10 Hwayeol, Kazehi, 1312 Third Age
The ink smudged slightly as Captain Jhon Rackham pressed his quill against the worn page. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but exhaustion. His body ached, his throat burned with thirst, and his mind swirled with the horrors of last night. The Iron Foot Clan had slaughtered them all. Every last one. His friends, his crew, men he had fought beside for years, all gone. And he alone remained.
Now, he sat in a dimly lit bar in a small village called Zahra'Vel, named after the flowers that bloomed even in the arid soil of Sol-Mayora. The air smelled of spiced liquor and the faint aroma of roasted meat, but none of it could quell the emptiness in his chest.
The village sat on the edge of the Warm Oasis, the only place in Sol-Mayora where water still whispered through the cracks of this scorched earth. A place of refuge in an unforgiving land. Yet, for him, there was no refuge. Only the weight of his losses.
He raised his mug to his lips, letting the bitter ale slide down his throat. It did little to drown the memories—the clash of steel, the agonized screams, the blood pooling beneath a merciless moon. The Iron Foot warriors had descended upon them like demons forged in fire, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake.
Jhon exhaled, rubbing his temples before returning to his journal. He had to keep writing, had to record it all. He had no ship, no crew, no direction—only the words to remind him that he had once been more than this broken man in a foreign land.
How ironic.
Stranded beneath an unforgiving sun, in a land where the sand itself burned like embers beneath his boots, on a day when the calendar mocked him with its cruel poetry—Moon of Fire, Day of Wind.
10 Hwayeol (Moon of Fire), Kazehi (Day of Wind) 1312 Third Age
I took a breath, steadying my trembling hand as I pressed the quill to the page. The words spilled from my mind like blood from an open wound, staining the parchment with sorrow.
Beneath a sun that shows no mercy,
Where sands burn red and winds run free,
I walk alone, a ghost at sea,
A shipwrecked soul, lost endlessly.
The night had roared, a beast untamed,
Blades like whispers, death unnamed,
A crimson tide, a world defiled,
And now, I live—a fate reviled.
Oh, how the wind mocks my despair,
How fire feasts on all once fair,
A moon of flame, a day so dry,
Yet it is I, not them, who die.
The ink blurred. My vision blurred.
I gritted my teeth, but the sorrow was relentless. My chest tightened, and my breath hitched. Then, before I could stop myself, the tears came. Slow at first—just a glimmer in my tired eyes. But then the dam broke.
I clenched my fists against the wooden counter, my shoulders shaking with the weight of grief. The tavern blurred into nothingness, only the echoes of laughter from men now long gone filling my ears.
A glass slid across the counter. I flinched as a voice cut through the silence.
"You good, traveler?"
I looked up. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with weary eyes, studied me. He had seen men like me before—lost souls drowning in drink and memories.
I wiped my face hastily, forcing a broken chuckle. "Yeah. Just… remembering ghosts."
He nodded, understanding in his gaze. He didn't push for more. Just poured me another drink and left me to my silence.
I stared at my journal, the ink still wet. Moon of Fire. Day of Wind. What cruel irony that I was still here, when they were not.
The ink had barely dried when my vision blurred again. I blinked hard, forcing the tears away, but my body betrayed me. The grief sat like a stone in my throat, and for the first time in years, I let it break me.
I wasn't a captain anymore. Just a man, lost and alone.
"You good, traveler?"
The voice pulled me back. I looked up, my gaze meeting the bartender's. He was a thick-boned man, his skin leathered by the sun, his beard peppered with gray. He stood behind the counter, a rag in his hand, eyes sharp and knowing. The kind of man who had seen too much and stopped asking questions.
I forced a breath, rubbing my palm over my face, feeling the roughness of my unshaven jaw. "Yeah. Just... remembering ghosts." Same question, and same answer...
He nodded, not looking convinced, but not pushing either. Instead, he grabbed a clay jug and poured dark amber liquid into my cup.
"This one's on the house," he muttered.
I took the cup, rolling it between my hands before taking a sip. It burned down my throat, warm and bitter, but it did nothing to silence the screams in my head.
The bartender leaned against the counter, arms crossed. He studied me for a moment before speaking again. "You're new here. You came from the wreck near the salt dunes, didn't you?"
I stiffened, my grip tightening around the cup. "You heard about that?"
He snorted. "In Zahra'Vel, news moves faster than the wind. Folks saw the smoke at dawn. Found the bodies before noon. What they didn't find—was you."
I exhaled slowly. I should've known I couldn't just disappear into this village unnoticed.
"It was the Iron Foot Clan," I murmured, staring into my drink. "They slaughtered my men. Left them in the sand like nothing."
A grim silence stretched between us.
Then, the bartender sighed. "Aye. Iron Foot. Bastards don't leave survivors. If you walked outta there alive, it ain't luck—it's borrowed time."
I frowned, looking up. "What do you mean?"
He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "They don't leave loose ends, stranger. If they know you lived, they'll come for you."
Something cold settled in my stomach. I already knew it deep down, but hearing it out loud made it real.
"They're warlords, right? Just another band of desert raiders?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
The bartender let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "You don't get it, do you? Iron Foot ain't just raiders. They're executioners. And Sol-Mayora? This land is their hunting ground."
He gestured out toward the door, where the desert stretched endlessly beneath the dying sun.
"You're sittin' in Zahra'Vel, the only place near Warm Oasis that ain't turned to dust. But even here? No one defies them. Not the traders, not the mercs. Not even the Oasis King himself."
I frowned. "The Oasis King?"
"Aye," he grunted. "Ruler of Warm Oasis. Only reason this place still breathes is 'cause he makes sure Iron Foot gets what they want. Gold, weapons, slaves." He sighed, wiping the counter. "And if they find out you're alive, stranger, then you're next."
I clenched my jaw, my fingers tightening around the cup until my knuckles went white. "Let them come," I muttered, more to myself than to him.
The bartender shook his head. "Listen, I don't know what kind of death wish you got, but you ain't fighting them alone. You want revenge? You wanna die as warrior's death? Fine. But at least do it smart."
I exhaled, staring at the worn wooden counter. He was right. Charging in alone would be suicide. But I couldn't just run either. Not after what they did.
"You got a name, traveler?" he asked.
I hesitated before answering. "Jhon. Jhon Rackham."
He raised an eyebrow. "Captain Jhon Rackham?"
I met his gaze, surprised. "You know me?"
"No," he admitted. "But I know your kind. You ain't the first lost sailor to crawl outta the dunes."
He tapped a finger against the counter. "So, what's it gonna be, Captain? You drink yourself to death, or you fight?"
I took a slow breath, letting the weight of my name settle over the room. Captain Jhon Rackham. The title felt hollow now. A captain with no crew. A warrior with no ship. And yet, the moment the bartender spoke it aloud, the tavern shifted.
Eyes turned to me.
The low murmur of conversation quieted. The dice rolling at the gambling table stilled. The men drinking at the far end of the bar, wrapped in cloaks and dust-covered tunics, cast sidelong glances my way. Even the woman in the corner, a dark-skinned dancer with golden bangles along her wrists, paused mid-sip, her gaze sharp with curiosity.
Zahra'Vel was a village of survivors. Every soul here had lost something to the sands. They smelled death and vengeance the way a hound smelled blood.
And now, they smelled it on me. I let the silence stretch, my fingers tracing the rim of my cup. "I fight," I finally answered, my voice steady.
The bartender grunted, nodding approvingly. "Good answer."
A man seated to my right chuckled. He was broad-shouldered, with an old scar running from his temple to his jaw, the mark of a man who had danced with death and lived to tell the tale. He set his mug down and leaned forward. "Iron Foot, huh?" he mused. "Big enemy to have, Captain. Hope you got more than that cup in your hand."
Another voice, this one smoother, cutting through the thick air like a dagger. "He does."
The dancer. She set her drink down, rising from her seat in one graceful motion. Golden chains wrapped around her waist, and a curved dagger gleamed at her hip. She walked toward me, her bare feet silent against the floor.
"Captain Jhon Rackham," she repeated, letting my name roll off her tongue like a whispered secret. "A sailor with no sea. A warrior with no army." She tilted her head, studying me as if trying to see the man beneath the blood and sand. "Yet, you fight."
I met her gaze. "You know the Iron Foot?"
She scoffed, pulling out the curved dagger and flipping it between her fingers. "Everyone in Sol-Mayora knows the Iron Foot. Some of us know them too well." Her dark eyes flickered with something—pain, fury, a past she didn't speak of. "They are warlords. Tyrants. Killers."
The scarred man beside me grunted. "And you think you can take them?"
The room waited for my answer.
I straightened in my seat, setting my drink aside. "I don't think," I said. "I will."
A scoff. A smirk. A glint of interest in their eyes.
The gambler at the dice table leaned back in his chair. "Hah! If the Captain's got a plan, I'd hear it."
"Or die trying," the bartender muttered, refilling my cup. "Either way, it'll be a hell of a story."
The dancer smiled. "Then tell us, Captain. How does a dead man start a war?"
I exhaled, my fingers brushing over the worn leather of my journal. The words written in its pages were nothing but grief and memory. But war? War was written in blood.
I looked around the room. These were not soldiers. They were survivors, outlaws, lost souls clinging to the edges of a cruel world.
The room had settled into a hush, the kind that comes when men realize they're about to make a choice they can never take back.
I could see it in their eyes—the gamblers, the drifters, the scarred warriors nursing old wounds. They weren't soldiers. They weren't rebels. They were just people who had learned to survive in the cracks of this dying land.
And yet, here they were. Listening. Considering. I exhaled, running a hand over my face, then muttered under my breath, "All of you had a choice once."
No one answered, but they didn't need to.
They could have run. They could have fought. But in the end, they had done neither. They had simply… stumbled upon a scorching fate.
That was the truth of Sol-Mayora.
It didn't ask if you wanted war. It didn't care if you were ready. It simply swallowed you whole, burning away everything until all that remained was the ash of what you used to be.
A man at the far table scoffed. "You talk like a man who thinks there's still a way out."
I looked up. He was older, wrapped in a sand-colored cloak, the wrinkles on his face carved deep by time and regret.
"There is no way out," he continued. "Not here. You fight and you burn, or you run and you rot. Either way, you're dead."
The dancer—she had not told me her name yet—tilted her head, her golden bangles clinking as she toyed with the hilt of her curved dagger. "And yet," she mused, "you are still here, old man."
A dry chuckle. "Maybe I just enjoy watching fools meet their end."
I sighed, looking at my half-empty drink. "And what do you all think?" I muttered. "Run, or fight?"
A silence stretched. Then, the scarred man beside me smirked. "Ain't got the coin to run."
The gambler at the dice table rolled his die once. It clattered against the wooden surface, landing on a blank face. He grinned. "Looks like fate's got other plans."
The bartender just grunted, wiping out a mug. "Damn fool's got a death wish. Might as well make it interesting."
And the dancer? She just smiled, something dangerous glinting in her dark eyes.
"Burning or rotting, Captain?" she asked, flipping the dagger between her fingers. "I'd rather burn."
A slow breath left my lips. No way out. No road back. So be it. I sat up straighter, pushing the drink aside. "Then let's make this fire worth it." And just like that, the flames of war began to rise.