I craned my neck toward the sky.
The sun had already passed its peak and was drifting westward, its warmth dimming behind a thick veil of clouds.
The cold deepened, brushing my cheeks like icy fingers.
“I guess we have no choice but to skip the job today,”
I said after judging the time.
Thomas nodded in agreement.
Evening would be upon us before we could make the journey to the orphanage and return, especially with Yarissa’s warning pressing on our minds like a stone.
We couldn’t just postpone the guild mistress’ matter for a bit of daily labour—not today.
We traded a weary glance and sighed in the same breath.
“Let’s hope our absence won’t be disastrous,”
Thomas said, trying to salvage a shred of optimism.
“I don’t think so. With Leviafest coming, travellers are flooding Delmar. The docks will only get busier,”
His face crumpled as I crushed his hope without mercy.
“We must tell Ol’ Lucia about it, or Big O’ Scar will sacrifice us to Lord Levia…”
Thomas shuddered dramatically.
Big O’ Scar—Captain Weatherboot—the docks’ fearsome figurehead.
The only man to survive The Breath of Levia, storms that tore masts like twigs and dragged seasoned sailors screaming into the deep.
His real name had long been washed away by salt and blood, replaced by the crooked scar carving down his face.
Every child at the docks learned one truth early: when Weatherboot roared, even the gulls shut their beaks.
We’d done all kinds of work under his shadow: sorting the day’s catch, gutting fish, salting, drying, smoking; mending boats and nets during the storm seasons; sharpening blades and mending frayed ropes.
But these docks were more than just a place of work; they were the proving grounds where we would eventually face the gruelling trials of our Coming-of-Age.
With Delmar’s booming trade, ships from far and wide docked daily, always needing an extra pair of hands—even if those hands belonged to children not yet of age.
Skipping work meant risking our reputation. The docks remembered every absence, and Weatherboot’s roar carried farther than the sea.
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We walked as we talked, making the most of the time.
The streets teemed with travellers streaming in from nearby towns and villages, their voices and footsteps blending into a constant hum.
A savoury wave of roasted meat and spice brushed past us.
Thomas inhaled deeply, and I realised we hadn’t eaten since morning, lost in the chaos of errands and troubles.
I let out a sigh for the umpteenth time today.
“Our lunch slipped away with the sun,”
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I said with a wry smile, one hand on my growling stomach.
“Still, we can have the hopper’s meat for dinner tonight, right?”
Thomas frowned upon my words, then rallied his optimism.
“That depends on Ol’ Lucia. She might save it for winter jerky,”
I answered him frankly.
“Allen, stop crushing my dreams!”
He grunted. But we both knew Ol’ Lucia would never waste such a haul on one meal.
Thomas lingered by a meat skewer stall, eyes glued, neck twisting backward like a moon whisperer.
I grabbed his collar and dragged him away from the tempting devil, before he made a scene again.
Shops spilled onto the cobblestones, their wares—brightly dyed fabrics, polished trinkets, and colourful pottery—fighting for attention under fluttering cloth banners that swayed in the afternoon breeze.
Some banners bore the simplified Leviathan vigil, no doubt from the shrine.
Merchants sold stone amulets etched with runes and wooden pendants of the great serpent.
Travellers flocked to them eagerly.
I was glad the shrine could earn something.
If it did well, the soup kitchens stayed open… and we stayed fed.
A quiet relief washed over me.
“Those are just mementos. No real magic in those stone and wood.”
Thomas shrugged and tilted his head, clearly puzzled.
Ol’ Lucia once showed us her mother’s runestone—timeworn, its carved symbols faint but still legible.
She whispered a rune, and a shimmering orb of light blossomed before us.
Our first sight of real magic. We were speechless.
True rune knowledge belonged to the shrines—towering libraries of scrolls and volumes.
So many kinds of runes, each with different effects.
They strengthened people, tools, wards… even the great barriers that protected towns from beasts.
I tightened my satchel instinctively, suddenly aware of the crowds pressing in from all sides.
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“Mayor Markswell worked hard this year. Even merchants from the royal city came—we saw them earlier at the guild. I bet the festival will be the grandest Delmar’s ever seen,”
Thomas said, eyes bright with excitement.
Grand or modest, it mattered little to us.
The festival meant more jobs, better pay, extra coins for winter—a rare chance we couldn’t ignore.
But beneath that excitement lurked a thorn: the troubled woodlands.
What a chaotic winter. Cold air filled my lungs, sharp and biting, but my heart raced with unease.
We slipped through the crowd like minnows darting past lumbering carp, sidestepping travellers and festival?goers alike.
Still, every step demanded care to avoid a jostle or collision.
A shadow swept over us.
I flinched, and Thomas let out a startled yelp as something swooped through the air.
A red cloth banner caught the mischievous gale, performing an elegant dance as it soared over the rooftops before vanishing into the sky.
The air filled with indignant shouts and clamour, as the gale snatched fabric from merchants, scarves from ladies, and hats from men.
A sea of hands grasped at the air, but none retrieved their goods.
Thomas and I rushed to the sides to shelter from the whimsical gale.
The picture of an orderly street dissolved into chaos—legs running, arms stretching, all efforts wasted against the wind.
“What a scene, eh? Levia’s Caprice, that is.”
A rough chuckle escaped an old merchant’s chest as he held the stem of his pipe.
He shoved the pipe back between his teeth and took a sharp, deep pull.
A lungful of white smoke smelling of bitter burnt herbs—too pungent for us children to bear.
We both wrinkled our nose as the smoke drifted by.
Thomas, ever distractible, had already shifted his attention to the merchant’s wares.
Dozens of painted masks hung on ropes—animals, monsters, spirits, and brightly coloured festival designs.
“Oh, this one’s so intimidating, I feel I could even hear its roar!”
He snatched the mask, fingers dancing over the surface, awe-struck at the artistry.
It was a drift-reaver, a small but ferocious bear.
Unlike others, it hid beneath leaves or snow drifts, and pounced on any living things passed by—earning its gruesome name.
The old merchant grinned wide, revealing yellowed, smoke-stained teeth.
Then he inhaled deeply and burst into song without warning:
[Where dost thou wander,
Little Peter?
Chasin’ the moss-hoppers,
To the leaves autumn gathers,
And there He awaits under,
The big black Drift-Reaver.]
His voice rose until it was a booming, gravelly roar that drew a nearby crowd.
Curious passersby gathered, listening.
“Oh, how simply marvellous,”
I muttered under my breath, and clasped my hands in half sarcasm, half annoyance.
My dear friend Thomas, eyes brimming, enthusiastically bellowed the lyrics alongside the old merchant, their combined shout-singing of young and old voices—echoed down the entire street.
Bitter white smoke drifted along, tickling their noses.
Wonderful. Truly wonderful.
Mister Thomas, we’ll settle this later, I swear on your dinner…
While I stood speechless, they were entranced in singing, one song after another.
Seriously, Thomas, sea songs too?
Did you pick them up from those seafarers at the docks?
How much more nonessential knowledge had you learned?
I tuned out completely, gazing at the blue sky while the biting wind stroked my face.
I wonder how Fiorella and the others were doing in the orphanage now?
I bet Xanthia did her best in the shrine…
Ah, time slipped away as Thomas sang with that old geezer.