Rugr left his horse tethered in an overgrown field on the outskirts of Balta and headed into the port on foot. As dawn broke over the eastern sea, the city stirred slowly, its streets quiet save for the occasional bark of stray dogs.


    The Salty Mermaid loomed ahead, its faded sign creaking in the morning breeze. The placard adorned a lewd image of a succubus—a grotesquely exaggerated figure with a wicked smile mocking any notion of subtlety. The establishment was seedy even by Balta''s standards, but Rugr knew it well enough.


    He entered quickly, the bell above the door jangling before he could silence it. Behind the bar, a man sorted bottles and wiped the counter with a rag so filthy it likely spread more dirt than it removed. Rugr approached, his cowl pulled low.


    “I’m looking for the captain of the Merakai,” Rugr said.


    The bartender paused, sizing him up. “Sorry, mate, but I wouldn’t be much of a proprietor if I just gave out information about guests to any ol’ sod who walked in, now would I?”


    Rugr’s voice dropped to a low growl, deliberate and steady. “He’s expecting me.”


    The man’s confidence wavered. Deciding it was too early for trouble, he nodded toward the stairs. “Second floor. Last room on the right.”


    “Much obliged,” Rugr said, turning toward the stairs. He paused briefly and added, “And get a new rag.”


    The bartender glanced down at the grimy cloth in his hand, frowning as understanding dawned. Rugr was halfway up the stairs when he muttered, “Yah.”


    The hallway above was lined with doors, with muffled sounds of stirring guests behind some of them. As Rugr approached the captain’s room, the door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped out, clutching a threadbare blue dress to her chest. She carried a pair of worn sandals in one hand, her face flushed as she mumbled an apology and shuffled past.


    The room reeked of stale alcohol and sweat. The captain lay sprawled across the bed, snoring lightly, the remnants of the previous night’s indulgences scattered around him. Rugr moved a chair from the desk, turning it backward and straddling it near the bed.


    “Captain,” Rugr said, his voice loud enough to cut through the haze of sleep. The man stirred but didn’t wake. Rugr eyed a pitcher on the nightstand, briefly considering dumping its contents over the man’s head.


    “Captain,” he said again, shaking a small purse of coins. The clinking of the coins did the trick. The man groaned, raising his head to squint at Rugr through bleary eyes.


    “I see you’ve brought something to wake me,” the captain muttered, his voice rough.


    “There’s been a delay,” Rugr said, his tone clipped. “You’ll need to hold the ship for two days.”


    The captain sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “That’s no small thing, friend. I’ve got places to be and goods to deliver. People don’t like it when you’re late—it damages my reputation. Costs me money.”


    The emphasis on money was deliberate, and the expectation of compensation was clear.


    Rugr’s expression didn’t change. “The original price was fair. That’s the price I’ll pay. I need time to retrieve the cargo. Assuming I can find a wagon, I’ll return by dawn after next.”


    The captain studied him, weighing his options. Another party had already paid handsomely to take claim of the cargo, and greed whispered temptations in his ear. But Rugr was not a man to trifle with. The captain knew better than to push too far. This job was simple: take the box, drop it in the deepest waters, and forget it happened. For that, he’d been paid handsomely—twice. The fact that the box would not see the ocean floor mattered little to him—the additional coin would buy a lot of booze and women.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    “Aye, it was a fair deal,” the captain said, leaning back against the headboard. “A lot of coin for sinking a box. That’s still the plan, isn’t it?”


    “Aye,” Rugr confirmed. “Deepwater. Keep the crew in the dark. The fewer who know, the better. And the money is for your silence. Remember, Captain, a dead man can’t spend his riches.”


    The captain gave a dry laugh, though Rugr’s words sent a shiver down his spine. He knew it wasn’t a threat—just a statement of fact. With work like this, forgetting quickly was a survival skill. Women and drink helped.


    “It’ll be done,” the captain said. “Be back when you say. The box comes on board, and we set sail. And, seriously, friend—try not to be late again.”


    Rugr stood to leave, his movements deliberate. The captain considered asking about the young woman rumored to be traveling with him but decided against it. This deal already stank of secrets, and the fewer questions asked, the better.


    As Rugr reached the door, the captain called, “Rugr.”


    He stopped, turning back.


    “Keep your eyes open, and your back will be safe.”


    Rugr nodded, his expression unreadable, and strode out of the room.


    It was a common saying, but Rugr knew it was said with intent. Before, he had merely considered the possibility of trouble. Now, he expected it.


    Rugr reached the landing of the first floor and adjusted his cowl when his breath caught in his chest. The man across the room—leaning casually against the bar—was unmistakable, though it seemed impossible.


    Rugr froze, his heart pounding like a war drum. It was Dungr.


    Three centuries dead—at least, that’s what Rugr had believed. Yet there he stood, alive and solid as the stone beneath their feet. There was no mistaking the scar above his left eye. Rugr had put it there himself. The memory rose unbidden: Dungr’s jeering taunts, Rugr’s seething frustration, the sharp crack of a rock striking flesh. He’d thought he’d won, his brother humbled at last—but Dungr had just laughed, blood trickling down his temple.


    “Good one,” Dungr had said with a grin.


    Their mother had not shared his amusement. Rugr’s punishment had been swift and severe: weeks of chores and nights without supper. Dungr had quietly slipped him scraps of bread and meat, brotherly love outweighing any grudge.


    And now, after all these years, Rugr found himself staring at that same face, older, weathered by time but undeniably Dungr.


    He turned abruptly, heading for the door, his boots echoing against the worn floorboards. He needed air, space, and time to think. His mind reeled, grappling with the impossible. Dungr’s presence in Balta raised questions he wasn’t ready to face. What happened to those who stayed behind and vowed to fight until the bitter end?


    Rugr’s last memory of his brother was seared into his soul. It had been near the end of the war; their people were pushed to the brink of extinction. The enemy was relentless, their hatred consuming everything in its path. Victory was no longer a possibility—only survival or annihilation remained.


    The survivors were divided. Markus Leness, the charismatic leader of the escape faction, argued that they should abandon their homeland to rebuild elsewhere. “We will grow strong again,” Markus had promised. “We will return one day, when the time is right, and cleanse our world of the scourge that has devoured it.”


    But not everyone agreed. Dungr, a high army commander, had been among those who chose to stay and fight. Rugr had wanted to stand beside him, to fight and die as brothers. Marnea, the woman Rugr loved, had changed his course.


    Marnea, with her quiet strength and unyielding hope, had begged him to leave. “Rugr,” she had said, her voice trembling with emotion, “we can survive this. We can have a life—a family. They’ve taken so much from us, but we can still build something beautiful. Please.”


    Her words had shaken him to his core. He had always envisioned a future with her—a home filled with laughter, children, and the peace they had been denied. But the thought of leaving his brother to face certain death felt like an unforgivable betrayal.


    The decision had nearly broken him.


    At the final hour, Rugr had returned to his brother’s camp, his mind made up. He would stay and fight. He would die alongside Dungr if that were what fate demanded.


    But Dungr had refused.


    Outranking Rugr by command and blood, Dungr had decided for him. “Go with her, Rugr,” he had said, his voice firm but kind. “Find peace. Raise a family. Maybe name one of them after me—preferably a boy. Dungr’s a terrible name for a girl.”


    Dungr had laughed, his signature grin breaking through the grim tension. But Rugr couldn’t bring himself to join in.


    “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, little brother,” Dungr had said, sensing his anguish. “One more man is of no use to me here. You’re needed there—where you can make a difference—with her.”


    And with that, Dungr had turned him around and pushed him out of the tent. The last words Rugr heard him speak, the tone filled with unmistakable love, were, “Look forward, brother. Never back.”