[center][h3]Alberic Thorel[/h3]
[B]Port of Rodelkog[/b][/center]

[hr]

The harbor was alive with the sound of waves lapping against the hulls of ships and the rhythmic calls of sailors preparing for departure. The air carried the scent of brine and wood tar, mingling with the distant scent of roasted fish from a nearby market stall.

Inside a small, dimly lit cabin near the pier, Alberic sat alone at a wooden table, the flickering lantern casting long shadows on the walls. The parchment before him bore the ink of his restless mind, his quill hovering for a moment as he contemplated his next words.

The war was moving faster than he had expected. Would Andronika and Coralie truly work together, or would their ambitions rip them apart before the real fight even began? Mainland rulers had a way of turning allies into rivals faster than any storm at sea.

But deep down, Alberic cared little for who sat on the throne of some shattered empire.

The Isles were what mattered. Vich, Emiddly, Favis—his people. Coralie had brought so many Corsairs to her side, more than he thought possible. If she had that much sway, what did that mean for the League? Did Gerart and the Council of Captains still hold any power, or had they become little more than ghosts in an era they no longer controlled?

His real loyalty lay with the League, with the dream of a united Circle Sea, and more importantly, with Aonène.

She was the true Uniter, the one who could break the cycle of blood between Vich and Emiddly and forge something greater. But she was out here, tangled in the affairs of landlocked wars, when she should have been back rallying the isles, standing before the League, and taking what was rightfully hers.

With a frustrated sigh, Alberic sealed the message he had just finished writing—a direct call to Gerart and the others. A plea, or a warning, depending on how they saw it. Coralie was rising, and if the League didn’t move soon, they’d be answering to her instead of calling their own shots.

Just as he finished, the door to the cabin creaked open, and one of Coralie’s messengers stepped inside.

“Message for the League?” the man asked, eyeing the sealed parchment.

Alberic handed it over. “Sealed and ready. Make sure it reaches them.”

The messenger took the letter and, without hesitation, pulled another scroll from his belt, wrapped in deep crimson ribbon and sealed with wax.

“This one’s for you,” the courier said.

Alberic furrowed his brow, taking the scroll. Coralie’s seal. He turned it over in his hands, but before he could break it open, the courier raised a hand.

“Open it once you’re aboard,” the messenger instructed, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Orders from the Empress.”

Alberic gave a slow nod, watching as the man left, disappearing into the bustling dockside.

Left alone with his thoughts, he turned the scroll between his fingers. What now, Coralie?

Outside, the ships were nearly ready to set sail. The war was moving. The tides were shifting. But to whose benefit?

He would soon find out.