Mryn Wayfarer hated Bracing Day.
By nightfall, the Great Houses would hang lanterns and make their vows; by day it meant hard hours preparing for the annual journey to the capital. Gusts beat against his back, peppering his forearms with salt spray blown in from the harbor. He wished the wind were cooler—or that his duties were done and the celebrations begun. Wiping sweat from his brow, he gazed out over the bay, where a bright, briny haze hovered as if the sea itself refused to be forgotten. At eighteen, he stood taller than most dockhands, more angles than muscle, his dark hair tied in the House Adolair dockhand’s braid—a tight single plait from nape to shoulder. Tarred rope and yesterday’s haul thickened the air. Behind him, footsteps scuffed the planks.
“Don’t you just love Bracing Day?”
Mryn stiffened at the sound of Breg’s voice but didn’t turn. He bent for another crate, keeping his voice steady. “Hello, Breg.” How did House Adolair’s cargomaster always find him?
“Looks like they’re working you hard,” the cargomaster said, voice balanced between jest and judgment. “I’ve been searching for you.”
Mryn set the crate on the wagon and turned, his sea-green eyes measuring Breg warily. Breg wore an amused grin. His unkempt hair framed a dark-bearded face; broad shoulders and chest strained the fabric of his shirt. A silver pin—a closed fist entwined with two serpents—fastened his cloak: House Adolair’s crest. He rolled the pin between thumb and forefinger, as if to remind anyone watching whose authority he carried. There was something unsettling in the way the serpents intertwined, Mryn thought, as though whispering to each other. Breg surveyed the load, hooked an elbow over the rail, foot tapping. “Making progress?”
“Trying.”
“Need a hand?” His tone was light.
“Would you offer if I said yes?” The words were out before Mryn could pull them back.
Breg’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. The wagon plank creaked as he shifted. That was the only warning. His hand flashed and struck Mryn across the face. “And deprive you of the honor of serving House Adolair? Never.”
The blow slammed Mryn to the planks; copper flooded his mouth, the pier humming like a struck bell—and from the wagon’s shadow came a low, menacing growl.
Jax slipped out—a silver-grey wolfhound, coat like spun moonlight, eyes storm-washed blue—hackles high, teeth bared. Jax flowed between Breg and Mryn, shoulder brushing Mryn’s knee, at heel.
Terror jolted Mryn upright. No—stay back. Breg’s surprise soured into a sneer as a baton slid into his fist.
“Easy, Jax,” Mryn breathed, spitting blood onto the rusty planks. His heart hammered—more out of fear of what Breg might do to Jax than from the slap’s sting. He was used to Breg’s temper; a bruise was just a bruise. But today Breg seemed especially volatile.
Breg eyed the wolfhound with irritation and caution. “Still dragging that runt around with you?”
“He’s stronger than he looks.”
“Stronger, maybe—still ill-tempered. I only let you keep him because I didn’t think he’d last the week.”
A memory stirred deep within Mryn: a wolfhound pup wedged in the small corner of the smokehouse, reeking of brine, shaking, breath racing under Mryn’s palm. Mryn had wrapped him in his father’s cloak—the last thing that still smelled of Torin—and fed him warm broth by the thumb until dawn.
“He’s just protective, that’s all.”
“Protective! Control your beast, or I will.”
Mryn watched Breg finger the silver pin on his cloak. He’s looking for someone to blame. He always acts like this when things don’t go his way. Jax’s growl faded to a warning hum.
“I’ll keep him in line.”
“See that you do. Wouldn’t want his miraculous survival cut short through your negligence.”
Mryn sighed. “What can I do for you, Breg?”
“I need a favor.”
A favor? Mryn kept his expression neutral as he dared a glance at the cargomaster, who gazed out toward the seawall. “What sort of favor?”
"The gates need closing," Breg said, gesturing toward the sluice gates that controlled the salt channels.
Mryn felt a knot form in his stomach. "What about the spice runs?”
“Not today.”
“All of them?"
"That's right."
"That'll take hours," Mryn protested. "I won't finish here in time for tonight."
Breg shrugged. "Orders are orders. Finn and Joren said you're the best man for the job."
Mryn made a mental note to have a word with his friends. "Can't someone else do it?"
"Everyone's tied up. Besides, you're already behind schedule here." Breg’s smirk held no humor.
Defeated, Mryn sighed. If not for Jax, he might have argued more, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if Breg struck him again and didn’t want to find out. "Fine. But can you at least try to find someone else to help me finish loading? I..." Mryn’s voice trailed off as he glanced futilely at Breg. Whatever Breg might say, he already knew the answer.
Breg gave a half-smile. "Sure."
Mryn exhaled, nodding.
Breg’s gaze narrowed expectantly, and Mryn remained quiet, keeping his expression neutral. As the cargomaster turned to leave, Mryn noticed Breg heavily favoring one leg.
“Are you injured?” He regretted the words immediately.
Breg halted mid-stride. Mryn tensed for a blow, then let his breath go when he saw the cargomaster was several steps out of reach.
“Mind your work.”
Jax nudged forward, a low growl threading the air. “Easy,” Mryn said without looking down, his palm settling on the ruff; the rumble ebbed.
Breg’s smile collapsed into a scowl as he looked over his shoulder. “Why do you persist in provoking me, Mryn? When Torin Wayfarer died, House Adolair took you in out of respect for your father. They offered you a position as a cargo handler—a coveted role many desire. Have you considered how your mother and sister would survive if you continue this disrespect? The streets of Loc Evers are unkind to attractive young women. How long before Lillian becomes some nobleman’s plaything? How long before your entire family is destitute?”
Lillian’s laugh flickered up in Mryn’s thoughts—saffron ribbon at her wrist, a peel-knife hidden in her boot—and his mother’s hands, folded around a chipped mug.
Mryn’s face flushed red, but he looked away without a word. Keep your head. Keep the wage.
"I could have convinced the masters not to take you on," Breg continued. "Perhaps I should now. Now, get back to work before I lay hands on you again." Despite his threat, Breg’s voice lacked the conviction from earlier, sounding tired. Jax pressed closer. Mryn swallowed whatever rose in his throat and nodded once.
Mryn dared to watch as Breg walked away, half-expecting him to look back. His limp seemed more pronounced now, and Mryn wondered what mishap could have befallen the ill-tempered cargomaster who’d always seemed impenetrable.
"Come on, Jax," he called. "Looks like we've got even more work to do."
With Breg gone, Jax barked and bounded up, tail wagging.
They wound toward the seawall through rock-cut switchbacks. The stones were stained nearly black at the high-tide line. Salt grass brushed Mryn’s boots. Damp hung in the air; brine pricked his tongue. Jax ranged and returned, settling to Mryn’s heel on the narrow steps.
Gate by gate, Mryn set to work. Each had a big iron wheel and a latch. He kicked the latch loose, set his shoulder to it, and turned until the teeth began to click. A chain unspooled somewhere inside the stone, and down in the channel a heavy slab lowered into place, choking the flow. He slid a bar through the brackets to hold it, made sure the water stilled, and moved on.
By the third gate his forearms burned; by the fifth, a hot blister budded under old callus. The damp line rose from his hip to his ribs as noon bled into late-day amber. Jax waited when he worked, nose to the wind, then padded after him when the clicks went quiet.
When he locked the last gate, shadows pooled across the flats; a chill breathed up from the channels. As Mryn wiped his hands, movement caught his eye. At the far end of the tidal runs, a knot of guards had gathered, pointing toward the harbor. Guards patrolling the spice flats weren’t unusual; the Great Houses often employed guards to protect their operations. But seeing this many in one place was... rare. “What’s stirred them up?” Mryn muttered, narrowing his eyes to catch a clearer view.
He flexed numb fingers and turned back to his stretch of wall. Only then did he feel how far the day had slipped. The sun that had sat high when he started was now behind a bank of dark cloud. An onshore wind shouldered in, kelp on it, carrying the sharp tang of the sea along with something... unfamiliar. Mryn shivered and glanced nervously at Jax.
A thin fog formed along the water’s edge, blending at first with the mist from the crashing waves. But soon, it thickened, creeping up the seawall with uncanny swiftness.
"That's odd," Mryn muttered, feeling a prickling at the back of his neck.
Jax pressed against his leg, ears perked. "You sense it too, boy?" Mryn asked, running a hand over the dog’s coarse ruff.
The fog grew thicker, wrapping everything in a blanket of white until Mryn couldn’t see two feet in front of him. The world around him became muffled; the bustling sounds of the docks faded into an unsettling quiet, interrupted only by the crashing of waves. Mryn cautiously took a step forward, but even the ground beneath his feet felt unsteady.
Suddenly, Jax growled—a deep, menacing sound Mryn had never heard from him before.
"Easy, Jax. What's wrong?" He reached out, but the dog took a stiff-legged step away, eyes fixed ahead, hackles raised.
Before Mryn could react, Jax barked sharply and bolted into the fog.
"Jax!" Mryn shouted, heart pounding. He lunged forward but grasped only empty air. A moment later, the splash of something hitting the water echoed through the haze.
Panic surged through him. "Jax!" he yelled again, voice straining against the oppressive mist. He listened, straining.
A faint whimper reached his ears—or did he imagine it? The wind picked up, whipping the fog into swirling patterns. The once-familiar seawall felt alien, each step uncertain.
He hesitated and, for the first time he could recall, felt genuinely afraid. The fog pressed close and swallowed sound; the world ended an arm’s length from his fingers. The waters were treacherous, especially with the tide turning.
Without thinking, he tore at the laces and kicked free—barefoot on wet planks, cold climbing his legs. Harbor jumps, yes; the outflow, no. Deep water scared him. Jax was family. He edged to the brink. A bark—sharp. He filled his lungs and jumped.
The shock of the cold was like a thousand needles piercing his skin. The current seized him, pulling him away from the seawall. Mryn struggled to orient himself, the fog blinding him in every direction. "Jax!" he called out, his voice swallowed by the roar of the waves.
He kicked desperately, his muscles screaming in protest. The water sapped his strength faster than he could muster it. With no sense of direction, he swam forward, the fog twisting everything, turning his bearing into a meaningless concept.
“Jax!” he shouted. “I’m coming!” His voice was weaker now, his limbs numb. Panic clawed at his chest as he began to gulp in mouthfuls of seawater. Coughing and sputtering, he felt his body begin to sink.
Darkness edged his vision. Is this really happening? Panic seared through him as he fought futilely against the tumultuous sea. The fragility of his own mortality stared him in the face when strong hands suddenly grabbed his collar, hauling him upward. Mryn broke the surface, gasping for air.
“Got him!” a voice shouted.
Hands locked under his arms; oars thudded, lines sang. A rope bit across his ribs—“Haul!”—the world lifted and spun, lantern light smearing. Someone barked, “Mind the dog—hold fast!”
Then wood under his cheek, open sky above, lungs burning as he coughed brine.
"What were you thinking, boy? Trying to swim in this soup?" a gruff voice said. Mryn heaved and coughed up seawater, gasping for breath as he huddled shivering. A burly sailor with a thick beard and a weathered face loomed over him.
"I... my dog..." Mryn managed between ragged breaths.
“Aye, we had him first,” the sailor said. “Bow watch spotted the pair of you. You’re lucky.”
Jax was already there, pressed to Mryn’s ribs—wet rope slack around his chest while a sailor worried the knot free. The wolfhound lifted his head, gave one hoarse huff, and then shook himself hard, spraying seawater over the ring of sailors.
“Watch it!” someone yelped, hopping back as drops pattered the deck.
The burly sailor chuckled. “Is this your beast?”
Mryn nodded weakly, reaching out to touch Jax's damp fur. "You're okay," he whispered, relief flooding over him.
"Not sure which of you is the bigger fool," the sailor said, though not unkindly. "Do you have a death wish?"
Another sailor, a woman with sharp eyes and a scar slicing through her brow, approached.
"Enough, Maldar. He’s not out of the woods just yet. The lad's half-frozen." She turned to Mryn.
"Can you stand?"
Before he could respond, the woman began shouting orders. "Bring him below deck and get him out of those wet clothes before he catches his death!"
Several sailors stooped and hauled Mryn to his feet. His legs felt like jelly, and he swayed unsteadily. As they guided him toward a hatch, Mryn glanced back at the fog-shrouded harbor, his gaze lingering.
The woman noticed his stare and gave him a curious look. "The fog?"
Mryn nodded, his teeth chattering. "What is it?"
She hesitated. “Sometimes precautions are necessary. Best not to ask too many questions.” Her gaze flicked toward the shrouded rail. “We’re under Council summons—quiet arrival, decks cleared. What’s your name?”
“Mryn,” he said. “Mryn Wayfarer.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she quickly masked it. "Wayfarer, you say?" she murmured. "Well, Mryn Wayfarer, questions later—let's get you below deck before you freeze solid."
She nodded to the sailors. "Help him along."
As Mryn descended into the ship's interior, the warmth of the enclosed space washed over him. The corridors were narrow, lit by swaying lanterns that cast flickering shadows on the wooden walls.
The sailor who had been leading the way pushed open a door to a small cabin. “Here,” he said, standing to one side to allow Mryn to pass. Tall and lean, he had dark skin with a neatly trimmed beard speckled with gray. He had a faded, indecipherable tattoo on his forearm, and a silver hoop glinted in his left ear. "There should be some dry clothes in that chest," he said, gesturing. "Change quickly. I'll be outside if you need anything. Name's Lestrand."
Mryn nodded, grateful. "Thank you, Lestrand," he said. As he stepped into the cabin, Lestrand's eyes widened briefly, catching sight of the welt on Mryn's cheek. Mryn’s hand went instinctively to the tender spot where Breg had struck him earlier. "Just a scrape,” he said. “Must've happened when I fell into the water."
Lestrand raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "What ship is this?" Mryn asked, hoping to divert the sailor's attention.
"You don't recognize the Stormchaser?" Lestrand replied with a hint of pride.
"Stormchaser?" Mryn echoed, his eyes widening as recognition struck. He knew the name—one of the flagships of House Adolair—but his knowledge went no further.
Lestrand noticed his reaction. "Surprised you haven't heard of her."
"I've heard stories," Mryn admitted. "I’m a cargo handler. I work the docks at Loc Evers."
"Is that so?" Lestrand studied him for a moment, his gaze lingering on Mryn's worn clothes and the welt on his cheek. “Right now the decks are restricted. Captain Selene will want a word—Adolair hand aboard during a quiet run, and a wolfhound on her planks. We’ll log you after you’re warm.”
Lestrand closed the door, leaving Mryn and Jax alone. Opening the chest, Mryn found a simple tunic and trousers—a bit big but serviceable. The tunic, a deep blue, featured subtle wave-patterned embroidery along the cuffs.
Stripping off his soaked clothes, he noticed the bruises and cuts all over his body from his harrowing ordeal. His long dark hair had come loose, so he gathered it back and cinched it with a leather tie. He then sank onto the bed.
"Warm clothes and a soft bed," he said toward Jax. "Maybe our luck is turning."
Jax tilted his head, then suddenly perked up, sniffing the air.
"What is it?" Mryn asked.
Jax padded toward the far end of the cabin, where another door stood slightly ajar. A faint light spilled through the gap.
"Wait, Jax," Mryn whispered, but the wolfhound nosed the door open and slipped inside.
Mryn groaned and forced his aching body upright, then followed Jax into the next room. Dim light revealed rows of crates and barrels, but what truly seized his attention was the iron-barred cell in the corner. A girl lay on a narrow cot inside, her back turned to them.
"Hello?" Mryn called softly.
She stirred, turning slowly to face him. Pale skin framed by dark hair cascading over her shoulders made her striking, but her eyes captivated him most—silver and luminous, reflecting the lantern light like mirrors.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, without warning, a strange sensation washed over Mryn. The room seemed to tilt. His vision blurred, and he felt nauseous.
He blinked and, through iron bars, saw someone standing across the room. It took him a moment to realize that the sea-green eyes wide with confusion were his own. The oversized tunic hung loosely on his frame.
"What..." he murmured.
Jax trotted toward the girl, tail wagging enthusiastically as if greeting an old friend.
"Jax, no!" Mryn managed to call out, snapping back into himself. He reached out and caught the wolfhound's fur just in time, holding him back.
The girl sat up fully now, eyes wide with surprise. She raised a finger to her lips in a silencing motion, then shook her head gently as if warning him.
"What is it?" Mryn whispered, his mouth dry.
Before she could answer, footsteps echoed from the corridor.
"Mryn?" It was Captain Selene's voice calling out. "Where've you gotten to?"
Panic surged through him. He gently pulled Jax back, slipping out of the room and closing the door quietly behind him. Just as he stepped into the cabin, Selene appeared in the doorway.
"There you are," she said, a hint of annoyance in her tone. Her sharp eyes took in his changed clothes and the damp footprints leading back toward the other door.
"Sorry," Mryn said quickly. "I was just—"
Her gaze flicked to the door behind him but didn't comment. "The fog will clear within a few hours, and then we’ll dock. In the meantime, you should rest. I’ll have some food brought down for you both."
Selene paused, her gaze softening slightly. "You gave us quite a scare. You're lucky we spotted you, or you'd have drowned. What were you thinking?"
"I couldn't leave Jax," Mryn said, glancing down at his companion. "He jumped. I think the fog made him... not himself."
Selene's stern expression eased into a faint smile. "Loyalty's a fine trait. Just don't let it get you killed." She turned to leave but hesitated. "Oh, and Mryn?"
"Yes?"
"Stay away from restricted areas. For your own good."
With that, she departed, leaving Mryn alone once more.
He sat on the narrow bunk, his mind swirling with more questions than answers. Who was the girl? Was she a prisoner? And what was that strange vision? He tried to dismiss it as exhaustion, but the memory lingered, unsettling.
"What were you doing, Jax?" Mryn murmured, stroking the wolfhound's thick fur. Perhaps that’s what worried him the most. What had made his silver-grey companion leap into the depths, nearly killing them both? "Don't make me do that again, please," he said softly.
Jax's eyes had already closed, his breathing slow and steady. Mryn felt his own fatigue pressing in, the events of the day finally catching up. He lay back on the bunk, pulling a worn blanket over himself. As his eyes drifted shut, the image of the girl's silver eyes lingered in his mind, along with her silent warning: stay quiet.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him into a dreamless sleep.