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.