Heir to a Fallen Star

Chapter 52

The roar of the tavern below instantly floods into the hallway—the smell of salt, tar, and frying fish hitting our senses. "The lower docks aren't like the market squares. Don't look anyone in the eye, and let me do the talking until we're behind closed doors with Silas."

He extends a massive, calloused hand toward me, his moss-green eyes fierce and ready. "Shall we go buy ourselves a ship?"

The air hits like a physical wall—thick with the stench of rotting fish, heavy brine, and the choking smoke of cheap pipe tobacco. The cobblestones beneath our boots are slick with whale oil and sea foam, and the crowd is a chaotic, churning sea of humanity. Sailors with skin like old leather, scars tracing their jaws, and rough wool coats shove past each other, shouting over the screech of gulls and the deep, rhythmic groaning of ship timbers.

I tuck myself tight against Kaelen's side, my fingers twisting into the heavy fabric of his coat. Every instinct in my body tells me to shrink away from the harsh, piercing glares of the dockworkers, but Kaelen doesn't even flinch.

Down here, he changes.

The easy, soft morning warmth he had in the inn room vanishes, replaced by a cold, imposing gravity. His shoulders square, his jaw sets, and his hand rests casually but intentionally near the hilt of his broadsword. He navigates the dense, hostile crowd with absolute precision and efficiency, never pausing, never hesitating. When a particularly burly sailor with a jagged scar across his throat doesn't move out of the way, Kaelen doesn't slow down; he simply shifts his weight, his massive shoulder catching the man and sending him stumbling backward into a stack of crab crates. The man opens his mouth to curse, but one look at the icy, moss-green glare Kaelen throws over his shoulder silences him instantly.

Kaelen glances down at me, his arm wrapping securely around my waist to pull me even closer as we duck under a dripping crane line.

"Just a little further, Red," he rumbles over the deafening roar of the harbours, his voice steady and perfectly at home in the chaos. "See that crooked tin roof past the fish gutting stations? That's Silas’s salvage yard. Hold on to me."

The moment we step inside the perimeter of the salvage yard, the crushing weight of the crowd thins out, but the air still tastes of rust and old grease.

Before Kaelen can pull me toward the heavy iron doors of the warehouse, my eyes catch on a stack of rotted timber near the fence line. Four children are huddled together against the damp wood, their faces smudged with soot and their clothes little more than frayed, oversized rags. They are painfully thin, their small collarbones sharp under their shirts, their eyes wide and hollow as they watch the bustling docks.

My chest tightens, a sudden, aching pain squeezing my heart. This was Kaelen. Decades ago, before he was a towering warrior, he was just a hungry, forgotten boy sleeping on cold stones just like these.

Before Kaelen can register the shift, I yank on his hand, dragging his massive frame toward the fence.

"Iris, wait—" he grunts, his military instincts flaring as he glances around the yard.

But I'm already kneeling in the dirt in front of the kids. They shrink back slightly, terrified, until I open my palm. I quickly count out the bright silver pieces from my pouch—five for each of them. Twenty coins in total. It’s enough to buy them warm bread, hot stew, and a dry bed for a week if they're smart about it. I press the coins into their small, trembling hands, giving them the warmest smile, I can muster. "Get something hot to eat tonight, alright? Go on."

The children stare at the silver as if it’s magic, their eyes turning the size of saucers, before the oldest clutches the coins to his chest, nods frantically, and scatters into the shadows with the others like frightened mice.

I stand up, brushing the dock dirt from my knees, only to find Kaelen standing completely still behind me.

The fierce, guarded commander look has vanished from his face. He is staring down at the empty space where the children had just been sitting, his jaw slightly slack. When he looks up at me, his moss-green eyes are incredibly dark, swirling with a thick, heavy emotion that leaves him completely speechless for a long moment. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his collar.

"You have too much grace for a place like this, Red," he whispers, his voice rough and thick, carrying a sudden, vulnerable ache.

He steps in close, ignoring the open yard and the rough dockworkers nearby, and reaches out to cup the back of my head, pulling my forehead gently against his chest. He holds me there for a long, quiet second, his heart hammering a slow, heavy rhythm against my cheek.

"They'll eat well tonight because of you," he murmurs into my hair, his large hand squeezing my shoulder with a fierce, quiet gratitude. He pulls back, his rugged face settling back into a determined, protective mask, though a soft spark remains in his eyes. "Come on. Let's go see Silas before I lose my mind and let you feed the whole harbour."

The heavy iron doors groan on their rusted hinges as Kaelen pushes them open, ushering me into the dim, cavernous interior of the warehouse. The deafening roar of the docks cuts out instantly, replaced by a heavy, echoing silence broken only by the distant clink-clink of metal on metal deeper inside.

The air here smells of stale seawater, pine tar, and heavy grease. Towers of salvage loom over us like wooden giants—stacked crates of ship rigging, tangled piles of iron chains, brass sextants green with age, and tattered sails hanging from the rafters like ghostly cobwebs. It’s a graveyard for ships, organized with a strange, meticulous logic.

Kaelen keeps his hand firmly at the small of my back, guiding me through the narrow, labyrinthine aisles. His body is tense again, his eyes scanning the shadows of the high rafters.

"Silas!" Kaelen’s deep voice suddenly booms through the hollow space, shattering the quiet. "Step out before I start helping myself to your anchor chains."

For a long moment, there's nothing but the echo of his voice. Then, from behind a massive stack of rotted hull planks at the back of the warehouse, a figure emerges.

The man is much older, his posture slightly stooped but his frame wiry and tough. He wears a stained leather apron over a faded blue coat, and a thick, silver-streaked beard covers his jaw. A massive scar runs from the corner of his left eye all the way down to his collar, pulling his face into a permanent, sceptical scowl. He holds a heavy iron pry-bar in one hand, but the moment his gaze lands on Kaelen, his grip loosens.

The old man blinks, his single good eye widening in disbelief.

"Well, stripe my sides and call me a whale," the man barks, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. He drops the pry-bar with a loud, clattering thud against the stone floor. "Kaelen? You magnificent, deserting bastard. I heard the King’s crows put a price on your head three moons ago."

Silas steps forward, his boots heavy on the floorboards, his sharp gaze immediately darting from Kaelen’s broadsword down to me, lingering on my apothecary satchel. He stops a few paces away, crossing his arms over his chest, a slow, clever grin cutting through his rough beard.

"And who's the gold-headed lady? Don't tell me you've gone and kidnapped a noblewoman, captain. I don't deal in high-born ransom."

“Nothing noble about me sir, just a simple lady” I say extending my hand to greet

Silas stares at my extended hand for a long, stunned beat. It's clearly been a few decades since anyone offered him a proper, polite handshake in this grease-stained hellhole. He looks at my hand, then up at Kaelen—who is watching him with a warned, highly protective narrowing of his green eyes—and then back to me.

With a gruff chuckle, Silas wipes his palm furiously against his stained leather apron, clearing off a layer of rust dust before wrapping his rough, calloused fingers around mine. His grip is firm, but surprisingly respectful.

"Simple, she says," Silas rumbles, his single good eye crinkling with a sudden, sharp amusement as he lets go. "Kaelen, you always did have a knack for finding people who don't fit the Mold. Most 'simple ladies' vomit the moment they hit the lower docks, but this one's got steel in her spine. I like her."

"Careful, Silas," Kaelen warns, his voice dropping into that low captain's rumble as he steps up beside me, his arm instinctively brushing against mine. "She’s the one holding the purse strings for this venture. You want to keep her liking you."

Silas’s eyebrows shoot up, his gaze shifting between the two of us with newfound interest. He leans heavily against a stack of iron crates, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Purse strings, eh? Well now you've got my full, undivided attention," the old quartermaster says, a clever, opportunistic glint entering his eye. "Because the last I checked, Kaelen, you were running from a royal executioner with nothing but the clothes on your back and a stolen sword. So, what brings a 'simple lady' and a disgraced captain into my graveyard? What are we hunting?"

I give Kaelen a pointed look, stepping back just a fraction to let him take the lead. This is his world, his language, and his old crewmate.

Kaelen catches my glance and nods subtly, the easy-going demeanour from this morning hardening instantly into the sharp, no-nonsense presence of a commander. He steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Silas, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the cluttered aisle.

"We need a ship, Silas," Kaelen says, his deep voice cutting through the damp chill of the warehouse. "A heavy hull, three-inch oak at least, rigged for the rough tides. And we need a crew that can keep their mouths shut and their eyes on the horizon."

Silas lets out a dark, mocking whistle, shaking his head. "A heavy hull? For the inner bay? Come on, Kaelen, you don't buy a war-galleon or a heavy merchantman just to run contraband to the mainland. Where are you heading?"

Kaelen leans in, his voice dropping into a low, lethal whisper that barely carries across the space between them.

"The Shattered Coast. Specifically, the trench beneath the Eye of Elas."

The old quartermaster completely freezes. The clever, greedy grin vanishes from his face, replaced by a sudden, stark pallor. He glances frantically toward the heavy iron doors we just came through, as if worried the sea itself might have heard the name, before locking his single good eye onto Kaelen with absolute gravity.

"Are you out of your mind?" Silas whispers harshly, his voice dropping an octave. "The Eye? No one goes near those trenches, Kaelen. The currents alone will smash a ship to splinters against the cliffs, and what's breathing down in those black waters... you know the stories. You served on the vanguard! Ships don't come back from the Elas trenches. They just go down to join the graveyard."

"I'm not asking for a suicide run," Kaelen rumbles, his jaw clenching, his moss-green eyes burning with an unyielding intensity. "I know the risks. We need a salvage vessel. One fitted with a deep-sea diving bell, heavy-duty iron winches, and enough cold iron to line the hull. And I need a crew desperate enough not to ask questions when we drop anchor over the deep."

Silas scoffs, pacing a few steps away, agitatedly rubbing the back of his scarred neck. "Desperate? Kaelen, you're talking about a ghost hunt. Men don't risk the Trench-Weavers for coin. There isn't enough silver in the King's treasury to buy a crew crazy enough to sail into a hellmouth."

Kaelen doesn't say a word. Instead, he reaches into his inner coat pocket.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulls out the heavy velvet pouch. He doesn't open it—he just lets it drop onto a nearby iron crate. It hits the metal with a heavy, substantial thwack, the unmistakable, dense weight of precious stones shifting inside the fabric.

Kaelen pulls the leather cord loose, pulling the neck of the pouch open just enough for the dim warehouse light to catch the interior.

From where I'm standing, I can see the deep, blood-red fire of the rubies gleaming in the dark. Silas stops pacing. He stares at the pouch, his single eye widening until it looks like it might pop right out of his skull. He takes a slow, hesitant step forward, his breath catching in his throat as the sheer wealth of the pouch reflects in his gaze.

"Gods above and below..." Silas breathes, his rough hand trembling slightly as he reaches out, though he doesn't dare touch it yet. "Where in the hell did a disgraced captain get a king's ransom in blood-rubies?"

Kaelen steps in front of the pouch, cutting off Silas's view, his expression completely stone-cold.

"That's none of your business, quartermaster," Kaelen murmurs, his voice dripping with a dangerous, quiet authority. "What is your business is whether this is enough to buy us a ship, a bell, and a crew that will sail into the dark without a peep. Now tell me, Silas... are you going to help us build this expedition, or do I need to take my 'simple lady' and her gold somewhere else?"

Silas looks at me "I know we are asking for a lot, we need people we can trust, you... you look like you come with many years’ experience, you’ve sailed these waters... You know the truth of what lies beneath... We need you."

Silas turns his head slowly, his single good eye shifting away from the glittering rubies to lock onto me. The hard, calculating edge of a black-market fence softens just a fraction, replaced by the heavy, weary exhaustion of a man who has seen too many good sailors swallowed by the sea.

He looks at my earnest face, listening to me appeal not to his greed, but to his survival instincts and his pride.

"Trust," Silas repeats the word like it’s a foreign currency, a low, gruff sigh escaping his chest. He rubs his thick beard, his eyes drifting back to Kaelen, then lingering on me. "You’ve got a dangerous tongue, lady. Most people come in here offering me gold to buy my compliance. You’re offering me gold and asking for my soul."

He steps closer to the iron crate, his boots scraping heavily against the grit. He reaches out, his rough, scarred fingers finally closing around the velvet pouch, but he doesn't open it again. He just weighs it in his hand, feeling the heavy, cold truth of our leverage.

"Thirty years I've watched men sail out of this harbour," Silas says softly, his voice dropping into a sombre, gravelly cadence. "Most of them think they're invincible. But you... you actually look like you know exactly what kind of monster you're hunting. You're terrified, but you're standing here anyway."

He lets out a sharp, decisive breath and shoves the pouch deep into his heavy leather apron.

"Alright," the old quartermaster grunts, a grim but fiercely loyal spark returning to his eye. "The rubies will buy the hull and the silence. But my presence on that deck? That’s for the girl who actually knows how to speak to an old sailor."

He looks at Kaelen, his jaw setting. "I know a three-masted brigantine sitting in a hidden cove three miles north of the cliffs. The Vanguard's Wake. She’s got a double-reinforced oak keel and a moon-pool built right into the centre deck for salvage drops. I’ll assemble a skeleton crew—men who owe me their lives, men who don't believe in ghosts until they're biting their ankles."

Silas turns back to his workbench, grabbing a heavy iron key from a peg. "We start retrofitting the diving bell tonight. If we're going into the Eye of Elas, we don't just need luck, captain. We need a miracle."

Kaelen lets out a breath he seems to have been holding since we walked through the doors, a wave of profound relief washing over his features before he looks down at me, his moss-green eyes shining with an intense, quiet pride.

"Looks like you just recruited our quartermaster, Red," Kaelen murmurs, a small, proud smile touching his lips. "Get ready. We leave for the cove at dusk."