Vethia. Port city and capital of the Marak kingdom. White stone buildings crowded the coast where the Syruval Sea met the Alyrian shores. The docks reeked of salt, fish, and exotic spices. Merchants haggled in multiple languages while dock workers hauled crates and barrels from ships that had traveled from every corner of the known world.

Morgana leaned against a stack of crates, watching gulls circle above the busy port where traders shouted prices and sailors hauled cargo.

Ten months had changed her.

The rough cotton of her dress felt natural now, and her once-soft hands had grown calloused from months of crafting – weaving baskets, carving trinkets, and sewing the intricate patterns the Veyshari were known for.

Behind her, the Veyshari were preparing their ship for departure. The Viento Libre had been her home since that winter night when she'd left Arkhos behind. Now they were leaving, and she was staying.

Mirko approached, his massive frame blocking the morning sun. His beard was tied with colorful threads, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he spotted her.

"Still making sad face?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Not too late to change mind."

Morgana smiled despite herself. "I've made my decision."

"Bah! Decisions." He waved a meaty hand. "I decide to eat fish yesterday. Today, I want bread. Tomorrow?" He shrugged dramatically. "Maybe horse."

She laughed. "I don't think you've ever eaten horse."

"Not important." Mirko leaned closer. "Important is you belong with us now. Ten months! You speak our language, you make coin with us. My sister teach you medicines. Why stay in boring port?"

The question hung in the air. Why indeed? The past ten months had been the freest of her life. With the Veyshari, she'd sailed to ports she'd only read about in books. She'd slept under stars so bright they seemed close enough to touch. She'd danced around campfires, learned to haggle in three languages, and for the first time since childhood, she'd laughed – really laughed – until her sides ached.

"You know why," she said finally.

Mirko's expression grew serious. "Revenge make poor compass, cireaşă mică."

Little cherry. His nickname for her since the time she'd eaten so many cherries at a market that her lips had stained red for days.

Before she could respond, a group of Veyshari approached, led by Mirela. They formed a half-circle around Morgana.

"We bring gifts," announced an older woman named Drina, holding out a bundle wrapped in blue cloth. "For new journey."

"I can't accept—" Morgana began.

"You insult us now?" Drina raised an eyebrow. "After we feed you ten months?"

"That's not what I—"

"Good! Then take." She thrust the bundle into Morgana's arms. "Clothes, herbs, charms. Things you need."

One by one, they pressed gifts into her hands. A cooking pot. A knife with a bone handle. A small pouch of tea that "make bad men tell truth" according to old Petru with a sly wink.

Then came Vano, a boy barely sixteen who'd taught her to weave baskets during long sea crossings. He shuffled forward, holding out a small cloth purse that clinked with coins.

"This is too much," Morgana said, trying to give it back.

"Is money you earn," Vano insisted. "Your share from market sales. We save for you."

"But—"

"Destul!" Mirko bellowed. "Enough argument. You take gifts because we are family now. Family help family."

Family. The word hit her harder than she expected. In a sense, they had become her family. Just like Adom and Sam.

It felt... good.

"Thank you," she managed, her throat tight.

The others drifted back to the ship after quick embraces and whispered good wishes. Only Mirela remained, standing quiet beside her uncle.

"Go prepare ship," Mirko told his niece. "I talk with stubborn girl one moment."

Mirela didn't move. "I stay."

He sighed. "Fine, fine. Everyone so stubborn." He fixed Morgana with a serious look. "Listen to me now. You good girl with bad plans. World bigger than revenge."

"Not for me," Morgana said.

"Yes, for you too." He tapped her forehead. "You just not see yet. But one day, maybe." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. "For when that day come."

Inside was a silver ring with a red stone that seemed to glow from within.

"Veyshari blood ring," he explained. "When you need us – real need, not silly need – you break stone. We will know. We will come."

"How?" Morgana asked, slipping the ring onto her finger.

Mirko tapped his nose. "Magic secret. You just remember – break stone, we come."

Behind them, a sailor called something in Veyshari. Mirko nodded.

"Time to go." He grabbed Morgana in a bear hug that lifted her off the ground. "Be smart. Be safe. No dying."

"I'll try," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

He set her down and stomped back toward the ship, leaving her with Mirela.

The sorceress looked different in the daylight – younger somehow, though her eyes still held that ancient wisdom Morgana had come to respect.

"Last chance," Mirela said softly. "Come with us to Southern Isles. Much sun, good food. No emperors to kill."

Morgana smiled sadly. "You know I can't."

"Can. Won't." Mirela reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "Our route. Next five years. Where to find us, when."

Morgana took the parchment, touched beyond words. "I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing. Just listen." Mirela took her hands. "Path you choose – darkness waits there. Not just for enemies. For you too."

"I know what I'm doing."

"No. You don't." Mirela's grip tightened. "Remember what I tell you that night on boat? About blood curse?"

"I remember."

"Good. Because curse real. Very real." She leaned closer. "But also remember this – where is darkness, can be light too. Choice always there."

From the ship, a horn blew. Final call.

"I need to go," Mirela said. She hesitated, then pulled Morgana into a quick embrace. "First friend I have who not Veyshari. Strange, yes?"

"Very strange," Morgana agreed, hugging her back.

Mirela stepped away. "If you change mind, use paper. Find us."

"I will."

With a final nod, Mirela turned and hurried back to the ship.

Morgana watched as the Veyshari cast off, their colorful flags fluttering in the morning breeze. Mirko stood at the bow, his great arms crossed. Mirela beside him, a small figure in her bright shawl. Others waved from the deck, calling farewell promises in a mix of languages.

Morgana waved back until the ship turned toward the open sea. Until the figures grew too small to distinguish. Until the sails were just white specks on the horizon.

Then she turned to face the city of Vethia, her new gifts clutched to her chest. Ten months of peace was enough.

She had work to do.