Arc IIII- Chapter 5: Departure

The docks stank of brine, rope, oil, and incense.

Priests in radiant white walked among the crowds, blessing soldiers with the Light.

But Aren felt no warmth in their rites.

Only pressure a burning intensity that clung to the air long after they passed.

Children were made to kneel for these blessings.

Merchants bowed with forced smiles.

The once-free city now bore collars of golden authority.

Aren’s jaw tightened.

This wasn’t the radiant Light of charity and healing.

This was the Light of dominance.

Of fear.

Of control.

Cassian walked beside him toward the waiting ship.

“You see it, don’t you?”

Cassian murmured.

Aren didn’t answer at first.

He watched as a priest dragged a coughing fisherman aside and forced him to kneel for purification.

Then he spoke:

“I see rot wearing holiness as armor.”

Cassian nodded grimly.

At the dock’s end waited a mid-sized sailing vessel, white sails embroidered with the crest of House Valecrest a concession from King Terenholt Valecrest himself, though Aren suspected the old king wouldn’t have limped down here even if the city were burning.

Cassian clasped Aren’s arm.

“Sungrace will test you.

But remember: you are not just a soldier, or a prince.”

Aren blinked.

Cassian’s voice dropped lower.

“The elves call you Dawnbreaker for a reason.”

Aren swallowed unsettled by the weight of the name.

“I haven’t earned it.”

“Then earn it at Stormforge Crater,”

Cassian said.

“Win us the storm.”

Aren boarded the ship.

The sails lifted.

Lines were cut.

The vessel drifted into open water, Fairehaven glowing behind him like a lantern soaked in too much oil.

As the city shrank into the horizon, Aren whispered to himself:

“Stormforge… Sungrace…

Giants’ blood and radiant fire…”

His hand brushed the hilt of the Elven starlight blade Queen Miravelle herself had gifted him.

“Let the storm judge me.”

And the ship turned toward the horizon.

Toward Sungrace.

Toward the stormborn.

Toward the fate he could no longer run from.

The ship pitched gently over gray-green waves, the wind cutting cold across the deck. Storm clouds hung low on the horizon not dangerous, but heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Aren Valen stood at the bow, cloak whipping behind him, eyes fixed on the distant glimmer of Sungrace’s white cliffs. The city looked peaceful from afar a lie he’d grown used to.

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He heard the clank of plate armor approaching.

“Yer brooding again, Prince.”

Aren let out a short breath.

“I’m thinking, Brynja. There’s a difference.”

Princess Brynja Stoneforge stopped beside him, boots braced wide, her massive armored ram snorting behind her. The beast red horned wore plate nearly as thick as her own, engraved with broken runes of House Stoneforge.

Brynja wasn’t tall by human standards…

but for a dwarf, she stood like a mountain:

barrel-chested, strong-armed, scars like lightning across her granite-gray skin.

Her hair was a blazing mane of fire-red braids, threaded with bronze rings.

She tapped her hammer against her shoulder.

“Thinkin’, broodin’… same thing if ye do it too long.”

Aren almost smiled.

“Do you ever stay silent?”

“Do ye ever smile without lookin’ like ye hurt yerself?”

He snorted. A rare sound.

Brynja shrugged off her gauntlets and leaned against the railing beside him.

Her tattoos red dwarven runes spiraling down her arms and collarbone caught the morning light.

“You’re worried about Sungrace,” she said simply.

Aren nodded, jaw tight.

“It’s worse every time I see it. The Saints’ banners multiply like weeds. The clergy police the streets. Even the harbor captains bow to them now.”

Brynja blew out a sharp breath.

“Should’ve let me put my axe in one o’ their skulls before we left.”

Aren shot her a look.

“You can’t attack the Radiant Saints in the capital.”

She shrugged.

“Didn’t say I shouldn’t. Only that ye wouldn’t let me.”

He shook his head, but her bluntness eased something in him.

“Even diminished Lysander Brightlance lives if the rumors are true.. Last thing I need is dwarves losing their lives to one of them.” He answered her watching as the port to Sungrace came into view. The capitol was much more full than Fairehaven or even Brightharbor lots of white roofs, and of course the the amount of ships going to and coming from Sungrace was nigh immeasurable from how many ships Aren could put his eyes on.

“I’m worried about King Valecrest.”

The wind shifted.

A gull cried overhead.

Brynja’s voice lowered.

“Do ye know what the dwarves call ye, Prince Aren?”

Aren blinked.

“…What?”

She looked him dead in the eyes.

“Stone-Friend. The prince who didna turn his back on us.”

Aren swallowed hard.

“You lost your father. Your king. Your home. And yet you still—”

“Ay.”

Brynja’s voice broke, just a little.

Then she straightened, steel returning to her spine.

“That’s why I fight. Not for a throne, but for them that remain.”

She turned her gaze toward the waves.

“I’ll lead my people till a new king rises. And if they never do… I’ll be their queen whether I want the crown or not.”

Aren felt a sudden heat in his chest.

“You would make a good queen.”

Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of gray-red.

“Don’t flatter me, Prince. I’ll start thinkin’ ye fancy me.”

Aren coughed.

“I wasn’t… I mean…that’s not—”

Brynja laughed.

A bold, thunderous sound that startled Stormtrotter.

“Ye turn red like a berry, boy.”

The laughter faded into quiet warmth.

For a moment, Aren realized he wasn’t thinking of Harrowhall’s screams, or the Radiant banners.

He was thinking of this stubborn, fierce, fire-haired dwarf princess with the weight of a broken nation on her shoulders.

Brynja leaned on the railing and nudged him again.

“So. Stormforge Crater after Sungrace?”

Aren nodded.

“Yes. The Stormblooded clans won’t be easy to sway.”

“Good.” She grinned, baring teeth. “The easy ones never make good allies.”

Aren’s heart steadied.

“Brynja… thank you. For coming with me. For trusting me.”

She gave him a long, searching look.

“Aren Valen… ye stood beside my father when most men ran.”

She tapped a finger to his chest.

“Ye’ll have my axe till the end. That’s a dwarven oath.”

He bowed his head.

“And you have my word that I will help you reclaim Harrowhall.”

Her eyes softened.

“Aye… and maybe crush a few skulls along the way.”

He smiled a real one this time.

The ship cut through the waves toward Sungrace.

Toward danger.

Toward destiny.