Prologue: Whisper, Debt, and the First Shore

A month had passed since the misty shores of the Union of Nine vanished over the gray horizon. A month spent in the embrace of the Silent Ocean. For the crew of the Sea Rover, it was a month of salty routine, the creak of masts, and growing skepticism. For their captain, Flora Disleyvein, it was just another day of the hunt. But she wasn't hunting a man. She was hunting a legend.

She stood at the prow, where the carved raven—the sigil of her fallen house—cleaved the foamy crests. The wind, cold and damp, struck her face, whipping at her short-cropped dark hair and shaking loose fine droplets of moisture. She was short and lean, her figure almost boyish beneath a coarse, tarred jacket. But no one on the ship would have dared call her weak. In her gray eyes, which seemed almost steel under the grim sky, dwelled a cold that was more fearsome than the ocean's chill. They were the eyes of the last of the Keepers of Memory.

Her fingers fell habitually to the hilt of Whisper—a slender, deadly blade, the only thing that had survived from her past life. The only thing, besides memory.

Memory, as sharp as the blade itself, carried her back…

***

…to the quiet library of Castle Disleyvein, many years before the massacre. A young Flora sat on the lap of her father, Lord Elard, a man with kind eyes and a sad smile. He was showing her an old, worn map on which there was almost no land—only a boundless ocean and a tiny, barely perceptible speck of earth in the far west.

"Most people think our folk have always lived in the Union of Nine," her father said softly, his voice like the rustle of old pages. "They have forgotten. But we, the Disleyveins, remember. A thousand years ago, our ancestors sailed here, fleeing the Great Sundering that destroyed their homeland, the Silverlight Empire. They fled from there, from the west. From the First Shore. The elves and dwarves—they are the native peoples of these lands. We are the outsiders, the ones who lost our home."

"Can we go back, Papa?" little Flora asked.

Lord Elard sighed. "Perhaps, child. One day. The legends say an ancient power remains there. And that the connection to the First Shore must be restored when the world is once again threatened by a great calamity. Remember this, Flora. Always remember where we came from."

Memory leaped forward, into smoke and ash. To the night when Lord Corvus's men stormed their castle. They weren't looking for gold. They were looking for these maps, this knowledge. They burned the library, killed her father, her mother, her brother Corin… But they didn't find the most important thing. Her mentor, Elian, had managed to save the most vital map and a promissory note for a ship, leading Flora out of the burning castle.

***

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Three years later. The office of Silas Vorn, a shipowner from the Republic of Starfox. The hard-bitten merchant with eyes like gimlets tossed the scroll onto his desk.

"This scrap of parchment isn't worth a copper hare. But I remember your father. He was a noble fool. Here, take this," Vorn threw a purse on the table. "A hundred silver wolves. Enough to get out of my city."

Flora didn't touch the money. "The note says: one ship and one expedition," her voice was quiet, but in the silence of the office, it rang like steel. "The merchants of Starfox are famed for their honor. Or is that just a story?"

Vorn's face turned purple. He saw in her gray eyes not a request, but a demand. And the cold emptiness of someone with nothing left to lose. He was a merchant. He knew how to calculate risk.

"You'll have your ship, child of House Disleyvein," he snarled. "The oldest and foulest tub I own. And you'll find your own crew. That is my debt of honor."

***

The ship was called the Sea Rover. It was indeed old, but the oaken ribs, checked by the hand of Masefeg, her new ship's carpenter, were strong. All that remained was the crew. Flora knew that Corvus's assassins were hunting her across the Union. She needed to run. Run west, to the very Isle of Origin from her father's legends.

But how to convince men to sail into nothing? She used the same legend, but with a different spice.

First, she went to the Debtors' Pit of White-Stone Harbor. Her father had left her a purse with five hundred silver wolves. Three hundred of them she spent to buy out three men.

Turville, the old helmsman who had served her family. Seeing Flora, the gray-haired old man fell to his knees in the mud. "I failed your father, child. But I will not fail you. Lead, and I will follow you into the maw of a sea serpent."

Masefeg, a young giant of a blacksmith, imprisoned for brawling. Flora simply said, "I have more use for your fists than this city does." He nodded silently.

And Brenn. A former sergeant of the guard, a cynic and a sharp mind. "And where will you lead us, Captain? On a chase for fairy tales?" he sneered.

"For fairy tales that could make us rich," Flora replied.

***

With this bait, she came to "The Drowned Anchor" tavern. She threw her last purse onto the ale-sticky table. Two hundred wolves clattered dully on the wood. "I need men for a voyage to the Treasure Isles of the ancient Empire. Here's the advance. The rest is a share of the spoils."

She was met with laughter. A huge, bearded pirate known as Sonbillyb, or just Son, rose from his table. "Well, look at this little bird!" he roared. "Do you really think we'll fall for your tales?"

He strode toward her, his grimy hand reaching to grab her shoulder.

Flora's movement was a blur. Whisper left its sheath without a sound. The point of the blade pressed against the pirate's wrist, right where his pulse beat. The tavern fell silent.

"First," Flora's voice was ice. "You will call me 'Captain.' Second, your hands stay at your sides. Try to touch me, and you lose a hand. Third, you and five of your best fighters will come with me."

Son froze. He was a pirate. He valued nerve and strength. He grinned. "I… accept your offer, Captain."

***

…Flora blinked, returning from the depths of memory. A month. Just one month, and the fragile authority won with steel in a portside tavern was already cracking. The skepticism on the mercenaries' faces was turning into a low grumble. Son was baring his teeth more often, and his grin promised nothing good. Flora knew: she had only a few days left before this powder keg exploded into mutiny.

She had to find land. Any land. Or this ship, her only chance, would become her floating tomb.