Blood Dowry

Ocean

The sun slowly spilled its light over a small village by the sea — Sadera.

Rumor had it the name itself was cursed; too many people had died here, too many souls had washed ashore.

A mother knelt before a soldier, clutching her frail child tightly in her arms.

No one remembered which kingdom that soldier served.

The child gazed weakly, his tiny hands too limp even to hold onto his mother.

“Please… give us some food,” the woman begged, voice trembling. “The children need to eat.”

BUGH!

She hit the ground hard but didn’t let go of the child.

Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth; a bruise bloomed where the soldier’s boot had struck.

Still, she pushed herself up again, shaking violently, but refusing to leave until her son was fed.

No one dared to help her. In Sadera, mercy was more dangerous than hunger.

“Listen, all of you!” the soldier shouted. “Your village is pathetic! Look around — even the grass refuses to grow!”

He spat, checked that the royal banner still stood, then mounted his horse and rode away, leaving silence in his wake.

By midday, several villagers had collapsed from hunger.

The fishermen returned, their nets empty. The moment their boats touched land, desperate voices surrounded them.

“Did you catch anything?”

“Was the sea calm?”

“Where’s my husband?”

The fishermen exchanged uneasy looks. Twenty had left that morning. Only seventeen came back.

Behind them, the ocean looked deceptively calm — as if mocking their despair.

“There were no fish,” one of the men said softly. “The waves took a few of us.”

Cries broke out instantly.

Every dawn in Sadera began the same way — with mourning.

Each day, the sea demanded its offering. The coastal wind blew hard, whipping sand and dust into red, stinging eyes.

“Did you see the Black Kite?” someone whispered, voice trembling.

The fishermen looked at one another and shook their heads. “No,” they said in unison.

“Good,” murmured the village elder — an old man whose voice rasped like the wind through dry reeds. “If you ever see a ship with black sails, turn away. That’s the Black Kite. Pray you never cross its path.”

“What does it look like?” asked a young girl, stepping closer. “We’ve heard how dangerous it is, but never seen it ourselves.”

“They say it’s not a name,” the elder replied, eyes drifting toward the horizon. “The Black Kite is a crew — pirates, monsters in human form. They destroy everything they touch.”

His sunken eyes softened, filled with longing — for those the sea had taken from him.

“But how do we know Lord Luthias isn’t lying?” the girl pressed. “He’s from the kingdom too.”

The old man smiled faintly and rested a wrinkled hand on her head. “Lord Luthias has never lied, child. He’s our guardian. Without him, Sadera would’ve dried to dust long ago.”

“But we have Lord Muria too,” she insisted, her curiosity sharper than fear.

“Both Luthias and Muria are our saviors,” the elder said gently. “Luthias can’t help as much — he’s still bound by the crown.”

He smiled at his people — a tired but steady smile, the kind that said hold on a little longer.

Then someone shouted, “Look! The sea!”

On the horizon, a lone boat appeared — slender, graceful, its sail the deep blue of midnight waters.

Tears welled up in weary eyes as voices began to rise.

“Lord Muria!”

“He’s come back!”

People ran toward the shore. The boat glided closer, riding the wind with quiet ease.

The man aboard tossed a rope that caught around a jagged rock, anchoring the vessel in place.

When he stepped onto land, the crowd fell silent.

He was dark-skinned and broad-shouldered, a cloth wrapped around his head, leaving his piercing eyes uncovered — eyes sharp enough to cut through deceit.

Without a word, he began lifting heavy sacks from his boat. The villagers hurried to help, carrying the rest with trembling hands.

“Take them to the hall,” Lord Muria said — his voice deep and rough, like splitting wet wood.

Even through hunger, their faces lit with relief.

Lord Muria came every week without fail, bringing food, medicine, and hope — never asking for anything in return.

They carried the sacks to the village hall — a fragile hut built from woven palm leaves and thatched straw.

The people lined up neatly, as if discipline alone could honor the man who’d saved them.

Muria worked in silence, handing out grain and cloth with steady hands.

Every villager thanked him a dozen times; he only nodded.

When all had received their share, he turned to leave.

The elder caught his arm. “May the sea lift you up, not pull you under.”

Muria gave a single nod. The sun scorched the sand, but nothing could make him linger. He was a man who never stayed still for long.

But something was different that afternoon.

From far across the horizon, a vast silhouette began to form — a ship, massive and ominous, its wood groaning like bones under pressure.

The villagers ran toward the beach, fear mingled with awe.

Muria’s expression darkened. He untied his boat, jaw tightening. The rage in his eyes could’ve split the sea in two.

The young girl gasped. “A big ship… black sails…”

Her voice broke. “The Black Kite!”

Muria turned sharply toward her, then to the elder.

“Get inside. All of you!” he barked.

The villagers scattered, rushing to hide.

Muria rowed out, cutting through the waves until the wind took his sail and carried him toward the dark ship.

He climbed aboard in one smooth leap, landing on the deck with fury in his stance.

“I told you,” he growled, “stay away from the villages! They’re not part of the plan!”

“Easy, Terrence,” a calm voice answered.

A tall man named Andre stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Muria’s shoulder. “We found a boy.”

He led Terrence below deck — into a dim, cramped cabin where a small child lay unconscious. The clothes he wore were far too large — clearly Nino’s.

Terrence exhaled through a short, bitter laugh. The crew glanced at each other, unsure whether it was relief or something else.

“Ah…” he muttered, voice softening. “Lior.”