Dawn broke with a slow crawl over the sea, spilling white-gold light across the ragged coastline of the island the Grand Duke had offered. No sails drifted on the horizon. No birds called overhead. There was only wind and salt and silence.
And two figures standing barefoot on sun-warmed sand.
The journey to the island had been offered with courtesy and precision. A well-crewed vessel, packed with enough provisions to last a month, sat waiting at the docks the morning they left. But Arthur and Fedlimid had declined it. As mages, they preferred the sky.
And the sky was faster.
They flew, cutting hours off what would have been a slow and predictable sail. Arthur moved with practiced ease, his command of wind and weight flawless, his cloak flaring like wings behind him. Fedlimid, less comfortable in the air, struggled to maintain altitude. His mana control faltered in uneven flow, his breaths uneven as he slipped through unstable currents.
