“Power isn’t always equal…although possibly, fair”

  The wind carried salt and something else.

  Amia stands at the edge of the worn wooden pier, white hair pulled back in a loose ponytail bound by a red ribbon. Stray strands brushing against her cheek as the sea breeze rolls in from the north. The humidity clung to her light-brown skin, and the sun pressed down hard enough to make the air shimmer above the inlet.

  She ignored it.

  Her bamboo fishing pole bends slightly in her grip as the tide shifts beneath the dock. Behind her, a small campfire crackles, skewered fish hanging above the flame. Beyond the water, Madura Castle rose against the horizon - stone towers layered behind walls thick enough to swallow entire wagons and caravans..

  Peaceful.

  Too peaceful.

  For two decades, the continent of Halia had known relative calm. The old wars were stories told over beers and dying embers. But lately, something beneath the surface had begun to move. Supplies were tightening. Beasts roamed the plains more frequently. Clan leaders argued more than before.

  Amia didn’t involve herself in politics.

  But she felt things.

  And today, she felt watched.

  It wasn’t fear. It never was. The sensation came and went in phases - sometimes fading for weeks, sometimes hovering so close she could barely eat. A pressure behind her ears. A presence just beyond perception.

  Today, it lingered.

  She tugged the fishing line. Nothing.

  Her gaze drifted back to the castle silhouette. The air shifted again.

  Smoke.

  Faint. Artificial.

  She frowned.

  Not cooking fires. Not burning charcoal smoke.

  Gunpowder.

  Her grip tightens on the pole.

  Behind her, boots crunched lightly on dry soil.

  “Amia!”

  She turned. Merchant Bolsen sat astride his horse at the path’s edge, older but sturdy, grey woven into beard and brow. His clothes were worn from years of travel, but his posture remained upright - a veteran’s habit that never left him.

  He dropped a sack beside her.

  “Your hinges and bolts. Finally managed to secure them. Shortages everywhere lately.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She crouched and untied it, relief flickering across her face at the sight of copper rods and fresh metal fittings.

  “You didn’t have to get the whetstone,” she said.

  Bolsen gave a short grunt.

  “Shipments may not come for a while.”

  There it was again - something unspoken.

  “Trouble?” she asked.

  He hesitated.

  Then shook his head. “Just rumors.”

  He urged his horse forward.

  Amia watched him disappear into the tree line.

  The wind shifted again.

  This time the smoke was thicker.

  And beneath it -

  Magick.

  Her heart slowed.

  Destructive High Magick Arts carried distinct signatures. She hadn’t practiced in years - not since her expulsion from Clan Service - but some things were impossible to forget.

  A distant thump rolled across the inlet.

  Then another.

  Her breath stilled.

  Amia raises her nose to the air, giving it a small sniff.

  Raze Incantation No. 6.

  Her stomach turned.

  She moved back to the pier and closed her eyes, inhaling carefully despite the sting building in her sinuses.

  That ammonia-like smell.

  Char.

  Burning oil.

  And beneath it —

  Blood.

  Not a stray wound. Not an amateur’s cut.

  Mass blood.

  And fear.

  Her knees buckled.

  She coughed, tears flooding her vision from the spell’s lingering residue in the air.

  “No…” she whispered.

  Hooves thundered behind her again.

  Bolsen.

  Riding past, but he did not slow this time.

  Trying to think about what could be happening, Amia shrugged it off and tried to focus on other matters of the day instead.

  Many minutes passed while Amia sharpened her Katana using the whetstone she had received from the seasoned merchant.

  A nice blade length, but slightly longer than what normally would be for someone her height.

  Sound of hooves again.

  It was the Merchant Bolsen again.

  He wore leather armor now. Direwolfskin binding plates together. Spear at his back.

  “It’s started!” he shouted.

  Her stomach dropped.

  “The clans,” he barked. “Princess Village, Miama, Stanning Brook — they’re raiding Madura. Tonight.”

  “What?” she breathed.

  “I tried to stop it.” His voice cracked with something she had never heard in him before. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

  The wind carried more smoke.

  And more blood.

  “You need to leave, Amia. Now.”

  He turned his horse.

  She smelled it clearly now — sweat, steel…

  And fear.

  “Olsen, wait—”

  Too late.

  He vanished into the forest as the wind shifted again.

  This time it carried only one thing.

  Death.

  Amia stared at the path where he disappeared.

  The watched feeling returned - sharper now.

  Closer.

  The peace was over.

  And she was still here.