The low groan of shifting timbers and the sharp clatter of chains filled the salt-heavy air as the Vermillion Troupe prepared to leave Sern Ka’Torr behind.

  ProlixalParagon stood at the edge of the dock, the sea breeze ruffling his fur and tugging at the worn edges of his tunic. Bandages still wrapped his ribs and shoulder beneath his clothing, a faint ache blossoming whenever he moved too sharply — a persistent reminder of the battle he had survived.

  But today, the pain was distant, background noise against the thrumming anticipation that crackled across the bustling wharf.

  Ahead, a massive merchant galleon loomed against the horizon, its triple-mast frame painted in deep cobalt and golds that caught the afternoon light. Mana-powered cranes, their arms spindly but precise, swung back and forth like great skeletal hands, lifting the Conestoga wagons — homes, lives, memories — from the dock onto the ship’s reinforced upper deck.

  Each wagon was carefully cradled in a woven net of ley-thread cables, then swung upward with a soft, humming whine as the crane's mana engines spun to life.

  Prolix watched, heart tight in his chest, as the first wagon — Lyra’s — rose into the sky.

  The symbols of the moon phases painted across its curved sides gleamed faintly, untouched by the ruin of the city they had left behind.

  Lyra stood nearby, leaning heavily on her gnarled walking staff, her silver fur glinting in the sun. Her golden eyes, sharp and unflinching as ever, tracked every movement of the crane, her mouth drawn in a tight, proud line.

  Ralyria and Marx were working in tandem a few yards away, directing the laborers — Ralyria in her halting, careful voice, and Marx with his usual rough efficiency. Kaelthari circled the wagons, inspecting the chain rigging with silent precision, occasionally flashing brief signals with his hand to indicate adjustments needed.

  The Troupe moved like a living organism, a symphony of familiarity and trust.

  Despite the lingering tension of the past days, there was something beautiful in it — the way they anchored each other in motion.

  Prolix shifted his weight slightly, wincing as his side twinged, and glanced toward the ship’s gangplank.

  The ship — The Distant Reverie — was one of the few that had agreed to take them aboard after the events of the anomaly. Many captains had grown wary of accepting passengers from the fractured city, fearful of lingering instability or worse. But the Reverie's captain, a Soohanese woman named Hima Serrak, had seen in the Troupe what others had missed.

  Survivors.

  Carriers of stories worth saving.

  And gold, Prolix thought dryly, remembering the significant deposit the Troupe had been forced to make to secure passage.

  The cranes swung another wagon upward — the old red-wheeled Conestoga that had once served as the Troupe’s communal kitchen.

  It swayed slightly in the air, the tension of the ley-cables singing in the breeze.

  Then it settled onto the deck of the ship with a muted thud, where teams of sailors rushed forward to lash it down with thick iron chains, securing it against the unpredictable moods of the open sea.

  One by one, the wagons rose and fell, settled into place like precious relics being entombed for safekeeping.

  Prolix exhaled slowly.

  The sight of it — the Troupe’s life, chained and staked to the bones of a ship — stirred something bittersweet in his chest.

  They had survived.

  But the scars of Sern Ka’Torr clung to them all, visible or not.

  And somewhere deep within him, still faint but growing sharper by the hour, the lingering pulse of Dedisco’s influence stirred — not a warning, but a reminder.

  Cycles continue.

  New worlds await.

  New fractures. New forging.

  The final wagon — the small, battered vardo used by the youngest kits — swung into the air under the crane’s hum.

  The kits themselves stood nearby, eyes wide and sparkling with wonder, watching their home sail into the sky like a bird.

  Prolix allowed himself a small, tired smile.

  If nothing else, he thought, he had helped give them a future.

  However fragile.

  However strange.

  The laborers signaled the all-clear with a series of colored flags, and the sailors began tightening the last of the chain bindings.

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  The Distant Reverie would be ready to set sail by nightfall, riding the tides westward, bound for the distant shores of Baigai — a new land, a new chapter.

  And for ProlixalParagon, a future still unwritten.

  Waiting to be broken, reforged, and made anew.

  The last of the wagons settled onto the deck of the Distant Reverie with a final clatter of chains and the distant call of the dockhands.

  The day was sliding toward twilight, the horizon painted in long streaks of molten gold and bloodied crimson where the sun bled into the endless sea.

  ProlixalParagon lingered at the dock’s edge, his body aching, his breath still carrying the subtle hitch of exhaustion not yet fully mended.

  Movement caught his eye.

  Lyra.

  She stood not far from him, the tip of her staff planted firmly against the cracked wood of the dock, her frame silhouetted against the setting sun. The saltwind tugged gently at the edges of her faded shawl, the old moons embroidered along its hem catching the last light.

  Her golden eyes — so old, so knowing — found him without effort.

  She smiled faintly, the expression worn but genuine.

  A summons without words.

  Prolix stepped toward her, each footfall feeling heavier than it should, as if the memory of Sern Ka’Torr’s fall still clung to the soles of his boots.

  He stopped a few paces from her, close enough to catch the subtle scent of sage and desert grass that always seemed to cling to Lyra, even after the worst storms.

  They stood in silence for a while.

  Listening to the waves.

  Listening to the world they had nearly lost.

  "You saved them," Lyra said at last, her voice low and dry, like wind scraping across old stone.

  Prolix shifted uncomfortably. "We all survived. That’s what matters."

  "You did more than survive, kit," Lyra murmured, tapping her staff lightly against the ground for emphasis. "You stood when the world broke. You made something of the breaking."

  He opened his mouth to argue — to deny, to deflect — but the words died on his tongue.

  Because somewhere deep inside, some part of him knew she was right.

  Not perfect.

  Not unscarred.

  But right.

  Lyra’s gaze sharpened, almost piercing. "You feel it, don't you?" she said. "The weight of it. The pull."

  Prolix nodded slowly, the memory of Dedisco's Eye — vast and patient — surfacing in his mind.

  "I don’t know what it means yet," he said.

  "You will," Lyra said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "In time. Change doesn't ask permission before it roots itself in us. It just grows, wild and stubborn."

  Her hand, clawed and worn with age, lifted briefly — hesitated — then settled lightly against his shoulder.

  "You’ve begun your own cycle now, ProlixalParagon. Don’t be afraid of what it makes you."

  She squeezed once, fierce despite her frailty, and then let go.

  A sailor’s bell tolled up the docks — a sharp, clear sound — signaling final boarding.

  Lyra’s smile softened. "Go, now. They’re waiting for you."

  Prolix swallowed the tightness in his throat, gave her a shallow but sincere bow, and turned toward the gangplank.

  Each step away from the dock was a step into the unknown.

  And yet, it felt lighter somehow.

  Not easy.

  Not safe.

  But right.

  He crossed the wide wooden gangplank, the sea yawning open to either side, and set foot onto the deck of the Distant Reverie.

  The air here was different — saltier, heavier, full of the restless promise of open waters and distant shores.

  Around him, sailors moved with the crisp efficiency of a crew who knew how to ride the breath of the sea. Thick chains rattled as they tightened the final bindings on the Troupe’s wagons. Crates and barrels were lashed down, sails unfurled to catch the growing evening wind.

  The ship itself groaned and sighed like a living thing, eager to be loosed from the constraints of the harbor.

  Prolix stepped aside to let a pair of sailors rush past, then made his way carefully toward the bow, the boards solid beneath his boots despite the rising, rhythmic swell.

  He looked back only once — toward the docks, toward Lyra's small, still figure framed against the dying light.

  She lifted her staff in silent farewell.

  ProlixalParagon straightened his shoulders against the cool wind and faced forward.

  Toward the open sea.

  Toward Baigai.

  Toward whatever new cycles waited to break and be reforged by his hands.

  The Distant Reverie strained at her moorings, the great mana-crystals embedded in her keel humming low and deep.

  Above, the sails bellied outward, catching the nightwind like ghostly wings.

  And with a final shudder that rattled through the timbered bones of the ship, the Reverie slipped free from the battered docks of Sern Ka’Torr.

  The harbor lights blurred into distant smudges of gold and silver, flickering like dying stars against the rising dark.

  ProlixalParagon leaned against the railing near the bow, the worn wood warm beneath his palms.

  The night air was cool, tasting of salt and distant rain, carrying with it the scent of something clean and new.

  Behind him, the city receded — first the fractured skyline, then the leaning ruins of the citadel, until even the coastline itself was swallowed by the sea’s endless hunger.

  No grand farewells.

  Only the silence of departure.

  Footsteps approached — light, careful, precise.

  Ralyria.

  She stepped up beside him, her slim frame encased in dulled brass and silver plates, delicate seams and jointed gears visible beneath the softer folds of her traveling cloak.

  Mana faintly pulsed along the seams of her limbs, tiny bursts of soft blue light at each articulation.

  For a moment, she simply stood there, silent except for the barely audible whirr of her inner workings.

  Finally, in her halting, glitch-touched cadence, she said,

  "Still... standing."

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of Prolix’s mouth.

  "Somehow," he said, voice low and rough with exhaustion.

  Ralyria nodded, her expression inscrutable but somehow full of quiet certainty.

  She leaned slightly closer — not touching, not quite — but near enough that the soft hum of her mana core warmed the space between them, a wordless reminder: You are not alone.

  Further down the deck, Marx sat cross-legged atop a crate, his olive-toned skin darkened further by the long days of sun and salt.

  His left leg — a sleek mana-powered prosthetic from the knee down, reinforced with leather bands and bronze fittings — tapped a steady rhythm against the deck as he worked, whittling at a scrap of driftwood with one of his ever-present carving knives.

  Small curls of cedar floated in the air around him, catching the faint lamplight like motes of fire.

  Kaelthari stood at the stern, her silhouette a study in muted elegance.

  The Cataphractan woman’s mulberry-colored scales glimmered under the twin moons' light, her tall, powerful frame framed against the dark sea.

  Her horns — great curling arcs like those of a desert markhor — gleamed faintly, golden chains woven intricately between them. Tiny charms and crystals dangled from the chains, each one catching the starlight in tiny flashes of color, chiming softly as she shifted her weight.

  There was a stillness to her posture, a warrior’s vigilance tempered by something deeper — the patience of someone who had learned to outlast storms without needing to conquer them.

  The ship creaked and sighed beneath them, the mana engines deep within her hull thrumming in steady counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of waves against the sides.

  The world ahead was vast.

  Unforgiving.

  Open.

  The world behind — broken, bleeding — shrank smaller with every heartbeat.

  ProlixalParagon stared out at the night horizon, his hand brushing absently over the strap of his satchel where the Fractured Circle Relic pulsed faintly against the canvas.

  The future awaited.

  Not clean.

  Not certain.

  But his.

  He felt the weight of Sern Ka’Torr slip away into the darkness behind them, a closing chapter written not in defeat, but in survival.

  In change.

  And as the final flicker of the city’s ruined lights vanished beneath the curve of the world, ProlixalParagon whispered a quiet, fierce promise into the salt-laden wind:

  "I will become."