The sound of effort rippled in the Solarys courtyard.

Seren’s arms shook as the wooden practice sword clattered in his hands. His father’s blade tapped it aside with ease, the weight driving Seren stumbling backward across the sand.

“Feet firm,” Alaric said, voice calm but unyielding. “Grip tight. Again.”

Seren grit his teeth, trying to steady himself. He lunged, small arms straining as he swung. Alaric met the strike gently, deflecting it as though swatting away a fly.

The boy growled, frustration pricking his eyes. His body was frail, not built for combat yet. He knew it. His father knew it. But he also knew something else: how to read the tilt of his father’s stance, the small smiles of the attendants watching, the pride and envy that lingered in the shadows.

“Again,” Alaric said.

Seren hesitated. Then, with a glance toward the attendants, he let his shoulders sag. He breathed heavily, painting the picture of exhaustion. One of the servants shifted forward instinctively, lips parting in sympathy.

Alaric’s hand snapped up. “Stay where you are.” His eyes cut toward Seren. “And you… drop the act.”

The servant froze, confusion clouding his face. He seemed to be moving of his own will, and yet he wasn’t.

Seren’s smirk faltered. He bowed his head.

Alaric knelt, lowering his voice so only Seren could hear. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Turning pity into a weapon. Making others move for you.”

Seren swallowed, cheeks hot. “I understand, Father.”

Alaric crouched so his eyes met Seren’s, his hand resting briefly on his son’s shoulder, steady but firm. “Listen well. Wit and cunning have their place. In Osvarra, you will need them more than steel. But if you use innocent people for your own selfish ease, if you twist their hearts for convenience… you’ll lose yourself before you’ve even begun.”

“The world will try to make you a monster. You must decide what kind of man you will be.”

The attendants whispered among themselves again, glancing at the boy who held both brilliance and danger in his small frame. Seren said nothing, but inside, a thought flickered like a spark in the dark: There’s no harm in nudging people… as long as it’s for something necessary.

Alaric stood, dusting off his blade. “That’s enough for today. Clean yourself up, Seren. Tonight we dine with the Captains, all twenty. You’ll be shown before them, not as my son only, but as Osvarra’s Hero. Keep your tongue steady, or use it wisely. Either way, they’ll be measuring you.”

“But you are my son before you are their Hero. And I will see you ready for both.”

Seren, though unsure, accompanied Alaric to the event.

The Hall of Tides was carved from black stone hauled up from the sea. Its ceiling curved high overhead like the hull of a ship turned upside down, beams glistening with tar. Along the walls hung banners of the Twenty Captains.

At the head sat Emperor Aric Veyros III, broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, his crown a simple iron ring circled with pearls. He did not wear silk but black captain’s leathers, a reminder that the throne of Osvarra was won on decks and blood, not courts and parchments.

Before him stretched two long tables. One for the captains and their kin, the other for retainers and lesser nobility, a sea of silks and steel where ambition shone brighter than the gold cups in their hands.

Alaric Veyros entered with his son at his side. Seren’s hand was small in his father’s, but his eyes darted everywhere: the banners, the blades at men’s belts, the faces that turned and measured him.

Some looked on with curiosity. Some with envy. Some, like Captain Jorven of the Black Knives, a scar running from brow to cheek, with open contempt.

Lady Rena of the Pearl Fleet caught Seren’s eye and winked, her smile warm as the morning tide. The boy stood a little taller.

Daemon Veyron, the Emperor’s sixth son, twice Seren’s age, was already there, lounging near the Emperor’s right hand as if the place were made for him. He lifted a hand lazily when he saw Seren, forcing a smile onto his clearly bored face.

The Emperor then raised his goblet. “Captains of Osvarra. Brothers and sisters of tide and steel. Tonight we will meet to bind ourselves tighter than any chains or waves.” His voice carried like a storm. “Azerath whispers they have birthed a Hero. Let them whisper. We have our own.”

His hand gestured toward Seren. The boy flushed as all eyes fixed on him.

“Osvarra’s strength is not in crowns or prayers,” Aric went on. “It is in blood. My blood. Your blood. The blood of the sea. Tonight you drink not to me, but to Osvarra herself.”

The hall thundered with fists on wood and goblets on stone.

Then the feast began, platters of roasted fish, salted lamb, and fruits from distant coasts. Wine flowed like water, loosening tongues, sharpening glances.

Seren sat beside his father, doing his best not to fidget. Around him, captains bickered over routes, raids, and coin. All the while, Seren felt eyes on him. Measuring. Weighing. Waiting.

His father’s calm defiance shielded the boy from being turned into a weapon in the presence of this scrutiny and political pressure.

The feast grew louder as wine flowed. Seren pushed food around his plate, listening as captains argued over raids, tariffs, and rivalries.

Lady Rena of the Pearl Fleet laughed brightly, her hands glittering with rings of pearl and jade. “Trade brings coin, and coin brings power. A fleet with full coffers fears no storm.”

Captain Jorven of the Black Knives sneered, scar twisting as he spoke. “Coins don't kill pirates. Blades do. And blades grow dull when the wielder grows soft.”

Alaric Veyros, Seren’s father, countered calmly. “Blades cut best when wielded with patience. Even a dagger can slit a throat while the sword is still being raised.”

A chorus of jeers and toasts followed.

Other captains chimed in.

Captain Velric of the Iron Chain, bald and broad as an ox, thumped his chest. “Talk of coins and patience — bah! I chained three warships this season, and still my men are hungry. We are captains, not merchants.”

Lady Maris of the Black Widow, her face behind a veil, thin and pale as glass, spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “And yet the coin buys silence, Velric. Even in Azerath.”

Dagan the Red Harpoon, half his beard scorched away, roared from the far table: “I say we bleed the seas until Azerath drowns! Hero or not, no Dominion dog can outfight Osvarra!”

The hall erupted with laughter and slamming cups.

That was when Daemon Veyron rose. He leaned lazily on the table, appearing bored. His smile was easy, his tone careless, but every noble hushed when he spoke.

“Cousin Seren,” Daemon said, drawing every eye to the boy. “Osvarra’s Hero. Tell me… what does a Hero do when a man twice his size spits in his face?”

The hall stilled.

Seren froze. His fork clattered to his plate. He felt every gaze on him, his father’s steady, Rena’s kind, Jorven’s venomous. The boy swallowed hard, then remembered how his father managed conversations in tough situations, learning from it, gathering courage from it.

He forced a smile, though his voice trembled. “Spitting on someone is foolish,” he said, each word slow. “Like throwing a stone into the sea to poison it. The sea doesn’t notice the stone.”

He paused, letting silence stretch. Then his eyes flicked toward Daemon, sharp as a knife. “…But when the sea floods, it swallows everything. Even the fool who thought he was safe.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then laughter broke out, loud, sharp, edged with surprise. Some captains clapped the tables. Others muttered darkly.

Lady Rena beamed. “Well spoken, child. The sea remembers what men forget.”

Captain Jorven’s lip curled. “A sea can drown as easily as a boy,” he spat. “Floods wash away houses, families, and fleets alike.”

The hall roared, some with cheers, some with outrage.

For a heartbeat Daemon’s smile wavered, and then, for the first time, it became genuine. His eyes lit with a spark, sharp and curious.

The tension finally broke when Emperor Aric raised his goblet again. “Enough! Tonight is not for bickering, but for Osvarra’s strength. Let Azerath whisper, let Lurienne pray, the sea belongs to us!”

The captains roared their assent.

But when the hall settled, Alaric leaned close to Seren, his voice a low growl. “You showed them teeth. That’s good. But remember, sharks circle faster when they smell blood. Be clever, Seren. But never reckless.”

Seren’s cheeks burned, half in shame, half in pride. Around him, the captains whispered, and Daemon’s gaze lingered on him like a long shadow.

As the feast waned and the captains’ talk turned sharper, retainers began ushering the younger heirs from the hall. Children were not meant to sit through the true council, not when voices grew raw with wine and politics.

Seren followed reluctantly, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the long tables where the captains remained. His father’s face was already hardening, jaw tight as the first storm of arguments began to brew.

The hall stank of salt and sweat, even beneath the perfumed smoke curling from silver braziers. The Captains of Osvarra sat in their high-backed chairs, each banner snapping faintly above them—pearls, chains, daggers, harpoons, sails, and so on. The long tables groaned with meat and wine, but few ate. Their voices, not their knives, were the sharper weapons tonight.

“News from Azerath,” grunted Captain Velric of the Iron Chain, his arms thick as anchor rope. “They parade their Hero already. Word is, he’s just a child, but chained and guarded tighter than the Emperor’s vault. If the Dominion hides him, they must fear him.”

“Fear, or worship,” countered Lady Maris of the Black Widow, her pale face unreadable behind her thin silken veil. “The Hierophants whisper that this child may be a sign of the gods’ hand. Do we dare ignore such omens?”

Jorven of the Black Knives leaned forward, scar twisting as he sneered. “Omens. Aye, there’s an omen worth heeding. The Oracle spoke of it generations ago: that Hero comes not as a gift, but as a storm. He will save or he will ruin, and no man can say which. Perhaps that storm is already brewing in Azerath. Or perhaps” his dark eyes flicked toward Alaric “it festers in our own house.”

Murmurs rippled through the chamber like a sudden gust. Some captains crossed themselves against the sea-sign, others spat on the floor.

Alaric’s chair scraped as he rose, hands clenched on the table’s edge. “You speak of storms and ruin when my son has barely left his childhood bed. He is six. Six! And you would brand him a weapon, or worse, a curse?”

Dagan of the Red Harpoon slammed his goblet down, sloshing wine across the boards. “Better to brand him early than bleed for it later! A storm unchained drowns us all. I’d sooner break the boy now than let him break Osvarra in years to come.”

“You’d break a child on whispers?” Alaric’s voice was low, dangerous.

“I’d break ten children,” Dagan spat, “to keep the sea ours!”

A roar of approval from some captains. Others shook their heads, muttering.

Lady Rena rose, her pearl rings flashing in the firelight. “Shame on you, Dagan. The boy is no curse. He is a banner! Azerath flaunts their Hero like a crown jewel, and we would hide ours in shadows? Let Seren Veyros stand, let the world see him, and let it tremble.”

Jorven scoffed. “A banner is torn easily. A jewel can be stolen. You speak of pride, Rena, but pride sinks ships faster than cannon.” His eyes narrowed. “And when the storm breaks, who among us dares stand close to it?”

Voices rose again, some shouting for caution, others for war, still others for patience. The hall was a storm itself now: fists pounding wood, curses flying, the Emperor silent at its eye.

Aric Veyros III finally raised a hand. The room stilled.

“Enough,” he rumbled. His beard gleamed with oil, his eyes sharp as whetted steel. “The Hero is ours. Whether storm or savior, he bears Osvarran blood. And Osvarra will decide how he is forged. Azerath may chain theirs. Lurienne may sing hymns and call us cursed. But we…” He stood, slamming his fist against his chest. “We will teach ours to sail the storm. Or drown in it.”

The captains thundered their approval, some with fists, some with reluctant murmurs.

Alaric sat slowly, jaw tight, his knuckles white. His heart roared like the sea in his chest, but he said no more.

Outside, laughter and chatter replaced the roar of captains. The palace gardens were alive with torchlight, voices echoing off stone balustrades and the crash of distant waves. After the council, the children of the gathered captains were shooed out into the moon-washed courtyards, their laughter sharp, their whispers sharper still.

Seren walked ahead utterly unbothered by the looks people gave the prince Daemon, who followed beside him, easy in his gait, hands tucked behind his back as if the world itself should step aside for him.

He wasn’t impressed, and that amused Daemon more than it should have.

“Look at this,” came a drawl from a boy twice Seren’s age, lounging against a marble dolphin fountain. His silk sash was tied in the colors of House Karros, one of the stronger families allied to Daemon’s elder brother. “The child Hero himself. Smaller than I thought, like a rat. Perhaps the gods miswrote your card, cousin.”

A ripple of chuckles followed, sharp as knives.

Seren tilted his head, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Better small than loud. Noise makes no man taller.”

The boys stiffened. One snorted, but the laughter didn’t return.

Daemon’s lips curved in the faintest grin. He stepped forward, his voice mild, almost bored. “Strange words, Karros. Especially from a boy whose Drawing gave him the card of Rooster. Suits you, I suppose—all crow, no claw.”

This time the laughter turned, snapping against the Karros boy like a whip. His face reddened, his hands balled.

“Careful, cousin,” he hissed at Seren. “Standing beside Daemon doesn’t make you safe. Or clever.”

“Neither does hiding behind a name,” Seren shot back. His pulse was quick, but his words came clear.

Daemon chuckled low, shaking his head as though at a private joke. “Enough. If you mean to spit, Karros, at least choose a target worth staining. My cousin here has sharper teeth than you think.”

The Karros boy muttered something under his breath and slunk away with his friends, leaving the fountain empty but for their sour looks.

Silence lingered for a beat. Then Daemon glanced at Seren, his smile easy, genuine for once. “You bite well for a boy six summers old. Most would have swallowed their tongue.”

Seren smirked back, though a little shyly. “And you crow well for someone with no wings.”

Daemon laughed then, full and bright, the kind of laugh that startled those who knew him. A few children nearby turned, whispering at the sound.

For a moment, it was just the two of them, two boys flicking words like blades, both too young and too sharp for their own good.