Seafaring

Open seas | Ferry

She walks down the wooden stairs into the ferry’s belly. Everything smells of salt and oak.

Her cabin is simple: a narrow bed, a mirror on the wall, and a small round window staring out at the sea. She drops her bag, sits on the bed, and sighs.

“Step number one, done.” she murmurs. “Now… I’m alone. On a new journey.”

Her gaze drifts to the window. “Feels just like my old job—alone on planes, on ships… chasing answers in a world that never stops moving.”

When she closes her eyes, a memory crystallizes: Rokku’s angry voice, shouting through the rain.

‘You know nothing. Even if you reveal their secrets, human nature isn’t that simple, Hanla. Fell one power-hungry force and another rises. Peace needs consciousness. Truth doesn’t heal—it exposes deeper wounds.’

Hanla laughs softly to herself, dreamlike. “Sometimes, I miss that old life. I realized too late what you meant, Rokku… and I got burned for it.”

Her hand presses against where her stomach scar would be. “Every action has a reaction.”

A knock interrupts her.

She blinks, steadying her voice. “You can come in.”

The door opens, and Jakob steps in with a smile tugging at his weathered lips. He leans against the doorframe.

“Hey, you’re not seasick, are you?”

Hanla shakes her head. “Nah. I’m comfortable.”

“Then do me a favor—look out the window.”

She tilts her head. The sea glitters, and on the horizon, her home island grows smaller. Further out, more islands rise, dotted with villages like scattered gems.

“That’s the dominion of the family Regona,” she murmurs.

“Your family,” Jakob corrects.

Hanla’s lips twitch. “It’s… beautiful. To be honest.”

“You know the capital of Regona?” Jakob asks.

Hanla shakes her head. “Never set foot inside. Just know my mother is one of the Queens—the third one. Doesn’t sound very important.”

Jakob clicks his tongue. “Hanla, you know that’s not true. Look at those islands, the peace and stability. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Hanla chuckles, then her smile hardens. “Come on, Jakob. Let me downplay things a little. Otherwise I’ll just feel useless—like I’m betraying them by leaving.”

Her tone lowers, sincere. “But truth is… my mother and father are incredible. They keep the islands steady, the economy alive. They don’t brag, but I see it.”

Jakob studies her for a moment. “Sometimes I forget how reasonable you can be.” He pushes off the doorframe. “In three hours we’ll be at Jarathia. Place is dangerous.”

Hanla leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Jakob—about Jarathia. Do you know anything besides ‘bandit-infested island’?”

He sits beside her, lowering his voice. “Jarathia once had a booming economy. They mine two things—firestones and seastones—straight out of their volcano. Unique stuff. The volcano’s riddled with water tunnels, and that’s what creates those rare stones. You won’t find them anywhere else.”

Hanla’s thoughts spin.

So the bandits use this for income. But that doesn’t add up. With stones that rare, the economy should be unstoppable. Or the politicians could just hire mercenaries… so why don’t they?

She looks back at him. “If the stones are that valuable, why aren’t the politicians crushing the bandits already?”

Jakob’s eyes crease. “I wondered the same. But I’m too old and too busy to go digging. Still…” He stands, pulling open the door.

“There’s someone I know who will uncover the mystery.”

Hanla raises a brow. “Who?”

Jakob smirks, already stepping out. “She’s wild. Has a strong will. Composed when necessary.” He glances back one last time. “…And she calls herself a badass.”

The door shuts.

“What a dork.” Hanla mutters under her breath, smirking.

Her thoughts churn as she leans back against the cabin wall.

This helps me a lot. Individual stones, unique circumstances… a mystery within the economy of an island. I have a guess, but I’ll need to investigate. And maybe—just maybe—I can influence something. And if things are this unique, then surely someone strong is here… strong enough to be my first guild member.

She exhales, letting her muscles relax. For a short while, she falls asleep.

A horn blares after two hours, deep and loud, shaking her awake.

Hanla grabs her black bag, slings it over her shoulder, and climbs the wooden stairs up to the deck.

Crowds of passengers already press up against the rails, gazes fixed on the horizon.

Jarathia rises before them: a volcanic island, jagged and immense. Its peak smolders, streaks of molten fire weaving down toward the sea. Yet in its cliffs, great streams of rushing water cut through the lava, spraying clouds of steam into the sky. Blackwood houses and cobblestone streets cling to the lower ridges like stubborn stragglers, half shrouded in steam.

Hanla grips the railing, her eyes widening.

“It’s… beautiful. Insane.”

A powerful wind surges across the deck, whipping her long white hair into a wild fan behind her. She doesn’t flinch. She breathes it in.

Her silver eyes gleam, clear and sharp as crystal.

“I see it.” she whispers. “Clearer than ever. I don’t want to just write reports anymore. I’m going to rewrite this story into my own.”