《Rowan Creed: Bound to the Sea》


 Chapter 1

    The scent of salt and damp wood filled Rowan Creed¡¯s small bedroom, even though the sea was far away. The open window carried in the distant sound of waves crashing against the docks, mixing with the cries of seagulls that soared through the overcast sky. Despite the natural beauty of his coastal town, Rowan sat curled in the corner of his room, staring at the wooden ship on his desk.


    It was an old thing, polished smooth over time, no taller than his hand, yet carved with such fine detail that each plank and sail looked as if it could move at any moment. His father had given it to him when he was five, kneeling down with that serious look in his eyes.


    "This is special, Rowan. Take care of it."


    That was all he had said. No explanation, no stories¡ªjust those words. And then, five years later, his father was gone, swallowed by the very sea he had spent his life sailing.


    Rowan clenched his fists.


    He loved the sea¡ªor at least the idea of it. His room was proof of that. Posters of grand sailing ships, treasure maps, and heroic sailors covered his walls. There was a worn copy of Treasure Island next to his bed, alongside dog-eared adventure novels. The problem wasn¡¯t that he didn¡¯t want adventure. The problem was that he was afraid of the sea itself.


    Ever since his father¡¯s disappearance, he had refused to step onto a boat, even as his friends leapt eagerly onto fishing vessels for summer jobs. His mother had tried to encourage him, but she had remarried too soon¡ªtoo easily, in Rowan¡¯s eyes¡ªand he had grown distant from her.


    He ran a hand through his dark hair and turned back to the ship. Its tiny sails seemed frozen in time, untouched by dust, despite how long it had sat there.


    "I don¡¯t get you," he muttered under his breath. "Why did he care so much about a stupid toy?"


    With a sigh, he got up and went to the window. Below, the small coastal town bustled with its usual life. Fishermen unloaded their latest catch, and children chased each other along the docks. The sky was cloudy, the waves restless.


    "Ro, come down and have breakfast!"


    His mother¡¯s voice rang through the house, but Rowan hesitated. He sat frozen at the window, staring out at the distant horizon where the sea met the sky. A part of him wanted to stay here, to keep searching for something¡ªanything¡ªthat might explain why he had seen that strange flicker near the cliffs.


    But he already knew that if he didn¡¯t come down, she¡¯d call him again. And again.


    And he¡¯d have to face him.


    Rowan clenched his jaw and dragged himself away from the window, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. As he stepped out into the hallway, the familiar tension in his chest tightened. His stepfather, Marcus, would already be at the table, drinking his bitter black coffee, reading the newspaper like he actually cared about anything besides himself.


    Marcus wasn¡¯t a bad man¡ªnot according to everyone else. The neighbors thought he was respectable, hardworking, a man who took care of his family. But to Rowan, he was nothing more than an unwelcome presence in his home.


    Rowan didn¡¯t hate him just because he wasn¡¯t his father. He hated him because Marcus made no effort to be anything but a stepfather. He didn¡¯t try to connect. He didn¡¯t try to understand. He was just there, like a machine¡ªwaking up, working, eating, and shouting.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Especially shouting.


    Rowan took the stairs slowly, already dreading what was coming.


    When he stepped into the small kitchen, his mother, Evelyn, was setting plates on the table. She looked tired. She always looked tired these days. Dark circles under her eyes, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her lips pressed together in that same tense expression she wore whenever she tried to pretend everything was fine.


    And then there was Marcus, sitting at the head of the table, dressed in his work uniform. He barely glanced at Rowan before taking a sip of coffee.


    "You¡¯re late," Marcus muttered, flipping through the newspaper. "No surprise there."


    Rowan bit his tongue and sat down. His mother passed him a plate of eggs and toast, but he had no appetite.


    "Are you still wasting time with that metal detector?" Marcus asked, not looking up. "Or did you finally realize that playing treasure hunter isn¡¯t going to get you anywhere?"


    Rowan¡¯s grip on his fork tightened. He didn¡¯t respond.


    "Maybe if you spent half as much time studying as you do running around in the dirt, you wouldn¡¯t be failing math."


    "Marcus¡ª" his mother started, but he cut her off with a look.


    "It¡¯s true. Kid¡¯s got no future if he keeps this up."


    Rowan¡¯s stomach twisted. It was always like this. Every morning, every night¡ªalways the same lectures, the same criticisms. It didn¡¯t matter what he did; Marcus always found something to be disappointed about. He never saw what Rowan could do. He never cared.


    Rowan¡¯s father¡ªhis father¡ªhad never been like this. Even when he was strict, he was fair. He encouraged Rowan¡¯s curiosity. He never made him feel small.


    Rowan swallowed down the lump in his throat and shoved his plate away.


    "I¡¯m not hungry," he muttered, pushing back his chair.


    His mother sighed. "Rowan, please¡ª"


    But he was already walking out. He didn¡¯t want to hear her tell him to try harder, to be patient, to understand Marcus. He didn¡¯t want to hear anything.


    He just wanted to be alone.


    As Rowan stepped out onto the front porch, he barely made it three steps before he heard Marcus call after him.


    "Rowan! At least take this with you. Try to do something useful for once and catch some fish."


    Rowan turned around just in time to see Marcus holding out a fishing rod¡ªthe same one he had given Rowan years ago, back when he first started dating his mother. The sight of it made Rowan¡¯s stomach twist.


    His mother¡¯s sister had once told him that Evelyn remarried so quickly because she thought Rowan needed a father figure. That Marcus would help him "grow up right." Maybe that was why she had said yes barely a year after Rowan¡¯s father disappeared at sea.


    Rowan clenched his fists.


    Marcus had never been, and never would be, his father.


    "I¡¯m not interested in fishing," Rowan muttered, turning away.


    "Figures," Marcus said with a scoff, pulling the rod back. "You don¡¯t even have to step foot in the water, but you¡¯d still rather run around playing treasure hunter than do something actually useful."


    Rowan ignored him. He strode back inside, his heart hammering with frustration, and made his way straight to his room.


    He didn¡¯t care about fishing. He didn¡¯t care about catching anything from the sea. The people of the small port town made their living that way, but he wanted something different.


    Something more.


    Rowan knelt beside his bed and pulled out the old, battered metal detector¡ªhis father¡¯s metal detector. The one thing that still made him feel connected to the man he had lost.


    His father had spent hours scanning the shore with this very device, the beeping sound filling the air as he swept it back and forth over the sand. And when Rowan had asked him what he was searching for, his father had only smiled and said:


    "Something I threw away a long time ago. Something I want back."


    At the time, Rowan hadn¡¯t understood. He had been too young to grasp the meaning behind his father¡¯s words. But he had watched him search, over and over, never giving up¡ªeven when all he found were rusted nails, bottle caps, and bits of old junk.


    Rowan had once thought his father was looking for treasure. Maybe even something magical. But now, he wasn¡¯t sure.


    All he knew was that ever since his father vanished, he felt closest to him when he was walking that same shoreline, metal detector in hand, listening to the rhythmic beeping and wondering what secrets lay buried beneath the sand.


    Rowan slung the metal detector over his shoulder and left the house without another word.


    Rowan trudged down the dirt path that led to the beach, his metal detector slung over his shoulder. The salty breeze stung his face, and the sound of crashing waves filled the air. It was early morning, and the tide had pulled back, leaving damp sand behind¡ªperfect for scanning.


    He flicked on the detector and began sweeping it over the sand, the familiar beeping breaking the quiet. Step by step, he moved carefully, eyes locked on the ground, waiting for a stronger signal.


    Nothing.


    A few more steps.


    A faint beep.


    Rowan dug into the sand with his hands, hoping¡ªjust maybe¡ªthis time he¡¯d find something worthwhile. But when his fingers finally grasped the object, he pulled out a rusted bottle cap.


    With a sigh, he tossed it aside and kept going.


    This was how it always went.


    Most people in town had already given up trying to talk him out of it. At first, they had humored him, asking if he had found anything interesting. Then they started giving him sympathetic looks, reminding him, Your father isn¡¯t coming back. Eventually, they stopped commenting altogether.


    But he still felt their eyes on him. Fishermen mending their nets near the docks, merchants setting up their small stalls along the road, travelers stopping by the seaside inn¡ªthey all saw him, yet no one said anything anymore.


    It didn¡¯t matter. Rowan didn¡¯t do this for them.


    The beeping continued.


    Junk.


    More junk.


    Still, he kept going.

 Chapter 2

    "Found any treasure, Mr. Eldarecrede?"


    Rowan turned, recognizing the familiar rasp of Roland Vane, the old fisherman. The man stood a few paces away, his weathered hands resting on his fishing net, his sea-worn eyes squinting in the morning sun. His voice was rough, like the sound of waves grinding against the rocks, and despite his age, there was still strength in him¡ªthe kind of endurance that only a lifetime at sea could forge.


    Rowan grinned faintly. "Nothing today, Grandpa."


    Roland snorted, shaking his head. "I thought this weird obsession with searching the shore would end with your dad, but now you¡¯ve picked it up too?"


    "Someone¡¯s gotta keep the family tradition going," Rowan joked.


    Roland gave a sharp laugh. "If your father had fished half as much as he spent digging around in the sand, your mother wouldn¡¯t have had to marry that parasite, Marcus."


    Rowan smirked. That was one of the many things he and Roland Vane had in common¡ªthey both despised Marcus.


    Roland Vane was the only person who called Rowan Eldarecrede. Everyone else simply called him Creed, and only a handful of people knew that Rowan¡¯s father was once Elthandis Eldarecrede. To most of the town, he had been Ethan Creed¡ªa name that hid something much stranger than anyone realized.


    It had been Roland Vane who first saw his father, nearly fifteen years old, washed ashore on the beach, wearing nothing but ragged clothes and carrying a strange name that no one recognized.


    And it had been Roland who took him in.


    The town didn¡¯t ask questions back then. A half-drowned boy with no memory of his past and a name that didn¡¯t belong to any place nearby? It wasn¡¯t their problem. The boy was lucky he had been found by a fisherman instead of left to the sea.


    Roland had been the one to rename him Ethan Creed, teach him to fish, and show him how to survive in a world he seemed utterly lost in.


    But Rowan had heard the stories. His father, even after learning how to live as a fisherman, had still struggled. Roland used to say, "It was like he had been born into a different world, and everything here was new to him."


    His father had stumbled through life at first, as if he had never known the taste of simple food, the work of an honest fisherman, or the way of ordinary men. Sometimes, he acted like a spoiled noble, someone raised in luxury, only to be stranded in a world where he had to fight to survive.


    But he adapted.


    And in time, he became a part of the town¡ªmarrying Rowan¡¯s mother, raising a son, and building a life that, in the end, the sea would take back.


    Maybe that was why Rowan had been named after Roland Vane.


    Because if it weren¡¯t for the old fisherman, Ethan Creed would never have existed at all.


    "Did you catch anything today?" Rowan asked, shaking off his thoughts.


    Roland grinned. "Of course I did. Come, let¡¯s go home and eat. You look hungry."


    Rowan hesitated, then nodded. He hadn''t eaten at his own house. He had no desire to sit across from Marcus, enduring another round of complaints about how useless he was.


    Instead, he followed Roland through the narrow streets, weaving between the early morning merchants who were setting up their stalls. The town was already alive with movement¡ªfishermen unloading their catch, children running through the streets, the occasional ship departing from the harbor.


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    But as they walked, Rowan couldn''t shake a thought that had been growing in his mind.


    If his father had washed ashore at fifteen, with no memory of where he came from, and if he had truly been someone raised in another life, another world¡ª


    Then where had he come from?


    Rowan finished his breakfast at Roland Vane¡¯s small cottage, the warm meal filling his stomach in a way that home never did. It was simple food¡ªfreshly grilled fish, bread, and some old but still sweet apples¡ªbut it tasted better than anything his mother had made in years. Maybe it was because Roland didn¡¯t ask questions. He didn¡¯t judge. He just let Rowan exist, as if that was enough.


    Afterward, Rowan stepped out into the cool morning air and decided to explore the town.


    Not that there was anything new to explore.


    Blackreef was a small, forgettable port town, the kind that barely made it onto maps. It had a single marketplace, a handful of inns, and docks that were only busy when the larger ships came through for supplies. Everything else was predictable¡ªthe same faces, the same voices, the same routines.


    And yet, Rowan walked through the streets as if he had somewhere important to go.


    People greeted him as he passed. An old woman selling dried fish at the market called his name. A merchant stacking crates nodded at him. A group of younger kids, barefoot and wild-haired, waved excitedly, as if Rowan were some famous sailor instead of just another boy from town.


    "Morning, Rowan!" called Tomas, the town¡¯s blacksmith, as he hammered at a glowing horseshoe.


    "Morning," Rowan replied with a broad smile, nodding in return.


    His responses were automatic, easy. He played the role well. To them, he was just another part of the town. Someone they had known all his life. Someone they had always treated kindly.


    But deep down, he knew the truth.


    Rowan remembered how things had been after his father¡¯s disappearance.


    How the town had treated him and his mother like ghosts.


    At first, the town had pitied them.


    People whispered about how Evelyn Creed was left alone to raise a child. They offered small kindnesses¡ªleft extra fish on their doorstep, gave her lower prices at the market. But when months passed and no sign of Ethan Creed ever returned, the whispers changed.


    Pity turned to distance.


    People stopped coming by to check on them. When his mother tried to borrow money to keep their home, she was met with polite refusals. Some even avoided her entirely, as if she had become a burden they didn¡¯t want to carry.


    And Rowan, once the fisherman¡¯s son everyone greeted so warmly, was suddenly treated like he didn¡¯t exist.


    It wasn¡¯t just about the money. It was something deeper. People in port towns understood loss¡ªbut they also feared it. No one wanted to be reminded that the sea could take everything from them in a single moment. And Rowan and his mother were living proof of that.


    Only when Marcus came into the picture¡ªwhen his mother remarried¡ªdid things return to normal.


    People started talking to them again. His mother was treated as if she had never struggled at all. Rowan was given attention again, as if he had never been invisible.


    And that was why Rowan never truly trusted anyone in this town.


    Because they had only been kind to him when it was convenient.


    Rowan walked past the small harbor, where sailors loaded cargo onto ships bound for distant lands he would never see. He walked past the same houses, the same boats tied to the docks, the same fishermen who had ignored him once but now smiled at him as if nothing had ever happened.


    He returned their smiles. He exchanged greetings. He played his part.


    But deep down, he knew the truth.


    And that truth left a bitter taste in his mouth.


    Rowan made his way to the cliffs on the far side of town, to the place he called his sanctuary¡ªa quiet stretch of rocky shore hidden from the main docks. It was where he always came when he wanted to be alone. But today, he wasn¡¯t alone.


    Rosey was already there.


    She sat on a large rock by the water, her bare feet dangling just above the waves as she held a fishing rod in her hands. The sea breeze played with her dark curls, and her gaze was fixed on the ocean, steady and unshaken.


    She was one of the few people in town Rowan could actually talk to¡ªbecause she understood.


    Her father had been lost to the sea less than a year ago, and since then, her family had been struggling just like Rowan¡¯s had. She had taken it upon herself to fish every day, trying to help her mother in whatever way she could.


    She was only a year older than Rowan, but she carried herself with a strength that most people twice her age didn¡¯t have.


    Rowan walked up beside her. "You came early today?"


    Rosey barely glanced at him before reaching into a small wooden bucket and pulling out an old fishing rod. She held it out to him.


    "Mom started early today," she said. "She thinks that marrying me off will get us out of this situation. She doesn¡¯t want me fishing."


    Rowan hesitated before taking the rod from her hand. He cast his line into the sea, watching as the hook disappeared beneath the waves.


    "She really thinks that¡¯s the answer?" he asked.


    Rosey gave a bitter laugh. "In this town? Yeah. Either a husband or a miracle."


    Rowan didn¡¯t reply. He simply focused on the sea, on the way the water rocked and swayed beneath them.


    The two sat in silence, fishing together, the only sound between them the whisper of the tide and the occasional cry of a distant gull.