Leona

Estaria wiped his eyes with his sleeve, the rough fabric scratching his face. The busy streets of Tidalrest bustled around him, merchants hawking their wares and dock workers hauling cargo. The familiar scents of fish, salt, and tar mingled with the aroma of fresh bread from nearby bakeries.

He took a deep breath, letting the morning air fill his lungs. The sharp tang of the sea helped clear his head. Clara had mentioned Leona’s bakery during their journey - something about it being near the old clock tower, just past the merchant district. His eyes swept the skyline until he spotted the weathered structure rising above the surrounding buildings.

The cobblestone streets were already warming under the morning sun as he made his way through the merchant district. Shopkeepers arranged their displays, and early customers haggled over prices. A cart loaded with vegetables rumbled past, the wooden wheels clattering against the stones.

Estaria’s mind worked through the timing as he walked. The bank withdrawal felt like ages ago, though only three days had passed. His mother’s efficiency was legendary - she’d have runners moving fast, but even they couldn’t outrun time itself. Two days for word to reach Appledale, another two back, plus time to gather her local contacts. Even at their fastest, her men wouldn’t be ready for at least another day.

The thought steadied him. He had time to breathe, to think clearly. The weight of the past few days - the flight from Appledale, protecting Sara and the girls, arranging their passage - began to ease slightly from his shoulders.

The clock tower’s shadow stretched across the street as he approached. Several bakeries dotted this area, their warm, sweet scents filling the air. Estaria paused, studying each storefront. The third one caught his eye - a modest building with fresh paint and clean windows. Through the glass, he could see loaves of bread arranged artfully on wooden shelves.

A bell chimed softly as he pushed open the door. The interior was warm and inviting, with golden light streaming through the windows. Behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with graying hair tied back in a neat bun looked up from where she was arranging pastries.

“Welcome to Leona’s,” she said warmly. “What can I get for you today?”

Estaria approached the counter, taking in the displays of bread and sweets. Everything looked perfect - almost too perfect. He’d grown up around bakers, had watched Angel work countless times. These goods showed the same careful attention to detail she’d always used.

“Just looking for now,” he replied, noting how her eyes tracked his movement. There was something familiar in her gaze - the same sharp assessment he’d seen in Angel’s eyes when evaluating produce at market. “Angel always spoke highly of your cinnamon rolls.”

Leona’s expression shifted subtly. “Angel? Angel Blush?”

“Yes.” Estaria’s throat tightened. “She was my…” The words stuck.

For a moment, Leona simply studied him. Then, her expression softened.

“Oh.” Understanding softened Leona’s features. “You must be Estaria. Angel wrote to me about you.” She glanced around the empty shop before continuing in a lower voice. “She was a dear friend. I was devastated to hear about the fire.”

Estaria nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The smell of fresh bread and cinnamon brought back memories of mornings in Angel’s kitchen, watching her work while sharing quiet conversations.

“Let me get you something to eat,” Leona said, already moving to wrap up several pastries. “On the house. Angel would never forgive me if I let you leave hungry.”

As she worked, Estaria studied the layout of the shop. Two doors led to the back - one presumably to the kitchen, the other likely to storage or living quarters. The windows offered clear views of the street in both directions. Strategic, he thought, noting how Leona positioned herself to keep both the entrance and the back doors in sight.

The bell chimed again as another customer entered. Leona handed Estaria a paper-wrapped package, her movements efficient but unhurried.

“Come back anytime,” she said, her tone carrying layers of meaning. “Friends of Angel are always welcome here.”

Estaria nodded his thanks, and he sat at one of the pristinely kept tables. He had hours yet before he needed to disappear into the city’s shadows. For now, he could take a moment to enjoy some pastries.

The morning crowd thinned as Estaria finished his second pastry. The sweetness lingered on his tongue, reminding him of shared breakfasts with Angel. His fingers traced the worn edge of the table, feeling the smoothness that came from years of careful maintenance.

Leona approached his table, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. She settled into the chair across from him with a familiarity that suggested years of similar conversations. She placed a small box on the table, pushing it toward him. Inside, dozens of letters from Angel.

“Angel used to write about you,” she said, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “She’d tell me about this young man who’d steal flowers from other people’s gardens to give to her.”

Heat crept up Estaria’s neck. “She told you about that?”

“Oh yes. And about how you’d climb up to her window at night, thinking you were being so sneaky.” Leona chuckled. “Her father knew the whole time, you know.”

The memory sparked a laugh from Estaria. “I never knew that.”

“That’s Angel for you - always finding ways to help people, even when they didn’t know it.” Leona’s voice carried a hint of nostalgia. “Remember when she convinced half the town that beetles in the apple orchard were good luck?”

“The harvest festival!” Estaria leaned forward. “She decorated all those jars with ribbons and convinced everyone that catching beetles would bring fortune. The orchards were cleared in two days.”

“And not a single person realized she’d tricked them into pest control.” Leona shook her head, smiling. “That girl could talk her way out of anything. Remember the incident with Mrs. Pembroke’s prize roses?”

As they shared stories, the weight in Estaria’s chest began to shift. Each memory brought Angel closer, made her feel more present than she had in weeks. His hand drifted to his boot, fingers brushing against the familiar shape of her dagger.

The touch sent a jolt through him. Suddenly, he was back in their kitchen, watching Angel demonstrate proper knife technique, to Clara and Beth. Angel’s patience when Clara cut herself, and cried.

His throat tightened as more memories rushed in. Angel teaching Clara how to braid Beth’s hair. The way she’d hum while kneading bread, her hands working with confident precision. The slight wrinkle in her nose when she concentrated. The warmth of her smile when she told him about the baby.

“Estaria?” Leona’s voice pulled him back to the present. Her expression held understanding, tinged with concern.

He exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes. The shop, the table, the scent of fresh bread—all came rushing back at once. He realized his cheeks were wet. “Sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “It’s just… sometimes it feels like I’m forgetting her. Like the memories are slipping away.”

“That’s grief for you,” Leona said softly. “It comes in waves. Some days you think you’re fine, and then something small - a smell, a sound - brings it all rushing back.”

“She loved your raspberry tarts,” Estaria said, his voice rough. “Used to say they were better than her mother’s, but we could never tell her mother that.”

Leona laughed. “She’d come in every week, trying to figure out my secret ingredient. Got closer than anyone else ever has.”

“Did she ever guess it?”

“Almost. Her last letter said she thought she’d finally cracked it.” Leona’s smile turned wistful. “She was going to visit after the baby came, to see if she was right.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windows. Estaria glanced around, suddenly realizing how quiet the shop had become.

The ‘Open’ sign had been flipped to ‘Closed,’ though he hadn’t noticed when it happened. The other customers had disappeared, leaving them alone among the empty tables and cooling ovens.

“How long have we been talking?” he asked, straightening in his chair.

“A few hours,” Leona said, standing and brushing crumbs from her apron. “I know how to recognize someone who needs a friend. Angel taught me that, too.”

Leona gathered the empty plates from their table. “You look exhausted. I have a spare bunk in the back if you need rest.”

Estaria glanced out the window, surprised to see the sun hanging low in the sky. The afternoon had slipped away during their conversation. His stomach growled, reminding him that pastries, however delicious, weren’t quite enough.

“Thank you. I should probably get some real food first though,” he said, standing up. “Man cannot survive on pastries alone, no matter how good they are.”

Leona chuckled “I take no offense. You are absolutely right. The bunk will be ready when you return.” Leona disappeared into the back of the shop, her footsteps fading on the wooden floor.

The evening air had cooled considerably as Estaria stepped outside. A few doors down, the aroma of roasted meat and herbs wafted from The Sailor’s Rest. Inside, the tavern bustled with early dinner patrons, the clink of cutlery and low rumble of conversation wrapping around him like a familiar blanket.

He found a quiet corner table near the window, where the noise dulled to a tolerable murmur.

The proprietor—a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and an easy, practiced grin—strolled over. “Not seen you in here before. Passing through, or looking to settle?”

Estaria gave a noncommittal shrug. “Just hungry.”

“Aren’t we all,” the man said, already jotting the order. “Lamb stew’s fresh. Bread’s still warm. I’ll have Gira bring it right out.”

He lingered a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking over Estaria’s coat, boots, posture—like he was memorizing the shape of him for later use. Then, with a nod that said I’ll remember you, he moved on to the next table.

Estaria exhaled, already regretting choosing a place where the owner liked to talk.

While he waited, he caught snippets of the man’s voice drifting over from a nearby table.

While he waited, he caught snippets of the proprietor’s voice drifting over from a nearby table.

“—and they finally caught them! The pirates that sailed the Dawnrunner.”

A woman’s laugh followed. “Took them long enough. Whole crew vanished like smoke after that stunt in the bay.”

“Bah. They’ll hang ‘em in Luminara, if they make it that far.”

Estaria leaned back slightly. The tavern smelled of lamb and spiced wine, but his appetite remained cautious. Across the room, the proprietor moved between tables like a man tending stories instead of customers—planting questions, harvesting gossip.

The food arrived—a generous bowl of stew with thick bread—and Estaria dug in. It was exactly what he needed: rich, filling, hot. He scraped the bowl clean and pushed the plate aside, pulling out three gold pieces and setting them on the table.

The proprietor returned to collect the payment, but as he picked up the coins, he paused. He rubbed them between his fingers, frowning slightly, then turned back toward the table.

“I’m not familiar with this mint,” he said, tone light but curious. “Feels true enough, but I’ll have to weigh it out. That alright?”

Estaria looked up, distracted. “Yeah. No problem.”

The man lingered. Then he held up one of the coins, letting the lamplight catch the profile stamped into it—strong jaw, hair swept back, eyes forward.

Klindon Valens.

“You know this woman?” the proprietor asked.

Estaria’s stomach turned. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Why?”

The man studied him now with interest. “She was here not long ago. Either her or her twin. Had a bit of a row with Leona. Big enough that half the square stepped out to watch.”

He tapped the coin once against the wood. “Leona never fights. Not like that. But this woman? She had the kind of presence you don’t forget.”

Estaria stared at the coin in the man’s hand, pulse thudding in his ears.

“You’ll know her soon enough,” he said quietly.

The proprietor raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? How’s that?”

Estaria didn’t respond. He stood abruptly, slipping the ledger back into his coat. “I have to go.”

The man stepped back, watching him with narrowed eyes as he left.

Outside, the square had emptied, shadows stretching long in the fading light. The once-inviting facade of Leona’s bakery now loomed with quiet menace. His eyes traced the sign above the door—the curling leaf, the vines woven into its edges.

What are you hiding, Leona?

He traced the design of the Bakery’s sign with his eyes. The longer he stared, the more familiar it felt, but not in the way he’d expected. This wasn’t tied to memories of Angel or their visits to Tidalrest.

He caressed Angel’s dagger, inviting the pain and loss back, as he sorted through his memories. Not from his childhood in Appledale. Not from his mother’s network of informants and business partners. Not from…

His hand froze. His mother’s network. The ledger.

Heart pounding, Estaria pulled the green leather-bound book from his pack. The tavern’s lantern light cast a warm glow over the pages as he flipped through them, scanning entries until he found what he sought. There, in his father’s precise handwriting: the entry about the Creshers.

In the margin, a small sketch, in his father’s hand, accompanied the notes, marking the Creshers. And right below the sketch, a nearly identical one, in his mother’s hand, labeled simply “Streacresh.” The only difference between the two was an extra leaf, curling downward, on the Cresher sigil. Estaria’s blood ran cold as he compared them to the bakery sign across the street … and there it was—the extra leaf, curling downward like a hidden root.

A chill crept up his spine. The bakery, the warmth, the stories—it had all felt so real. So safe. But how much of it had been a mask? The afternoon’s conversation replayed in his mind - Leona’s careful positioning in the shop, the way she’d cleared out other customers, her detailed knowledge of Angel. Knowledge that could have come from letters, yes, but also from watching. Observing. Gathering information.

The pastries churned in his stomach. Leona, with her warm smile and shared memories, was a Cresher. The same group his father’s ledger linked to several disappearances in Appledale. And now his mother had apparently confronted them. What was the shouting about? Had she threatened to expose Leona? Or had she been trying to strike some sort of deal?

Estaria stared at his half-empty mug, his mind racing through the implications. The spare bunk Leona had offered. The isolated back room. The way she’d so carefully cultivated trust through shared memories of Angel.

Angel. Had she known? The thought hit him like a physical blow. No, he decided firmly. Angel’s letters had been real - he’d seen enough of them to recognize her handwriting, her way of expressing herself. But had Leona used that connection? Gathered those details to make her role more convincing?

Through the window, he watched as Leona moved about her shop, extinguishing lamps for the night. Her movements were efficient, practiced - just like everything else about her carefully constructed facade. Each gesture felt different now, loaded with new meaning.

The design on the sign seemed to mock him, its true significance now impossible to unsee. All those victims in his father’s ledger, all those disappeared people - had some of them passed through this very shop? Sat at that same table where he’d spent the afternoon sharing memories? Trusted that same warm smile?

The coins he’d used to pay for his meal felt heavier in retrospect. Had his mother used the same currency to try buying silence? Information? Protection? The proprietor’s words about their argument suggested she’d failed, whatever her goal had been.

The proprietor’s gaze kept drifting to Estaria’s table, his bushy eyebrows drawing closer together with each pass. The man’s fingers drummed against the bar in an increasingly agitated rhythm.

Estaria opened the ledger again, studying the entry. His mother’s elegant script caught his eye: “Streacresh.” The word resonated within him, like a plucked string vibrating through his chest. That pull, that inexplicable draw he’d felt his entire life, intensified. His fingers traced the letters, and warmth spread through his hand.

He closed the book, drumming his fingers on its worn cover. Leona knew something - perhaps many things. The way she’d spoken about Angel carried genuine emotion, not the calculated manipulation he’d come to recognize from his mother. Even if Leona was a Cresher, she’d cared for Angel. That had to mean something.

The proprietor cleared his throat loudly, pointedly wiping down a nearby table. “Kitchen’s closed,” he announced to no one in particular, though his meaning was clear enough.

Estaria stood, tucking the ledger safely away. The weight of it against his chest felt different now - not just evidence of his parents’ crimes, but perhaps a key to understanding this mysterious group and their connection to Streacresh. His mother’s confrontation with Leona suggested there was more here than simple criminal enterprise.

The evening air had cooled further, carrying the salt tang of the sea. His boots scuffed against the cobblestones as he crossed the street. Each step felt heavy with purpose, his mind racing through possible approaches. Direct confrontation would likely drive her away. But maybe, if he played this carefully, he could learn something about these Creshers - and why that word “Streacresh” pulled at him so insistently.

The bell chimed as he pushed open the door. Leona looked up from her cleaning, that same warm smile spreading across her face. “Back already? The bunk’s all ready, just like I promised.”

Estaria stepped inside, letting the familiar scents of bread and sugar wrap around him. The shop felt different now - both welcoming and dangerous, like a beautiful flower that might be poisonous to touch. But he’d come too far to turn back now.

“Thank you,” he said, matching her smile with one of his own.

Estaria stepped into the bakery, the familiar warmth washing over him, mingling now with a faint tension. Leona glanced up from cleaning the counter, her expression softening into the same warm smile he’d seen earlier—though he noticed the subtle caution hidden behind her eyes.

“Back already?” she said, hands busy wiping flour from the smooth countertop. “The bunk’s all ready, just like I promised.”

Estaria returned her smile, carefully casual. He watched Leona’s reaction as he dropped his mother’s minted coins on the counter between them. “For the business you lost by closing early.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed for a moment before she glanced down. She turned one of the coins slowly between her fingers, her voice light. “You know, someone who looked a lot like this visited recently. She was… difficult to forget.”

Estaria raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting.

Leona shook her head softly, almost exasperated. “Her presence alone nearly brought the entire guard down on this place with her pig-headedness.”She looked up, meeting Estaria’s eyes. “I’ve no patience for the tedium of explaining myself to bureaucrats. I’d hate for my friends to be inconvenienced by guards’ questions.”

Estaria gave a faint, knowing smile. “Few things are worse than officials poking around. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Leona hesitated for just an instant, knuckles tightening briefly against the countertop before relaxing again. Her voice softened slightly, nostalgic yet guarded. “Angel had a way of reading people. She knew who was worth trusting and who wasn’t.”

Estaria exhaled gently, gaze dropping briefly to the polished wood countertop. “Trust isn’t straightforward, but Angel was always adventurous. I loved that about her.”

A gentle warmth softened Leona’s expression, but her eyes never fully lost their sharp edge. “I couldn’t always be there to guide her, but she always moved forward fearlessly.”

Estaria considered Leona’s words carefully, a faint smile touching his lips. “Angel had a way of meeting trouble head-on—and somehow, she always left with new friends.”

Leona studied him thoughtfully, clearly weighing his words. The silence stretched just enough to underscore its significance before she spoke again.

“There’s a caravan leaving in two days,” she said finally, her voice gentle yet firm, filled with meaning beneath the surface. “Heading for Groveller’s Pass. Quiet people—pilgrims, merchants. The roads can be dangerous alone.”

Estaria felt the pull of her offer, the gravity behind her careful phrasing. He took his time before responding, carefully masking the rapid beat of his pulse beneath a calm exterior.

“Two days,” he repeated softly. “Sounds about right.”

Leona nodded gently, as if the matter was settled. “Until then, you’re welcome to rest here. Angel’s friends have nothing to fear within these walls.”

“Thank you,” he said simply.

She inclined her head, picking up the coin once more. “Rest well, Estaria.”

As he walked toward the back, the warmth of the bakery wrapped around him, now feeling more complex, more charged. He sensed clearly that he’d stepped deeper into a subtle and dangerous dance.

⁂

Dawn crept over Tidalrest, painting the town in shades of amber and rose. Estaria’s heart pounded as they emerged from the forest path. The girls walked close to Sara, their small hands clutching her skirts while Estaria led the way.

The early morning air carried the sharp scent of salt and fish. Market vendors were just beginning to set up their stalls, more focused on their preparations than the small group making their way through the streets.

“Stay close,” Estaria murmured, keeping his pace measured and calm despite his racing pulse.

A cart rattled past, loaded with barrels of fresh-caught fish. Beth wrinkled her nose at the smell, but kept quiet. Clara’s eyes darted everywhere, taking in the unfamiliar sights of the port town. Sara maintained a firm grip on both girls’ shoulders, her face set in a carefully neutral expression.

They passed the bank where Estaria had withdrawn the money. The windows remained dark, Master Goldweather not yet arrived for the day’s business. Estaria’s hand instinctively touched the money pouch hidden beneath his shirt.

The crowds began to thicken as they approached the docks. Sailors hauled cargo, merchants haggled over prices, and dock workers shouted instructions. The cacophony of normal port business helped mask their presence.

“Look,” Clara whispered, pointing toward the water. “Is that the ship?”

Estaria followed her gaze to where Captain Mei’s vessel sat moored at the dock. The unique figurehead - carved to resemble a two-tailed dragon - confirmed it was the right one. Relief flooded through him.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s the one.”

“Look at that dragon!” Clara breathed. “It has two tails!”

Estaria’s eyes followed Clara’s pointing finger, focusing on the carved dragon figurehead. The early morning sun caught the deep black wood, making the scales seem to shimmer. The dual tails curled elegantly around the bow of the ship, their tips disappearing beneath the waterline. Something about the carving pulled at him - it seemed more alive than mere wood should be.

“It’s beautiful,” Sara whispered, her earlier tension momentarily forgotten.

A flicker of movement drew Estaria’s attention upward. He blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no - there, perched on the highest yard of the mainmast, sat a real dragon. It was small, no larger than a pony, with scales as black as midnight. Two tails, just like the figurehead, wrapped around the wooden beam. The creature’s head tilted, observing them with intelligent eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian.

Beth tugged at his sleeve. “Estaria, is that…”

“Yes,” he breathed. “A real dragon.”

The dragon unfurled its wings, displaying a wingspan twice its body length. Sunlight caught the delicate membrane between the wing bones, revealing subtle patterns that shifted like oil on water. A row of obsidian spines ran down its back, catching the light with each subtle movement.

As they watched, the dragon chirped - a sound surprisingly musical for such a fearsome-looking creature. It launched itself from the yard, gliding down in a surprisingly ungraceful spiral. It almost seemed that the dragon couldn’t quite find its balance in the air. Several dock workers scrambled out of the way as it landed on a stack of crates near the gangplank.

Up close, Estaria could see the dragon was young. Its proportions had the gangly quality of adolescence, like a puppy not quite grown into its paws. The scales, while glossy, lacked the battle scars he’d expect on an adult dragon. It cocked its head, studying them with unabashed curiosity.

One tail swished through the air while the other tapped a rhythmic pattern on the crate. The dragon’s body language was remarkably expressive, somehow conveying both welcome and amusement. A series of chirps and soft hisses emerged from its throat, though Estaria couldn’t begin to guess their meaning.

“It’s talking to us,” Clara whispered, eyes wide with wonder.

The dragon bobbed its head in what seemed like agreement, then stretched its neck forward to sniff at them. Estaria held perfectly still as the creature’s warm breath ruffled his hair. After a moment, it pulled back and made a sound remarkably like a laugh.

Beth giggled. “It tickles!”

The dragon’s tails swayed in what appeared to be happiness, and it shuffled its wings, settling them more comfortably against its sides. The morning sun caught its scales at a new angle, revealing subtle variations in the black coloring - hints of deep blue and purple that shimmered like stars in a night sky.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Sara murmured, her earlier wariness replaced by awe.

Looking at the dragon’s playful demeanor and careful movements around the children, Estaria understood why Captain Mei had seemed so proud when speaking of her unusual crew member. This wasn’t some mindless beast - the intelligence in those eyes was unmistakable.

The dragon chirped again, this time directing its attention to something behind them. Estaria turned to see Captain Mei approaching, a knowing smile on her face.

“I see you’ve met our Akrin,” she said, coming to stand beside them. “He’s quite the charmer when we have guests.”

“Welcome aboard the Dragon’s Wake,” she said. “We’ll be casting off within the hour. Mister Chen will show you to your cabin.”

Akrin’s tails swayed as Beth giggled, his body language radiating satisfaction. But as the laughter faded, his head tilted, and his bright eyes flicked between them—Clara’s quiet awe, Beth’s lingering excitement, Estaria’s carefully controlled expression.

The dragon’s posture shifted. His wings tucked in closer, his tails slowing to a thoughtful rhythm. Then, in a melodic keen, the dragon spoke words that Estaria understood.

“This is your goodbye.”

Estaria stiffened. The words, low and certain, covered Estaria in warmth and understanding. Akrin’s gaze settled on him, unblinking.

“I’ll take good care of them when you’re gone,” and with a sympathetic nudge, Akrin turned toward the stern, and curled up in the sun, watching their goodbye with interest.

A lump rose in Estaria’s throat. He turned back to the girls, and their glee at their first encounter with a dragon turned solemn when they looked back to Estaria.

The wooden deck creaked beneath his boots as he dropped to one knee, bringing himself level with Beth and Clara.

Beth’s lower lip trembled. Her small hands twisted in the fabric of her dress - the same dress she’d worn fleeing Appledale, now travel-worn and dusty. The morning sun caught the tears welling in her eyes.

“Beth” Estaria said softly.

She flung herself into his arms, her slight frame shaking with sobs. The familiar scent of woodsmoke still clung to her hair, a reminder of all they’d left behind. He held her close, his own eyes burning.

“I don’t want you to go,” Beth whispered against his shoulder.

“I know.” Estaria’s voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look into her tear-stained face. “But you’re going to have an amazing adventure. You’ll see the ocean, and Coral Cove. Rumors say that the bay lights up at night with colorful corals. And Sara will take good care of you.”

Beth hiccupped and nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Clara stood beside them, her expression more composed but her eyes betraying her sadness.

“Clara.” Estaria opened his other arm.

She stepped into his embrace, her shoulders stiff with the effort of maintaining control. He could feel her trembling.

“Watch out for your sister,” he murmured. “You’re so strong, Clara, but don’t be afraid to feel every emotion. Angel was strong, yes, but she also felt deeply. And she loved you both so much.”

Clara’s composure cracked at the mention of her sister. She pressed her face into his shoulder, her tears dampening his shirt. The three of them stayed locked together for a long moment, the sounds of the busy port fading away.

Finally, Clara straightened, taking Beth’s hand. Her chin lifted with determination, though her eyes remained bright with tears.

“We’ll be okay,” she said, her voice steady despite its softness.

Estaria squeezed them both, kissing their heads, before letting them go, and caressing their hair one last time.

Estaria rose, his knees protesting after days of hard travel. He faced Sara, who had watched the exchange with an unreadable expression.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “For believing me. For protecting them.”

Sara’s features softened slightly. “Thank you for warning us. For giving us a chance.” She paused, studying his face. “Angel would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. He swallowed hard, fighting back the surge of grief that accompanied any mention of Angel. Unable to speak, he nodded.

The crewman cleared his throat politely, reminding them of his presence. Sara placed her hands on the girls’ shoulders, guiding them toward their cabin. Beth looked back, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Goodbye, Estaria,” she called.

Clara turned as well, raising her hand in farewell. “Be safe.”

Estaria watched them disappear below deck, his heart heavy in his chest. The morning breeze carried the tang of salt and seaweed, reminding him of his purpose. He turned away from the cabin entrance, crossing the deck with measured steps.

The gangplank felt steeper going down than it had coming up. Each step took him further from the last connection to his old life in Appledale. His boots hit the dock with a solid thud, the wooden planks warm from the morning sun.

He didn’t look back at the ship. Couldn’t look back. Instead, he squared his shoulders and merged into the crowd of dock workers and merchants, letting the bustling port swallow him whole.