Thunder and Roses
Thurosia. The country of Thunder and Roses.
At least, that's what humans used to call it millennia ago.
Its mountainous peaks stretch high into the heavens, cutting through thick clouds like jagged spears. Storms gather along its ridges, rolling thunder a constant presence over the land, as if the very mountains themselves breathe in deep slumber. Despite its grandeur, Thurosia is not a land of peace—it is a land of might, of hierarchy, and of conquest.
And today, after ten years away, Namo Antt had returned.
#*#*#*#
The wooden planks of the dock groaned beneath Namo's boots as he stepped off the ship. He adjusted the heavy cloak draped over his shoulders, shaking off the last traces of the sea air. His first breath of Thurosian air was cold and biting, tinged with the scent of pine, metal, and distant rain.
"Ticket."
The voice came from an aging dockmaster, his face weathered like old leather. Namo wordlessly reached into his coat and handed over a folded slip of parchment.
The dockmaster unfolded it with practiced ease. His eyes skimmed the details—then froze. His weathered face twisted, one brow raising in suspicion as he glanced up at the young man before him.
Departed: ISLE.
A name that should not exist on paper. A place that was more myth than reality.
Some claimed the ISLE was lost to time, swallowed by the tides. Others swore that shadowy merchants whispered of trade routes leading there, passed through hands that "knew someone who knew someone." But no one left the ISLE—not alive.
Yet here he was.
The dockmaster licked his lips. "ISLE, huh? Can't say I've met anyone coming from there before."
Namo extended his hand. "My ticket."
The dockmaster hesitated for only a moment before handing it back. His eyes lingered on Namo a second longer, searching for something—an answer, maybe. But the young man was unreadable.
Namo slid the parchment back into his coat and exhaled slowly.
"Where can I get a mount?"
The dockmaster blinked, caught off guard by the sudden request. He scratched the stubble on his chin before jerking a thumb toward the far side of the dockyard. "Only thing left's a wyvern. Mean bastard. Nobody wants him, so we're putting him down soon."
Namo's expression didn't change. "I'll take it."
The dockmaster gave him a long look. "You serious? Things like that ain't for just anyone. Even the trained ones turn on their riders."
Namo's eyes were steady. "How much?"
The dockmaster snorted. "Since you clearly have the nerve, let's call it a welcome gift."
Namo handed over the coin without hesitation.
The old man let out a huff. "Your problem now, kid."
As Namo walked toward the stables, disregarding being called a kid for now, he let his mind wander. Father always hated dragons.
The subjugation of the wyvern race had long been a point of pride in Thurosia. Where dragons once ruled the skies, wyverns had been tamed, broken, and bent to serve as beasts of burden. They were nothing more than tools now—disposable, to be discarded once they outlived their usefulness.
Namo glanced toward the storm-touched peaks of the mountains, his grip tightening around his cloak.
This country hasn't changed at all.
With his new mount waiting for him, Namo set his sights inland—toward the kingdom that had cast him out.
It was time to go home.
As Namo disappeared into the horizon on the back of the wyvern, the dockmaster's son approached in a hurry.
"Father," the boy called, his voice laced with worry, "was that our last mount?"
The dockmaster didn't respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on the distant figure of the wyvern shrinking against the stormy skyline. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his normally gruff demeanor now replaced with something more contemplative.
"Father?" the boy asked again, tugging on his sleeve.
The old man finally turned to his son, his expression a mix of unease and recollection. "That young man…" he began, his voice distant. "There's something about him."
The boy frowned. "Something about him? You mean the guy who just bought our wyvern?"
The dockmaster nodded, more to himself than to his son. His brow furrowed, and he rubbed his chin as if trying to piece together a half-forgotten memory.
"I should've realized it sooner," he muttered. "His face… it looked familiar. Like I've seen it before, though he should be older by now. Couldn't place it at first."
The son tilted his head, puzzled. "Who are you talking about?"
The dockmaster took a slow, deliberate breath. "It was around the time you were born," he said. "A terrible event took place. Our King—Achen Jio—lost his wife in a brutal murder. The whole country was shaken by it."
The boy's eyes widened. "Murdered? By who?"
The old man hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper. "By his own son."
The boy stepped back in shock. "What? The prince? Why would he—"
"No one really knows why," the dockmaster interrupted. "Some said it was madness, others said it was an accident. Doesn't matter. The King declared his son a criminal and ordered his exile. Sent him away to a place no one could survive. They called it justice, but everyone knew… it was a death sentence."
The son's brow furrowed. "Why not just execute him? Why exile him?"
The dockmaster gave a grim chuckle. "Because the ISLE is worse than death. A crueler punishment. No food, no shelter, nothing but the sea and its horrors. Nobody survives the ISLE. At least, that's what we thought."
The boy stared at his father, his face pale. "You mean… that man—he was the prince? The one who killed his own mother?"
The dockmaster nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the horizon where Namo had disappeared. "He must be. It's the same face. I guess the boy didn't die after all. He survived. Somehow."
"But… how?" the son whispered, a chill running down his spine.
The dockmaster didn't answer, his eyes dark with thought. "That's a question I don't want to know the answer to."