Chapter 22 Lord Imas
LORD IMAS
The sea is a flat, gray slab, indifferent to the lives clinging to its surface.
I pull the heavy hemp rope, the rough fibers biting into my palms. My muscles scream in protest, unused to the brute, repetitive labor of hauling a sail. Sweat runs down my back, cold in the biting wind coming off the ocean.
A week ago, I could have moved this entire ship with a flick of my wrist. I could have summoned a wind to fill the canvas or calmed the waves with a whispered command.
Now, I am just another back bending under the weight of the work.
"Heave!" the boatswain bellows, a scarred orc with tusks yellowed by age.
I heave. The sail snaps taut, catching the gust.
I step back, wiping the sweat from my brow with a forearm that is already bruised.
I am unrecognizable. My brassy hair is tied back in a messy knot, dull with salt spray.
My clothes are rough wool, smelling of tar and fish.
The charcoal of my skin is no longer a mark of high nobility; here, among the mixed crew of humans, orcs, and low-caste elves, it is just a color.
I am Dfam. I am caste-less.
And I am exhausted.
I find a coil of rope near the railing and sit, my legs trembling. The physical fatigue is a novelty. It is a simple, honest ache that has little to do with the twisting madness of Chaos. It is quiet.
Leora appears from the lower deck.
She is wearing a simple gray dress, the hood of her cloak pulled up against the spray. She looks small against the vastness of the horizon, but she does not look afraid. She looks... present. Her eyes, the clear, unclouded sapphire of a Purna at rest, scan the deck until they find me.
She comes to sit beside me. She does not speak.
She simply takes my hand, her fingers threading through mine.
Her skin is warm, and the contact sends a steady, rhythmic pulse of comfort into my mind.
It is not the overwhelming flood of the ritual chamber; it is a gentle tide, a reminder that I am not alone.
"You're bleeding," she says softly, turning my hand over to reveal the raw blisters on my palm.
"It is nothing," I say. My voice is rough from the salt air. "The price of passage."
"We could have used a stone," she whispers, glancing around to ensure no one is listening. The pouch of Zanthenite is sewn into the lining of her cloak, a fortune heavy enough to buy this ship ten times over .
"No," I say. "A Khuzuth Lord does not pay with stolen gems in a common port. It draws eyes. It draws questions. Labor is anonymous."
She traces the lines of my palm. "Does it hurt? Being... this?"
"Being magicless? Mortal? I’m still a dark elf." I look out at the water. "It is slow. It is heavy. I feel gravity in a way I never did before." I pause, watching a mynah bird dive into the waves. "But my mind is my own."
She leans her head against my shoulder. "Do you think He will come for you?"
I stiffen. I do not need to ask who she means.
"The Serpent?" I ask, the name tasting like ash.
"Yes. You killed his priest. You broke his altar. You... rejected him." She shivers. "Will he follow us?"
I look at the sky. It is vast and empty, devoid of the swirling, chaotic clouds that permanently shroud Lliandor.
"The gods are not hunters, Leora," I say slowly. "They are appetites. The Serpent does not chase; He waits. He is the trap, not the predator."
"But you were his favorite."
"I was a vessel. A cup is not missed by the wine.
" I squeeze her hand. "He may be watching.
He is the God of Pain; anywhere there is suffering, He has an eye.
But His influence is tied to the land, to the temples, to the rituals.
Out here... on the open sea, away from the shadow of Lliandor. .. His voice is a whisper in a gale."
"So we are safe?"
"We are hidden," I correct her. "The other gods—The Guide, The Arbiter—they hold sway here. They will keep Him in check, provided we do not walk into one of His temples."
She nods, accepting the logic, though I can feel the tremor of anxiety in her touch. I push a thought toward her—not magic, just a deliberate projection of calm. It is weak, nothing compared to what she can do, but she smiles.
"Look," she says, pointing at the water.
A school of caesin breaks the surface, their scales flashing like iridescent rainbows in the sunlight . They arc through the air, sleek and impossible, before diving back into the deep.
"Beautiful," I murmur.
It is a strange word for me. For five centuries, beauty was synonymous with power. It was the terrifying symmetry of a spell, the perfect cruelty of a political maneuver.
But this... this is just life. It is messy and uncontrolled and vibrant.
I take a deep breath. The air smells of salt and freedom. There is no static in my head. No screaming demands. No pressure building behind my eyes.
I am useless. I cannot cast a hex. I cannot summon a shadow. If pirates attacked us now, I would have to fight them with a belaying pin and my own muscles.
But I am at peace.
"I never saw the sea," I admit quietly. "I teleported to ports. I viewed maps. But I never... sat and watched the water."
"You were busy ruling the night," Leora teases gently.
"I was busy drowning," I correct her.
The ship’s bell rings—a sharp, clear sound that cuts through the wind.
"Land ho!" the lookout shouts from the crow's nest.
I stand up, pulling Leora with me. We move to the railing.
On the horizon, a dark smudge is solidifying into a coastline. Green hills rise from the water, lush and vibrant, a vivid contrast to the gray stone of Oshta. White cliffs gleam in the sun, and beyond them, the spires of a city rise like fingers of pale bone.
"Kaynvu," I breathe.
The captain, a burly human with a beard braided with shells, stomps past us.
"Prepare for docking!" he bellows. "We're coming into Ter!".
Leora grips my arm. "Is it safe? Really?"
I look at the city. It is the newest of the sister cities, a port known for trade and—if the rumors are true—a strange, tentative tolerance for our kind mixing with yours.
"It is not Lliandor," I say. "And that is enough."
I look down at my hands. They are blistered, dirty, and empty of magic. But they are mine.
"We are approaching the Emberforge," I whisper to her, the wind snatching the words away. "A new forge for a new life."
The ship cuts through the waves, carrying us toward the shore.