on the table, brushing his palms off deliberately before fixing the crew with a pointed look.
"You might want to be careful with what you're saying," he said, adjusting his glasses.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Fenrick sneered, though his smirk faltered slightly.
"It means," the glasses-wearing man replied, his voice sharp enough to cut through the remaining laughter, "that he's the Void Voyager's kid."
The words hit the room like a thunderclap. Fenrick froze, his taunting grin replaced by wide-eyed disbelief. Ariya's smirk vanished entirely as she leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. Even Narza had finally moved, her head snapping up to look directly at Erin with a piercing intensity.
"What did you say?" Fenrick asked after a moment, his voice lower and harder, but the crack in his confidence was visible.
The glasses-wearing man didn't waver. "You heard me. His name is Erin Salore. Same name as Kael Salore. You know, the Void Voyager. The one no one thought would come back from those waters alive. His father."
Ariya let out a slow exhale, leaning forward again, this time with her full attention locked on Erin. "You're serious," she muttered, her earlier incredulity melting into something closer to awe—and hesitation.
Fenrick blinked, recovering quickly but clearly rattled. "Kael Salore's kid?" He gave a disbelieving laugh, though it lacked its earlier venom. "Well. That explains a lot"
The crew exchanged glances, unspoken questions passing between them. Narza had stopped pretending to ignore him, her dark eyes lingering on Erin for several moments before looking away again, as though measuring the truth of his words.
Ariya leaned back, her cyan-streaked hair falling over her shoulders as she shook her head lightly, her smirk returning faintly but lacking its earlier bite. "Void Voyager's kid," she mused. "Well, Scrap, you just got a lot more interesting."
Erin straightened further, unwilling to let the nickname bother him, though Fenrick was grinning again, his sharp eyes gleaming with a mix of challenge and curiosity.
"Let's hope you can live up to it," Fenrick added with a low chuckle.
"Enough talking," Thalor finally interjected, his tone slicing through the tension like a blade. "Get some food in you, Erin. Long way to go yet."
Erin nodded but couldn't ignore the way the crew continued to watch him, some curious, others wary. Even now, it felt as though unseen weights were pressing against his resolve, but he wasn't about to back down. Not now.
As the conversations resumed—quieter now but still tinged with disbelief—Erin knew he'd made the right choice. He hesitated by the table, still feeling as though an invisible barrier lay between him and the group. He lowered himself onto one of the chairs with awkward grace, his hands still holding the journal protectively. The meal on the table—the salted fish and some sort of egg scramble—did little to quell the nervous energy eating away at him. But it was as though, in this strange new space, he was beginning to understand that it wasn't just the food he had to digest.
It was them. The crew of the Duskvein—each one of them had their own kind of fire, their own stories, and each held their own power in the way they carried themselves. In comparison, Erin felt like nothing more than a boy still trying to come to terms with his past and the unknown future that awaited him.
He shifted in his seat, eyeing the faces around the table once more—Narza's detached gaze, Ariya's playful smile, Fenrick's booming laugh, and Cidrin's calculating expression. Somewhere in that mix, if he looked hard enough, Erin could almost sense something shared, a bond between the crewmates, thick as the salty air they breathed. And though it might take time for them to accept him, Erin could only hope there was a place for him among them—one that didn't feel so painfully foreign
Whatever lay ahead, he would prove himself. To the crew, to Thalor, to his mother, and, most of all, to himself.
Back in Caldera's harbor, the pier was quieter now, the bustle of morning having faded into the background. A deep fog settled over the distant ocean, hinting at a strange kind of solitude. Maris, though, did not notice the quiet—it was as if all sounds had been muted for her.
She stood, clutching Erin's letter, the paper now crinkled at the edges from the tense grip she'd held on it. Her hands trembled, but the tears she'd braced herself for didn't come. Instead, there was an emptiness. She had said the words to Erin, urged him to make his own decisions—yet, seeing it, reading his final declaration of leaving, made everything she said feel futile.
It had been hours now since the Duskvein vanished, and the horizon held no promises of her son's return. She stared into it, hoping to find something—anything—but the sea only offered an indifferent glance.
"Kael…" she murmured under her breath. "You'd better watch him. Don't let him turn into you." She swallowed hard.
Slowly, she pulled her gaze from the ocean. There was nothing more to be done here. She turned sharply, walking away, leaving the city to return to its rhythms—leaving the pier and the sea behind, leaving her son to follow his own path.