A brown-haired boy stood with his father on their weathered sailboat, his hands working the fishing net from muscle memory while his mind struggled to forget. Salt and fish stink hung in the air like an unwelcome guest that never leaves. Other fishing boats bobbed nearby on the Nuzian sea, crews hauling in the morning's catch under the harsh sun. Fish flopped onto wooden decks, scales flashing in the light before being tossed into crates – the slimy currency that kept Khardouth fed and barely kept Eujal's family one step above starvation. Just another hopeless day on the northern coast.
Eujal hated every bit of it. The same damn routine day after day. He hated the rough hemp nets that had turned his once-soft hands into callused leather, the endless nauseating rock of the boat beneath his feet, and the fish stench that had soaked so deep into his clothes and skin that village girls wrinkled their noses when he walked by. Each fish felt like another link in the chain keeping him trapped in this life – a life ruled by mindless tides and the greedy trade officers from the city-state who bled them dry. They took everything – money, chances, freedom. Especially freedom.
He looked down at his hands, red and chapped from saltwater and rope. Only seventeen, but his palms looked like they belonged to some guy three times his age. These were the hands he'd die with – just more calluses, more scars, more fish guts ground into the creases. And that goddamn smell he couldn't ever wash away.
His father grunted next to him, struggling with a bulging section of net. "Good haul today, Eujal." The old man straightened up with a wince, his creased face relaxing for a second before he nervously scanned the water, then looked back at the nearby boats.
Paranoid as usual.
"Should be enough coin for food till next week. Might even have extra for your mother's medicine." He lowered his voice. "But we've ventured too far out. Better stay close to shore today. Times aren't good. Those westerners keep talking about trouble with the Zhardokhan... Captain Theel said their warships were spotted near the southern islands last week. They might be heading north to where we are... things aren't as safe as they used to be."
Eujal bit his tongue. No point talking to his father anymore. But he couldn't help wondering about the Zhardokhan. That infamous mercenary guild getting stronger every day had started moving north toward Khardouth. People said they were gathering forces for something big, but nobody knew what.
Eujal thought about them all the time. He was jealous, honestly. They weren't trapped like he was. They went where they wanted, did what they wanted, even if people died. They traveled and saw the world beyond this shitty fishing village. They experienced things Eujal couldn't even imagine. And the more he thought about it, the more his chest ached with sadness.
A hard slap on his back yanked him back to reality. He turned to see his father's angry face as the old man grabbed his collar.
Great, Eujal thought to himself. Playing tough guy now.
"You ignoring me, boy?" His father's voice was like sandpaper. "Did you hear what I said? Let's move! Stay close to shore!"
"Yeah... whatever..." Eujal mumbled.
His father's grunt turned into an angry sigh when he saw Eujal staring at the horizon, hands frozen on the net. "Are you even listening? I'm talking about Zhardokhan warships, about staying safe, and you're off in dreamland again. Always stuck in those troublesome thoughts. You'd sail straight into a storm just to avoid calm waters, wouldn't you? Always looking for trouble where it doesn't belong."
Eujal finally looked up, tearing his eyes from the endless blue. He met his father's glare with cold eyes that seemed borrowed from the deep sea. "What trouble, Father?" he asked, voice quiet but sharp. "You mean something besides hauling fish until my back breaks? Is this the calm you want me to appreciate?"
"Don't get smart with me!" His father jabbed a finger toward the open water stretching away from Khardouth. "Out there... it's not like here! You think this life is hard? This predictability? You don't know shit about the real dangers out there. Nothing!"
"And whose fault is that?" Eujal shot back, voice rising, finally snapping. "Yours! You cling to this... this boring routine like it's driftwood in a storm! You're fine rotting here, stinking of brine and fear, and you want me to do the same! You talk about danger out there, but what about the danger here? This slow death, day after day, with nothing to show except rough hands while those trade bastards take everything else!"
"You think chaos is better?" his father shouted, voice strained. "You think running off to join those Zhardokhan killers is freedom? Or maybe you want to run into one of those... those sparkers?" He spat the word, clearly terrified. "That's what's out there, boy! People with powers they shouldn't have, burning villages, tearing things apart just by thinking it! Unpredictable! Dangerous! That's the 'excitement' you want? At least Khardouth is stable. We don't have that crazy magic shit running wild here."
Eujal laughed harshly. "No wild magic? Are you fucking blind? What about the City Guard? Remember Captain Vorlag? That bastard froze three thieves solid in the market last winter – didn't look very 'stable' to them. Or how about Lieutenant Isha crashing through rooftops just to apprehend a thief? They're sparkers too, Father! Right here in your 'stable' little town."
"That's—that's different!" his father insisted, face turning red as he puffed out his chest defensively. "They're official! They wear the city's colors! They use their powers to protect us, keep order! They answer to the Magistrates! They're not like the wild ones out there destroying everything!"
"Order?" Eujal scoffed, stepping closer. "They protect the docks for the trade masters who rob us blind. They work for the Magistrates who tax us to death! Their 'control' only helps the powerful, not us! It's all part of the same chain keeping us down, Father, just dressed up with uniforms and fancy titles. Don't pretend you're worried about 'wild magic' hurting me. You're just scared. Scared of anything different than this boat and that net."
"I am scared for you, you ignorant, ungrateful little shit!" his father finally roared, raising his hand like he might hit Eujal before dropping it helplessly. "You don't understand sacrifice! You don't know what real danger looks like, what it costs to keep a family alive when the world wants to drown you!"
"SAILS!" Someone shouted from a nearby boat, voice sharp with urgency. "SAILS NORTHEAST! WARSHIPS!"
Both Eujal and his father snapped their heads around. Coming around the rocky bend of the bay, they saw them – not fishing boats or traders, but the sleek, menacing shapes of warships. Three of them. Their black and blood-red sails carried the mark of a three-headed serpent.
"Zhardokhan..." his father whispered, face draining of color. The argument forgotten, pure terror took over. "Oh gods... Eujal! The sail! Turn around! Get to shore!"
Panic hit the fishing fleet. Oars splashed desperately, sails turned, everyone trying to escape the coming predators. Eujal moved to help, hands grabbing ropes, but his eyes stayed fixed on the approaching ships. They cut through the water fast, long rows of oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm, churning the sea to foam. They were massive up close, dark wood crowded with armed men along the rails.
They couldn't escape. The lead warship changed course slightly, its huge hull coming alongside their small boat, casting them in shadow. Eujal heard his father make a whimpering sound. Then, with shouts and the scrape of boots, several men jumped from the warship onto their boat.
They were rough men in mismatched leather and steel, swords at their hips. Eujal's father pressed against the mast, hands up, begging. "Mercy! Please! We're just fishermen! Take the fish, take everything! Just leave us alone! My son... he's just a kid!"
Eujal just stood there, watching. The smell of unwashed bodies and tar replaced the familiar fish stink. He felt weirdly detached. The Zhardokhan. The ones he'd envied from a distance. Here they were. He should've been scared, but he just felt numb curiosity deep down.
The men ignored his father's desperate pleas. Their eyes checked the boat, looked at the nets full of fish, then focused on Eujal. One with a scarred cheek nodded. Two others grabbed Eujal's arms roughly. He didn't fight as they twisted his hands behind his back, tying them with rough rope that bit into his skin. Another one with a cruel grin kicked over their fish crates, sending their entire catch sliding and flopping back into the sea. His father let out a broken sob.
They pushed Eujal toward the side, ready to haul him onto the warship. He saw their swords, felt their strength. Fighting was pointless. Besides, part of him wondered... is this it? Is this how my life changes? Everyone knew the Zhardokhan kidnapped able-bodied men for their army. He looked at the scarred man. "Are you... making me a mercenary?"
The man didn't answer, just shoved him harder. They dragged him over the rail onto the warship's deck, a chaotic mess of ropes, weapons, and grim soldiers. He could still hear his father's voice, sounding so thin and so desperate. "Please! Don't take him! He's all I have! Eujal!"
They hauled him across the deck, pushing past sailors, until they stopped in front of a larger man sitting on a coil of rope. He wore good leather armor over loose, dark clothes, with a thick brown beard and a stern face. He looked Eujal over with cold eyes.
Eujal, feeling strangely bold from the shock, looked right back at him. "Are you going to make me one of you? A mercenary?"
The bearded man stared at him for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, booming sound. The men around joined in, mocking Eujal's question. The leader suddenly leaned forward, smile vanishing. His open hand cracked across Eujal's face hard enough to make his head spin and eyes water.
"Mercenary?" the man sneered with contempt. He leaned in close, his breath reeking of stale wine. "You? Boy, you're not Zhardokhan material. You're rower trash. You'll pull an oar until your back breaks or we throw your worthless corpse overboard. Welcome to the fleet... slave."