Captain Quinton Church stood at the helm of the Silver Wing, the rising sun casting a golden hue over the restless sea. The ship was well-stocked and prepared for the journey ahead, but the mood aboard was anything but light. The crew was growing increasingly frustrated about the upcoming stop at the Guild’s restock station—a stop they felt was unnecessary.

In the ship’s cabin, Quinton met with First Mate Garrick and Quartermaster Bart around the large map spread out on the table. The air was thick with tension.

“This stop at the Guild’s restock station is mandatory,” Quinton said, his voice calm but resolute. “The outpost is running low on supplies, and we’ve been tasked with delivering what they need. We aren't giving the guild more supplies, but the next ship that stops in need of them. If it were us we wouldn't take kindly to an apology instead of supplies.”

Garrick, normally composed, let out a frustrated sigh. “Captain, the crew’s not happy about this. We’re, ready to push on, and now we have to waste time resupplying an outpost because the guild made a clerical error? The Guild’s always throwing these burdens on us.”

Bart nodded, his expression grim. “The men are grumbling, Captain. They see it as the Guild’s way of keeping us tied down, making us do their work while we lose time and money. We make this detour and it could eat into the supplies we have waiting for us at the next port.”

Quinton understood their frustration. The Guild’s demands often felt like unnecessary hurdles, and the crew had every right to be annoyed. But the consequences of ignoring the Guild’s orders were steep, and they all knew it.

“I hear you both,” Quinton said, his gaze steady. “But if we don’t make this stop, the Guild will fine us, and worse. We’ll be stuck in port for longer than this stop will take. We’re not doing this because we want to—we’re doing it because we have to.”

Garrick and Bart exchanged glances, then nodded in reluctant agreement. The decision was made, and though the crew might not like it, they would follow through. Quinton knew they were professionals, even if they were disgruntled.

As the Silver Wing adjusted its course toward the outpost, the captain stood firm at the helm, knowing that this detour, frustrating as it was, was the only way to ensure the crew’s long-term success.

"Please let the crew and passengers know we will be required to make anchor. For the passengers we can allow two boats to make a trip to land and let them stretch their legs if they wish." Quinton gave this order to his First Mate who nodded and headed out to the main deck and relay the orders.

Ensconced in the lightness that comes from unfettered travel, Ayla awoke to easy breathing and a feeling of airy exuberance. Though she was not waking as early as she did on the first dawn, she still arose before many of the other passengers were stirring from their respite. To the deck she went, to watch the sun and sea christen her morning in gold and cerulean kisses.

Observing what would become a ritual of the travel days, Ayla nibbled her portion of breakfast ration and began to formulate plans to eventual problems she supposed would catch up with her. She knew she had approximately three days before she would be found missing. She hoped there would be another day or two of local searching before the Blackthornes began petitioning vessels for their manifests. If she were incredibly lucky, there would be another day or two before they realized she used a false name.

Without an understanding of nautical travel, she made a poor attempt to estimate the distance they would have traveled in three days, five days, seven days of sailing. She found she was completely inept at such maths and supposed she would have to find a way to garner more accurate details from among the crew. Perhaps Sabrina would be able to help her understand. She set her plan for the day to culminate in another tête-à-tête with the ship’s cook over post-dinner dish chores; the elf found that experience most rewarding and grounding. The quiet company of another woman was calming and the process of contributing to the ship’s hidden processes made Ayla feel useful in a way she had not experienced before.

After some meditations, Ayla returned below deck to bind her hair up off her neck entirely. It took some time, but she created a nest of brains done up in buns and bunches at the crown of her head. Careful to keep her ears still concealed within the tendrils, she secured the final look with her thin scarf again, knotted at the nape of her neck and the ends trailing down her back.

On the main deck, the runaway found herself amid the grouping of passengers receiving notice of an upcoming port-stop. Surrounded by giddy whispers and excitement at the prospect of feeling secure ground again for a time, Ayla felt herself drowning. Her chest tightened and the breath that had come so easily a few hours ago threatened to choke her like smoke.

As the crowd dispersed, eagerly discussing what they would do with their brief shore leave, Ayla nearly staggered as her vision blurred from the weight of her concerns swarming her mind. She retreated within herself and sought shelter beneath a railing. She knew there were steps to take to prepare for this snag in her plans, but she could not yet bring herself to bear the burden of it all.

Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. A fitful meditation attempt followed, proving to be more difficult than ever a commune with herself had been before.

Captain Quinton Church sat at the small, worn desk in his quarters, the rhythmic creaking of The Silver Wing providing a familiar soundtrack to his thoughts. The cabin was dimly lit by fact that the sun had not yet been able to pierce through the windows as it rose on the other side of the ship, its flickering light casting shadows on the weathered maps and charts that adorned the walls. Quinton’s hand, calloused from years of steering ships through treacherous waters, held the quill with a firm but steady grip. The inkpot beside him was nearly empty, a testament to the many letters he had penned to the guild over the years.

As he began to write, his posture was upright, shoulders squared, embodying the disciplined and steadfast nature that had earned him respect among his crew and the guild alike. His words were precise, each stroke of the quill purposeful, reflecting the captain’s nature. He detailed the crew's latest endeavors, the successful delivery of goods was on schedule, and so far the passengers were admirable in their calm manners. He mentioned the upcoming restock at the guild's outpost, ensuring that all necessary supplies would be accounted for upon their arrival.

Quinton paused for a moment, his steely gaze lingering on the parchment. He was a man of few words when it came to his communication with the Guild, preferring his simple actions over lengthy discourse, but when he wrote to the guild, he chose his words carefully. He knew the weight his reports carried, not just for the crew but for the reputation of The Silver Wing. Satisfied with the content, he signed his name with a flourish, the ink drying quickly in the salty sea air.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, and reread the letter one last time. It was a reflection of the man himself—direct, unembellished, and resolute. Folding the parchment neatly, he sealed it with the ship's crest, a silver wing against a deep blue background.

Quinton set the letter aside, ready for dispatch at their next port. With a final glance at the desk, he stood and moved toward the cabin door, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand, the responsibilities of a captain never far from his thoughts. One thing in particular was eating at him and it was the woman named Brooks whom he had met the night before they left. Since her joining the voyage he had been unable to spend much time with her. In normal situations this would be fine; however, with her medical skills he wanted to make a good impression on her.

Instead of being able to simply make her stay more comfortable he was finding it difficult to approach her. A part of this had to do with his way of reading people. He was not oblivious and could tell that she was stressed more often than not. Or at least worried. He figured at first this might have been her first voyage on a ship, but even that didn't seem to be the whole picture. Earlier he had brought this up with his leadership and only his Quartermaster seemed to carry any meaning ful advice. 'Perhaps Captain should offer to escort her on our resupply trip? She may just want her feet on land?' he had mentioned though even he was acting with something close to his chest.

It did help the Captain make up his mind though. He decided to act on this advice and set out from his cabin with the letter being tucked into his inside jacket. Once out on the main deck he scanned the ship and saw that she was standing near Sabrina who had seemed to made friends with the woman. Walking up to her and made sure to do so from the side she was facing so he would see her approaching. This made him take a slightly awkward route, but soon enough he was standing in front her her with Sabrina as an audience member. "Lady Brooks I was hoping you could accompany me when we make anchor when we resupply a guild lighthouse."

He then in a somewhat uncharacteristic manner seemed embarrassed. It had taken him a moment to realize what this might have looked like to people and quickly realized the wrong rumors could start if he didn't do something to contextualize it. "Of course I am hoping to escort you to some of the nearby fields to find some herbs. We have a book, but I think gathering some examples could be helpful in the future." He then smiled as if he was a child who had just solved a problem everyone already knew the solution too. A bit of rose was still clear on his cheeks as he waited for an answer.

After discovering the ship would be making land for official business, Ayla had determined to herself that she would remain in her cabin for the duration of anchoring. She figured that if she disappeared into the ship, she would leave a shorter trail of sightings for which the Blackthorne bloodhounds could follow. As Ayla built the courage to begin discoursing with Sabrina about general seafaring life, with the aim of getting a better grasp of travel speeds but also with genuine curiosity about a lifestyle that was so far from her own understanding, she noted the captain’s appearance from across the deck.

Here it comes, she thought. The Quartermaster spoke to him. He knows.

Putting on a warm smile, Ayla dipped a courteous nod to the man as he approached. His first invitation garnered a surprised doe-eyed expression which quickly shot askew to the nearby cook before returning to the captain himself. His follow-up inquiry smoothed the flood of mixed emotions that had hit her like a sneaker-wave on unsuspecting beachgoers.

“Oh!” she meekly squeaked out. “I — Uh. Well, I would be glad to have the opportunity to collect herbs and medicinal components.” She fidgeted nervously with her hands and failed at fighting the urge to let her eyes run wild in search of an escape route.

“I will be honest, I had planned to stay aboard during port. I am not accustomed to travel and though I might be best limiting my explorations to my destination.” She shuffled her steps side to side and tried a joke, “I think I finally got the handle of walking on the water!”

She pursed her lips a moment and returned to her usual poise. “I cannot pass the opportunity to bolster my supplies for treatments, though.” She tried to remain casual in tone as she warily asked, “How long will we be ashore? What sort of amenities can one expect in this location?”

Quinton observed Brooks as she nervously fidgeted with her hands, her uncertainty evident in every movement. He noted the way her eyes darted around the deck, searching for something—an exit, perhaps, or simply reassurance. Despite her apparent unease, she managed a warm smile and even attempted a light-hearted joke about finally mastering her sea-legs.

Quinton had seen this kind of anxiety before. Many passengers, particularly those unaccustomed to the sea, often felt overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of their surroundings. But there was something different about Brooks, something that piqued his curiosity. Perhaps it was the way she spoke of collecting herbs and medicinal components, or her initial hesitation to step ashore. Whatever it was, Quinton felt a quiet resolve to ensure she was as comfortable as possible during the journey. Afterall he had attempted to give her space in hoping that would help cause her less stress, but that seemed to only keep her apart from most of the crew and other passengers.

"Brooks," he began, his voice steady and reassuring, "there's no need to worry. We'll be ashore for only a short time, just enough to restock the lighthouses supplies. The outpost is modest, but it is important we give it more supplies to hand over to ships that might need it heading south, fresh water, depending on who might also be anchored there could be a small market where we can trade for something. Additionally you can expect all the amenities you can find here on the ship at the lighthouse as well."

He paused, considering his words carefully before continuing. "If you'd prefer to stay aboard, that's entirely your choice. But if you do decide to come ashore, you’ll have the opportunity to gather what you need and maybe even stretch your legs a bit on solid ground. Sometimes, a little time on land can do wonders."

Quinton offered a small, encouraging smile. "The crew and I will ensure you're well taken care of, whether you stay here or join me, us on land. You have nothing to worry about." He hoped his words would ease some of her tension, allowing her to make the choice that felt right for her.

Guilt gnawed viciously at Ayla’s heartstrings; it was clear that the captain was doing his utmost to ease her blatant discomfort. It was her fault that he did not know where her true worries lay. Her deception to those aboard who had shown her nothing but kindness was crushing her conscience. She weighed the possibility of outing herself before someone could do it for her. The added burden of having her lies unmasked ceremonially to such well-meaning individuals nearly made her sick.

The fugitive steeled her resolve and nodded in acquiescence.

“I would be honored to have your accompaniment in procuring herbs for the sake of your crew and passengers alike.” She turned to press her hands cordially to Sabrina’s and asked, “In the galley again this evening?”

Indicating that she wished to conclude the conversation with the cook, Ayla turned back to the captain and furrowed her brows slightly before working the resolve to request private audience with him.

“Captain,” she inquired, “Would it be possible to have a word with you in a less public location? I would very much like to discuss the herbal needs and review those books you mentioned. I would not want to worry anyone should they overhear the discussion of medicines and think that there were reason for alarm.”

She felt this was a solid cover to get a more secure conversational spot with Captain Church. She just hoped she could resolve to finish the admissions of her crimes once concealed from prying ears.

Church felt a rush of excitement when Brooks agreed to join him on the trip to the lighthouse. His heart swelled with a mixture of relief and anticipation, knowing that having her aboard and comfortable on The Silver Wing would make the expedition not just safer, but also more meaningful. The captain’s mind raced with thoughts of how he had been foolish to think she was upset at him or the voyage, but after almost a week of worried solitied and only making friends with a single women on the crew Quinton had started to wonder if he or the ship was the problem.

In his eagerness, he barely registered her voice when she spoke again. His thoughts were too caught up in the moment, a wide grin spread across his face as he began rattling off plans for their departure. This included calling out to a few crew members to get a landing boat read and a short request for some lunch to be made by Sabrina. It wasn't until he noticed the cook gently nod back to the medicine woman that he paused.

The captain blinked, his excitement momentarily tempered as he realized he hadn't heard her request in its entirety. His grin softened into a more thoughtful expression, and he nodded. Thankfully Sabrina came to his rescue. "I believe you should have time to talk while you row ashore. The Captain has on several occasions enjoyed brining VIP's to shore by himself." She then gave the redhead a warm look that showed she didn't know what the privacy was for, but from one woman to another she would help.

Quinton nodded with excitement once again. The members of the crew and passengers around him found this version of him a little different. There was a quicker motion in his step, this was because for the first time since the first day of the voyage the Captain didn't just feel in control, but also a little fortunate. With that, the captain led the redhead towards his cabin. "I have a few collection boxes we can use as well as some books I would like to bring to either press flowers or take notes with. He led Brooks away from the bustling deck, adventure now mingling with his excitement. Whatever she had to say, it was clear it was important, and he wanted to give her the full attention she deserved.

"Would you prefer to talk here or while we make our way to shore?" He asked as they walked into his cabin?"

“If it is alright with you, I prefer we have some discussion before heading to shore,” Ayla replied. Entering the cabin, she committed to the ruse of seeking reference materials and evaluating the current stock. She received the first book and began to leaf through the pages with an expression of thoughtful consideration.

After a few more moments of pantomime, creating the illusion that she were intensely occupied with the thought of herbs, flora, and alchemy, Ayla raised her eyes to the captain and studied him for a moment. She told herself it was better to keep him informed directly, especially given the length of their voyage thus far. It was entirely possible, though not completely probable, that word may have reached the current outpost to be on the watch for one such as herself.

As time had progressed, she began to suspect that the Quartermaster had not divulged her little secret to the captain. The fact that she had continued to be so unnoticed for this long had seemed a miracle. She pressed her palms together and spoke with gravity and a gaze that observed the floorboards in shame.

“I have been untruthful, sir, and I need to rectify my misleadings.” A faint tremble took her hands as she raised them from before her waist. She reached for her scarf and undid the knot as she continued, “I am deeply apologetic for the lies I have told you and your crew.”

She set the beige and shapeless scrap on the desk and returned her fingers to the back of her head, in search of the pin that secured her hair in its complex and messy updo. “I am not who I have claimed to be, in name,” she confessed as the tumbles of red fell into a mixture of half-done braids and tangles.

Ayla pulled a deep breath between her teeth and moved to tuck one side of her free hair behind an ear, exposing her sharp shame for the first time since venturing off the land of her birth.

“I have not lied of my intentions, my abilities, nor my motives,” she quickly amended. “I seek a better life, I am versed in healing arts, and I leave poor conditions behind.” Clarifying, she felt her eyes slip shut for an extended moment. Her voice dropped to a shame-filled whisper.

“I fear that there may be a search for me.” She did not feel that continuing an outpouring of apology would do any further good at this point. He would be furious or he would not. He would turn her over or he would preserve her secret. The fate of this part of her journey was out of her hands. She awaited judgement.

When they reached his Cabin the Captain pulled down the selection of books he had gotten from the Guild and placed them on his table for the young woman to review. While she started to slowly flip through them he had begun to gather the boxes for carrying things that weren't meant to get wet as well as a large bag with a strap allowing him to carry everything. He stood in silence and to pass the time observed the woman as she looked at the different drawings and notes of herbs on the pages.

Any reasonable man would see the woman as delicate. The silhouette she had made the first night he saw her was still the slim and delicate shape not unlike some of the flowers on the pages she skimmed. Her red hair he had now seen enough times to no longer see it as fire, but more as a collection of red waves along her shoulders. Possibly due to the sea air and the way she selp it had lost some volume, but still very much had its color. She was attractive that anyone on the crew would agree even Sabrina. He started to worry what the crew and passengers would think if they stayed in the cabin with the doors closed for too long.

As he continued to get ready he heard her speak finally and turned to suddenly see a very different woman standing by his table. She seemed small. Not in the way before where it was her delecate nature that made her such, but instead a completely self condemned small. He had heard her say she had been untruthful. At this and after seeing her body language he felt his excitement flee from his body.

'She had lied about the medical abilities...' He thought at once. While not something he had realized it quickly came to him that she had yet to do anything remotely close, and had not brought much in the way of her own herbs. Originally he figured she was willing to barter and deal to get what she needed along the way, but if she had no skills she would likely have worried about not bringing real medical herbs and be found out.

Quinton put his bag down by his chair and then the box he was carrying on the desk. He started to pack up the books as she continued with her confession. Still Quinton was no priest and he had little interest in a passenger who lied to get aboard. Not only that but her lie had worked and he had personally sealed her name in his blood agreement. 'She drew a caller around your neck as fast as an anchor falls.' he thought.

"So you lied about your abilities and your name." he muttered as he started to close the books. Just seeing them was now making him angry. He then stood up as tall as he could with his arms at his side and let the woman speak. He would give her these final words and then throw her down in her room to enjoy the rest of the voyage with stale bread and .... He then stopped and looked up at her.

“I have not lied of my intentions, my abilities, nor my motives,”

"Wait you didn't lie about being trained in medicine?" At hearing this the captain was beyond confused. Had this whole confession been over a false name? He was about to assure her that was no business but her own; however, when he did look up at her he then saw the full truth. Brooks, or at least this woman in front of him was not human, but an elf. Rarely surprised this was a time where the Captain was taken completely.

"I fear that there may be a search for me.”

At hearing how defeated her voice had gotten The Captain took his seat and pushed the books and boxes to the side. "I think you need to share your story with me." He said and he pushed the chair from under the table with his legs. The offer was not overly aggressive, but stern and perhaps a bit childish in manors.

Tears had begun to well around the rims of Ayla’s eyes. The tip of her nose and flesh about her eyes began to flush pink with the overwhelming guilt and sadness she felt for her prolonged concealment of truth. The heat of her shame brought color to her cheeks and she busied her fingers in untangling the strands of her freshly-fallen hair. She took the indicated seat gracefully, but her focus remained downcast and crestfallen.

“I am truly ashamed of myself. As I said, I am gifted in healing arts. And I am merely looking for a better life. I am not, by birth, Hazel Brooks. I have no last name. I was given a simple identifier by the human family under which my ancestors have served for the past three or four generations.” She rocked slightly in her seat as she spoke, self-soothing like an infant and always keeping her face inclined in a downward direction.

“My family has a natural affinity for herbs and their medicinal uses. I received training from my mother and grandmother in the arts of elven healing. The Blackthorne family benefits from our skill by means of financial gain; they manage a clinic in which we tend the patients. In return, we do not live in abject squalor or among the outcasts of society.”

Hair finally disentangled from itself, she eased her nerves by reapplying fresh plaits to the waves over her shoulder. The tears that threatened to slide from her lashes disappeared, brushed aside with the back of her wrist as she continued her confession.

“I want more. I do not want to be a servant. They call it a partnership between families. I call it slavery. I have lived too long under the reign of those who do not respect me yet cannot thrive without me. They hate me though they keep me.” She choked back a sob and raised her brimming eyes just enough to glance across the desk.

“I want to be free.”

Quinton listened to the Elf, Brooks as he knew her, unburdens her heart. Her voice trembled, heavy with the weight of the confession she laid bare. He could see the tears welling in her eyes, the flush of shame coloring her cheeks, and the nervous way she made her her hands busy with her hair.

When she spoke of her family’s servitude, of being forced into a life that doesn’t respect her gifts, Quinton did feel a level of empathy for her. He was not a stone captain, but he was also no longer sitting as a friend or match to make her happy. He was listening as a captain of a ship. One that could be taken down due to her deception.

He remained quiet, allowing her the space to express the pain and longing she has kept hidden for so long. The word “slavery” stung his ears. In many ports the practice was a bygone practice, but a perfectly healthy blackmarket was still very much thriving. As the word escaped her lips, and Quinton’s jaw tightens, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior—not at her, but at the injustice.

As the elf finally raises her eyes, her voice breaking with emotion, Quinton fought the urge to reach out gently, placing a reassuring hand on hers. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Brooks," he says softly, his voice steady and full of compassion. "You’ve been through more than most could endure, and you’ve done it with strength and grace. Wanting more, wanting freedom, isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s something worth fighting for."

He pauses, giving her a moment to let his words sink in before continuing. Her whole being seemed to have fallen into a pit of despair. He last bit of breath asking to be free. The desire was there; however, the anchor she dragged was no small weight. Silence seem to hit the cabin as Quinton kept his thoughts to himself. He went from his thoughts back to the elf and then back to his thoughts again.

'Her skills, should they be real, would make her an exceptionally valuable individual to the family and the Blackthorne family was known far beyond their port as one of the most influential on the northern coast. No small amount would be spent in hunting her down or in removing anyone who stood in the way of returning her.

The Captain was at a loss of words just as the elf seemed to expelled her last utterance. The sounds of sniffing and staggered silence continued to fill the room. "Show me your skills as a healer." He finally said in a cautious tone. Your predicament aside I had allowed my First mate to drive the ship harder with the belief that should injury occur we had a healer onboard. Until I see otherwise I can no longer assume this." He then stood up and grabbed his bag. He did not; however, bring or start to pack the books. "You will accompany me to the shore and from there we will gather the needed herbs for the remedy for seasickness." Quinton reached the door to the main deck and looked right into the elf past her eyes and with a gaze cut into her.

"Ginger Root, Peppermint Leaf, Fennel Seed, chamomile, and Lavender." He said reciting the mixture she had recommended nearly a week ago when they found out her skills with medicine." He then opened the door and once out saw the boat was prepared as they were loading the oars in as well.

The sobs that caught her in throat made further words difficult to produce. The elf forced cough and glanced askew across the cabin.

“Ayla,” she whispered. “That’s all they ever called me.”

She knew she had put him in great peril and created an awful situation should there be a search closing in on her. Unwilling to press her luck any further, she mumbled another pathetic apology and suggested he leave her behind.

“I will vacate the ship permanently. You owe me nothing and I ask for nothing more. I can absolve you of future risk and you may pretend this conversation never occurred. I will forge a new path onward on my own.”

Fully intending to collect her belongings and take to the hills, Ayla wrapped her scarf about her head once more. For the sake of the other passengers and crew she had met thus far, she donned the accustomed ear-concealment method. She stood at his direction with her shamed emotion still bringing her shoulders into a slump.

“Show me your skills as a healer.
Believed a healer on board.
I can no longer assume this.”

His valid distrust and probable disgust redoubled on her cracking spirit and as he made for the door, she reached out desperately for his sleeve.

“Please,” she cried. “I was truthful in all other respects.” Holding the hem of his cuff in a tiny fist, she pressed her other palm to the door to prevent it opening. “I will show you.” Ayla gave the captain a baleful look, pausing long enough for him to shut her down if he so desired.
Fearfully she removed her hand from his person and repeated the display she had given to the quartermaster some days ago. Her palms met before her heart, and she breathed a slow sigh over her fingers. The unmistakable aroma of petrichor filled the cabin, followed closely by a gust of pine and sage. A burst of cedar encircled the two, then the sweet scent of juniper berries christened the mixture.

With delicate precision, she unfurled her hands before him, raising them from her sternum to level with his face, as if she were to cup his cheeks in her palms. Holding them thus, she allowed for him to feel the coolness that emanated from her skin like a fresh menthol balm. The calming chill heralded a relaxing warmth the carried the sensation of waking from a deeply restful sleep.

Had she placed her hands to his skin, the effect would multiply threefold, though she was not brave enough to cross such a line now; grabbing his sleeve had been more than she felt proper. She held her proffered palms, gazing slightly skyward as if in prayer to the sun beyond the cabin roof. A stray tear slid unfettered down her cheek. Then her lashes fluttered shut to prevent further downpour.

“I do not need the herbs to heal,” she breathed out in her statuesque position. “Though they do increase my abilities and can be utilized in other preventative ways.”

Captain Church watched Ayla closely, his sharp eyes narrowing as she began to demonstrate her abilities. The mixture of scents that filled the cabin—the pine, sage, cedar, and juniper—created an almost sacred atmosphere. The coolness radiating from her hands made him pause, a sensation of deep relaxation washing over him despite the situation.

In his lifetime Quinton had witnessed magic, true magic, maybe three or four times in his life. The first was when he saw the ship under his feet take on the magic stone in agreement with The Guild and the other few times were for high Noble weddings he had been invited too. What he had just witnessed from Ayla was entirely different.

Her magic seemed naked not in terms of effect and potency, but due to a complete lack of pageantry. In the past the ceremonies and traditions surrounding the use of magic made them a spectacle and an occasion. Never before had he seen someone conduct magic in such a natural state.

He remained silent as she held her hands out to him, her fear palpable, her vulnerability laid bare. The tear that slipped down her cheek did not escape his notice, but he made no move to acknowledge it. When she finally spoke, her voice a mere breath in the tense space, he let the silence stretch for a long moment.

"Ayla...," he said her lips finding their way through his lips for the first time, his voice low but steady. "I don't doubt the truth in your abilities. What I doubt is your judgment. You kept this from us, from me, when transparency is what keeps us alive out here. In your actions you have created a very shaky position for not just my crew and ship, but my very life."

He stepped back slightly, creating space between them, though his gaze never left hers. "But I am not unaware of the gift you just showed... Prove your worth, show that you can be trusted. If you can do that, there may still be a place for you on this ship."

His tone softened just a fraction, though the sternness remained. "But make no mistake—this is your only chance. I will not tolerate any more secrets. If you truly wish to stay aboard, you will need to earn back the trust you've lost. Do you understand?"

All things considered, this discussion could have gone far worse. Ayla dropped her hands to her sides and breathed out the last remnants of the energy she had channeled for this exhibition. The skills she had were innate, but they had limitations and could be draining. Her eyes, whether from the damming of tears or from the performance just enacted, were tired. Still bright gold but rimmed in red exhaustion and carrying far more weight than before. She sleepily nodded in assent and collected herself before removing herself from the cabin. She would recover quickly enough, she knew, and felt it was best to press on to the task at hand: proving she was more than a charlatan who sowed chaos in her wake.

“I understand,” came her low reply as she crossed the threshold out to the hallway.

“Utmost honesty henceforth with you and your crew. Might I have blessing to continue concealing my …” she trailed off, wrinkled her nose and bit her lip before gesturing hopelessly at the hidden tips of her pointed ears.

“I worry that some of your passengers will not want to share a cabin with me.”

There had been one lady in the single women’s cabin who had made herself busy sharing stories with others in the evenings. This matron was chatty and affable to the other women, but Ayla had made conscious effort to give the woman a wide berth after some of her passing comments about the “knife-ears” and “tree-talkers” had slipped casually into her conversations about what was wrong with the state of the world. As far as Ayla could tell, the woman was going to join a settlement to serve as an educational mistress, governess, or something to that effect.

“Just what the far lands need,” Ayla had thought. “More hate.”

The elf continued to the deck in preparation for the landing party, woefully concerned that her request to keep concealment from some members of the vessel would further increase the captain’s ill-opinion of her.

Captain Quinton Church watched as Ayla made her way out of the cabin, her words lingering in the air like the fading echoes of a storm. He could see the toll her demonstration had taken on her, the exhaustion etched in her golden eyes, and the weight she carried. Her request was not unexpected, but it was a delicate matter.

He stepped towards her the room back to his desk which made him pass close enough to feel the continued scent of her magic latch back onto him, the juniper being the most powerful but the cedar wood being his preference, and spoke in a low, even tone. “You have my blessing to continue concealing your identity,” he said, his gaze steady as it met hers as they were now only inches apart. “I don’t expect the passengers to understand what you are or what you’re capable of. Fear often comes from ignorance, and there’s no point in stirring up unnecessary trouble on my ship.”

He paused, considering his words carefully. “But remember, Ayla, I have placed my trust in you. That trust has not been earned, nor is it easily kept. Prove to me that you are more than an elf with snakes words and oil for sale.”

With that, he stepped back, giving her space and then opening the door to the deck where he made a quick exit. He walked out and back to the boat which now was ready for their departure. "Don't forget the books Miss Brooks," the faintest hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knew the challenges ahead would test them all, but he could only hope that this elf could keep her determination through every wave they were about to crash into.

With his permission granted, Ayla breathed a sigh of small relief; at least she would not need out herself to the hateful. He called it ignorance, but regardless of its source, the result was the same to the elves on the receiving end of such vitriol, spite, and far-too-frequent violence.

“Thank you, Captain.” She paused a moment more. “Your Quartermaster,” she began hesitantly. “He identified me an elf on the very first day. He knows of my skill, though none of the identities I shared with you.”

She made apologetic eyes towards Captain Church, hoping she was not condemning the Quartermaster to some punishment; though she feared more what would become of her should the Captain discover she had concealed this fact from him. She quickly scurried to collect the books, carrying them in one of the boxes she had seen prepped for the harvesting venture.

Ayla stepped quickly to the ferry boat and spoke naught a word. She gave friendly and cordial smiles to those she passed whom she had created a positive rapport with. The nerves she carried would appear as nothing more than travel jitters to the rest on board, she hoped. The Captain, however, would know full well what to read between the lines of her subtle body language; she was ashamed, afraid, and acutely aware just how frayed the rope she walked had become.

"He identified me an elf on the very first day. He knows of my skill, though none of the identities I shared with you.”

At this the Captain was surprised. So far as her story had gone he was under the impression she had fooled the entire crew. Now he learned that a secret such as this was being hidden from him and by a senior member of the crew. Thinking about it he did stop to consider if hiding the fact that she was an elf was a dire act against him. He would give Bart a chance to explain himself when they got back, but for now he simply nodded and finally said. "Interesting." His tone was one he summoned from a very icey depth of his character.

Once they were on the boat the crew lowered them down. They had noticed the Captains demeanor and as if feeling the cold air coming off him remained mostly quiet as they lowered them into the waters. Once floating on their own Quinton took the oars and placed them on their notches and began to row them towards shore. The coastline lighthouse was perched on a large rock just off the beach head. It was a warning to ships that they were entering the fogged coast which was a notorious section of the coastline that suffered from dense fog that hid many rock.

As he rowed in silence Quinton turned from looking right at the elf, to his ship, and then to the lighthouse. They were only fifteen minutes in the water by the time he had gotten them most of the way there. In his anger he realized he had exerting himself perhaps a little more than he should have, but all he needed to do was remove his outer jacket and he found himself cooled and resumed rowing. When they made it to the rock island he threw a rope to a man waiting by the dock and then got out. He did not offer to help the elf out and instead left that to the sailor who helped them tie up the boat.

Ayla felt the chill that radiated from the captain before her. She was keenly aware of the turmoil that roiled and raged in his heart and mind. The sorrow she felt for having caused such a tempest further sank her own estimation of herself. The plan had been a risk, she knew, but she had not expected things to turn quite this rocky in this manner. Perhaps it was the kindness she had received up until this day. They had not spoken much though they had passed one another plenty of times and always exchanged the accustomed brief cordialities and respectful nods. Now she was adrift on an ice flow and his arctic winds battered her into hopelessness.

Quiet graciousness greeted the man at the dock who reached down to assist her out of the boat. He passed her belongings up to her after her feet hit solid ground. He made no comment, but she had noticed the glance he made between herself and the captain. Of course a man of rank would not be expected to to such trivial tasks as attending to the supplies, but it did seem a bit odd that no attention had been paid to the small woman riding ashore with him. Ayla brushed past the brief look of confusion on the sailor’s face and thanked him for his aid.

She followed the captain in silence up the incline away from the dock.

“I think it best I not enter any official building,” she suggested shakily. Then a moment of panic struck her. What if his plan since finding out her identity were to go straight to the guild and win graces from the Blackthorne family for returning their wayward property? She clutched the box and books tighter and dodged eye contact.

“With your permission, of course,” she finished, looking with mingled apprehension and longing at the green hills beyond.

Church’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Ayla. The winds that tugged at his coat mirrored the chill in his demeanor. He had always been a man of duty, and that duty now conflicted with the emotions he had been poorly managing to keep at bay.

“A wise decision,” he finally said, his voice steady against the rocks and wind surrounding them. “Stay clear of the official building will mean you should head a little more inland. Keep to the road, but do not share the books with anyone. While we are in the wilds there are few protections should someone want the books. It’s best you remain unseen; however if the men inside are to ask I will simply say you are a confirmed passenger and make no more mention.”

He gave her a final, curt nod, the formal acknowledgment of a command given and understood. There was no warmth, no comfort in his words—just the precise instructions of a man who had already distanced himself. Without waiting for her response, he turned on his heel and began his ascent toward the lighthouse building.

The path was rugged, worn by countless gusts of wind and water over the years. The lighthouse stood as a single block of a building, its light dimmed during the day but ever-present through the use of rock and magic.

As he approached the weathered door, Quinton could see a small group of men waiting by the entrance. Their dark, practical clothing marked them as members of the guild—men who had spent years in the service of trade and protection, their faces lined with experience and a wariness that came with it. This was not a post men would volunteer for and so the personalities found were rarely ones full of warmth and welcome.

The captain nodded to them as he reached the door, the men stepping aside to let him pass. Inside, the lighthouse was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of salt and oil. The men gathered around a large table strewn with maps and ledgers, their conversations halting as Quinton entered.

“Captain Church,” one of the men greeted him, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his left cheek. “We weren’t expecting you so soon. Is everything in order with the ship?”

“The ship is fine,” Quinton replied, his tone measured. “But I have some concerns regarding the passengers. There’s been some... odd accounting.” He said and then continued. "When the guild sent their final tally we were a few seats short. We had an addition come on later; however, the fact that the guild was off by as many as 3 seemed uncharacteristic. What was the passenger count reported to you?

The men exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. The captain knew they were assessing the situation, weighing the risks and benefits as any seasoned guild member would.

“we have you leaving a week ago with cargo and passengers totalling 34,” the veteran said after a moment. “You are saying you arrive with 33?. Any specific instructions?”

“Make sure the supplies are offloaded quickly,” Quinton instructed. “As for the passengers, yes currently I have all hands accounted with 33 including the late addition.”

The men nodded in agreement, their understanding of the unspoken orders evident. They were used to dealing with delicate situations, and this one was no different—at least on the surface.

Quinton lingered for a moment, his thoughts drifting back to the woman he had left behind on the shore. He couldn’t afford to let emotions cloud his judgment, not now. There were too many unknowns, too many dangers, and he had to stay focused. This guild had his ship hostage through the blood agreement; however, the agreement had accepted the false name the elf had given him. He was bound to deliver her to her destination, but without one clearly stated what did that even mean?

With a final nod to the men, he turned and made his way back out into the daylight, the weight of his decisions heavy on his shoulders.

Relieved in the agreed sentiment, even though it came with a heavy weight of dislike in her direction, Ayla nodded and adjusted the sack she brought form her own inventory in the box. With the books hidden beneath her bag, she stepped further down the road into the wilds of this rest stop island. She felt her eyes water as the wilds approached her course along the road.

She stopped at a distance she considered suitably inland yet not as far as to grant her invisibility from the captain once he removed himself from the main collection of buildings. He may not see her at once upon leaving the hall, but he would not have to venture extremely far to see a familiar silhouette up the hill.

She had taken the time to wind all her hair up and fashioned the scarf into a snood of sorts, thereby committing as much of her red tresses to secrecy as possible. A few wayward strands would escape around her face and flutter in the breezes that danced in all directions around the small piece of earth, but there was not so much visible that she felt risk of identification from afar; not by anyone who did not know she was already here at least.

She crouched at the edge of the road, double checking her bundle and keeping her postured stooped. Ayla hoped to pass as elderly or sickly, resting for breath along the walkway. Kneeling beside her provisions, she gazed into the abutment of grass and lightly reached her fingers into the tread of wavering stalks. A forlorn smile painted her face as she felt the greenery with quiet reverence.

Given the stop were a small one, geographically speaking and with the population limited as it was, Ayla encountered only a few others along the path. The Silver Wing anchored beyond seemed to suit any questions someone may have had on her origins, and she found she was able to avoid conversation by hiding in the shadow of her downturned face. Only one individual took a moment to address her directly, as she sat on the ground beside her box of scrap fabric.

The man, she presumed he was a guild member taking a turn around the land for fresh air or as mobile lookout casting his eyes over the perimeter of the grounds, paused to inquire if the lady was alright. She only saw his boots and assumed a cheerful if gravely voice to reply that she was doing very well, just was taking a break from the ship to enjoy the grass and unmoving ground. He seemed satiated by her response, given how frequent it was for the unaccustomed to struggle with life at sea, and carried on his route back towards the lighthouse proper.