“Land ho!” a sailor shouted from above.

The call tore through the lower decks long before Quintra even thought about rising. It was not shouted only once, either. It spread, repeated along the length of the ship with the kind of excitement that made sleep suddenly impossible. Somewhere above them, boots thundered, a hatch banged and the Kestrel’s timbers answered with their familiar creak as the crew came alive.

Suraia blinked in the darkness, her breath catching. For a heartbeat she did not know where she was, only that she was warm and held.

Thorn’s arm was still loosely wrapped around her waist beneath his black cloak, solid as the hull itself. He was already awake. Not startled like the crew, but alert in that quiet way he always was, as though he had only been resting rather than truly sleeping.

The human woman tried to sit up too quickly. The world tilted. The darkness of the hold swayed, and her stomach dipped as though the ship had rolled harder than it had. Thorn’s hand closed gently around her forearm before she could topple, steady and sure, keeping her upright until the dizziness passed.

“Slowly,” the Ee’dornil murmured near her ear.

Suraia swallowed and forced herself to breathe. “Sorry,” she whispered, more from habit than necessity.

The large elf did not answer the apology. He merely eased his hold once she was steady, then shifted, ready to rise at once.

Vasha had lit the lantern and was already moving through the dimness, a pale blur of hair and tail as she gathered her belongings. Her hunter’s knife returned to her hip, and she slung her bow and quiver over her shoulder. She quickly made a loose braid in her hair. After tightening her bracers one final time, she gave a satisfied nod. Her fox ears angled towards the ladder, and she grinned at them as though the call from above had announced a festival.

“Come on,” the Oakhai whispered. “I want to see it.”

Thorn rose smoothly and hooked his black cloak over his shoulders before reaching for his fur pelt. He drew the pelt over himself as well and pulled up the hood, shadowing his features. It did not make him smaller. Nothing could. But it softened his sharpness and muted the glow of his eyes in the dim hold. He gathered his pack and, without ceremony, tucked Suraia’s new cauldron and sack of vials inside.

The curly redhead hurriedly gathered her own bag and swung it over her shoulder. She put on her grey cloak last, then unhooked the borrowed lantern and looked around to ensure they had packed what few belongings they possessed.

“Stay close,” Thorn told her as they began to climb.

“Yes,” Suraia breathed.

She returned the lantern to its hook, pinched out the flame and followed the Ee’dornil up.

The deck struck them like a new world: cold air, salt, wind and a scattering of stars fading into grey. Then Suraia saw the lights.

They were not close yet, but they were unmistakable. A town’s lanterns clustered along the coastline, shimmering as though they floated directly upon the water. The Kestrel cut through the calm swells, and every rise of the bow made the lights disappear and return like a promise being teased.

The healer stepped towards the railing and gripped it with both hands. Beneath them, the sea was dark glass. Beyond the port’s glow, mountains rose along the shore like a wall of shadows, immense even in the dimness before dawn.

The blue moon Denday was about to disappear behind the mountains of Tanea, opposite the horizon where Quintra would soon rise. There had been no sign of the red moon throughout their journey, much to the relief of many aboard the Kestrel.

“That’s Calithor,” a sailor nearby said, his voice rough with sleep. “The port town of Tanea.”

The name passed through the crew with a different feeling than Meriquy had. Not relief, exactly. Something closer to respect.

As the ship drew nearer, the port’s shape became clear. The coastline offered little space; the mountains pressed close to the sea as though the land refused to surrender even a handspan. The town had adapted by building outwards. Piers and platforms stretched over the water, and parts of the city clung to the sea itself.

Lanterns hung from timber balconies and pale stone arches. Walkways connected docks to buildings constructed half upon land and half above the waves. Everything looked deliberate and old enough to have learnt the sea’s moods.

The crew shifted into practised frenzy. Lines were hauled, ropes coiled and orders snapped from mouth to mouth. This was not a graceful arrival. It was careful, rapid work, because cargo waited in the hold and port fees waited on the dock.

The captain crossed the deck with her dark hair bound tightly and her weather-lined face set in the focused expression Suraia had come to recognise.

“Make ready!” the captain called. “We unload quickly. We don’t linger!”

Quintra began to rise: first a thin line of pale gold along the horizon, then a slow brightening, as though the world inhaled after a long night. The sea softened from black to deep steel before catching the newborn light and scattering it into glitter.

The Kestrel glided into the harbour.

“Lines!” the captain barked.

Ropes flew and waiting hands caught them. The ship nudged into place with a final creak of wood and strain of rope, and the world shifted from moving water to stillness. From travel to arrival.

Suraia held her breath without meaning to. Thorn touched her elbow in a quiet cue.

“It is all right,” the large elf assured her.

The ramp thudded down. Dockhands called to the sailors, who moved with renewed speed to begin unloading. Crates would be counted. Barrels would be rolled. Coin would change hands.

The three travellers waited just long enough not to be in the way.

Tiny Tim appeared on deck with the energy of a man who refused to be sentimental. The halfling pushed through the bustle until he reached Suraia, a satchel already in hand.

“Here,” he said, pressing it against her chest with enough force to make her take a step backwards. “Vegetables. Cheese. Bread. You’ll live.”

Suraia blinked at the weight. “Tim—” she began.

“Chef Tim,” the halfling corrected automatically, glaring as though daring her to argue. “You helped. You didn’t complain. And you didn’t die in my galley. That earns you food.”

The human woman’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she said with a quick nod.

Tim waved away her gratitude as though it were smoke. “Aye. Now go, before the captain decides I’m being nice and throws me off the ship.”

The captain paused long enough to give them a curt nod, her eyes already tracking the work behind them.

“You kept your end,” she told them. Her voice was not warm, but it was fair. “Don’t cause trouble in my port.”

Erica stood nearby, observing the movement with the same calm readiness she showed around her doctor’s chest. “Eat properly,” the ship’s doctor instructed Suraia. “And keep your hands clean.”

“I will,” the red-haired woman promised. “Thank you… for everything.”

Erica’s mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. “Try not to make me regret it.”

Vasha saluted the crew with a grin and a swing of her blue-tipped tail. Thorn gave a small, respectful dip of his head that said more than words.

Then they stepped onto the dock, and the Kestrel was behind them.

Calithor smelled different from the Three Point Trading Post. There was salt and tar, but also fresh-cut wood, fish, spices and something crisp and green carried down from the mountain slopes. The port was awake in the way such towns always were: early, loud and layered with motion. Dockworkers shouted, merchants set out their wares and sailors argued about rope and coin. Somewhere above them, upon one of the wooden walkways, a child laughed too sharply to be entirely innocent.

Suraia slowed as the crowd pressed around them. Voices collided from every direction. A shoulder struck hers, and someone brushed too close behind her. Her fingers tightened around Tim’s satchel until her knuckles paled. Each attempt to shift aside was swallowed by another body, another hurried step. Her breath caught high in her chest. She searched for open space and found none.

Thorn noticed before she could force herself another step. Without a word, he moved between the curly redhead and the heaviest press of the crowd, using his size to open a path. He did not reach for her or close her in. He merely gave her room to breathe, near enough that the jostling bodies broke around him first.

Vasha fell into step on Suraia’s other side, her presence light but watchful. Her ears flicked at every shout and laugh, and at every gaze that lingered too long upon white fur and a blue-tipped tail. If the Oakhai noticed those stares, she only lifted her chin a little higher.

Thorn kept his hood raised. It did not hide him completely, but it turned certainty into doubt, and most people decided not to look too closely. Even in an elven port, however, the Ee’dornil towered over the crowd. Wherever he moved, space swiftly appeared.

They spent the rest of the morning crossing Calithor. At first, the streets wound between warehouses, fish markets and buildings raised above the water. As they climbed, timber gave way to pale stone and the smell of salt weakened beneath spices, baking bread and the crisp green air descending from the mountains. Merchants who had still been arranging their stalls when the Kestrel arrived were calling to steady streams of customers by the time the trio reached the higher terraces.

They ate some of Tim’s bread as they walked, pausing only when the press of people or a laden cart blocked the narrow streets. Quintra climbed steadily above the rooftops. Calithor did not end so much as tighten around the rising road, its buildings pressed into the seam between sea and mountain until every street bent towards the same place.

Near midday, Lyonne d’ura appeared where the road met the mountainside.

The fort itself was not vast. Its pale walls guarded a dark opening cut into the mountain, fitted so closely against the cliffs that the structure appeared less built than uncovered. Lanterns burned beneath its arches, and guards moved along the walls. Beyond the open gate, the passage continued into darkness. The safer road through the mountain had been dug directly through the stone rather than left exposed upon the steep pass.

Thorn stopped for only a breath, but the human woman noticed because he so rarely wasted movement. Vasha noticed as well, her ears angling forwards.

“What’s that?” the fox-eared woman asked.

“Lyonne d’ura,” Thorn answered.

“You’ve been here before?” Vasha asked.

His gaze travelled along the old stone, past newer banners and fresh ironwork, to carvings worn soft by time. “A long time ago,” the Ee’dornil said.

The words were plain. The silence after them was not.

Suraia looked up at the gate again. It suddenly seemed older than the city around it, older than the road beneath their feet. Older, perhaps, than the Thorn who had last passed beneath it.

Other travellers pressed forwards behind them, breaking the moment.

“Stay close,” the large elf instructed.

Suraia nodded, and together they approached the gate beneath Quintra’s midday warmth. Elven guards stood watch in disciplined stillness, like extensions of the stone itself. One looked them over, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on Thorn’s height despite the hood.

“Travellers?” the guard asked.

“Passing through Le Lyonne,” Thorn replied respectfully. He pulled his hood back far enough to reveal his elven features.

The guard’s attention sharpened. “Destination?”

“Lyonne Forest,” the Ee’dornil answered.

Vasha looked up at the pale stone rising around them. “It’s impressive,” she said.

One of the guards, younger than the first and clearly pleased by the praise, glanced towards the arch. “Oldest elven structure on the island, they say.”

Thorn’s light-green eyes moved towards the softened carvings near the inner wall. “Age of Light work,” he explained.

The younger guard studied him more closely. “Most travellers don’t know that.”

“Most travellers are young,” Thorn answered.

The guard did not appear to know what to do with that.

Suraia glanced at the large elf from beneath her curls. His expression had barely changed, but something within him had gone distant.

The older guard stepped aside. “The pass is watched. Keep to the road until the trees take it. After that, mind yourselves. Lyonne Forest is old.”

“I know,” Thorn said.

They passed beneath the arch. The air cooled at once, and the sounds of Calithor dulled behind them. The fort was only the entrance. Lyonne d’ura continued onwards as a long tunnel through the mountain, its road vanishing beyond the reach of daylight.

Suraia stayed close to Thorn, one hand gripping the strap of her bag while the other held Tim’s satchel against her side. Torches burned at intervals along the walls, their light travelling over ancient carvings, newer repairs and the marks left by countless travellers. Every footstep returned in echoes.

For nearly an hour, the passage carried them beneath the mountain. The entrance and its guards disappeared behind the bends, leaving only the measured rhythm of their steps and the occasional traveller passing in the other direction. Thorn walked without hesitation. Sometimes his glowing eyes lingered upon the softened carvings, and something within his expression went distant, as though part of him walked through another age beneath another sky.

At last, the air ahead grew warmer. Torchlight thinned beneath a distant wash of green, and the echoes began to lose themselves beneath birdsong.

They emerged from the far side of Lyonne d’ura in the early afternoon, and Lyonne Forest opened before them.