Chapter 5 - The Sorceress and the Sailor

Hey there!!! How’s everyone doing on this fine day/night/apocalyptic wasteland outside your window?

Me? I’m fantastic! Just served up another piping hot chapter fresh from the oven of my imagination! Pats self on back I’m on a roll, guys. A roll, I tell ya!

But even a broken record parrot author needs to hear a human voice now and again! So, tell me, what are your thoughts? Hit me with your best shot (but please, be gentle - I bruise like a peach in a windstorm)!

Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the empty space beside me in a golden glow. Empty. Right.

The sheets were tangled, the air still thick with the lingering scent of sex and something distinctly ... her. Gods, what a night. She was ... a force of nature. A whirlwind of passion and wicked delight.

I rolled over, reaching for her ... but found only cold sheets. My gaze fell on a folded piece of parchment on the bedside table. Curiosity piqued, I reached for it.

Thanks for the mind-blowing night, Captain. That was fun exercise. Hope you can walk straight today. Something to remember me by.

Remember her by? What the... I threw the note aside and opened the small cabinet beneath the nightstand. And there it was, nestled among my spare shirts and a half-empty bottle of rum – Seren’s black lace panties. The ones she’d been wearing last night.

I let out a low whistle, shaking my head. The woman was something else. Bold. Discreet. Utterly unforgettable. I was touched by her discreet exit but not surprised.

I tossed the panties back into the drawer – and headed for the washbasin. Time to face the day ... and the witch.

A quick, cold shower (definitely needed after that), a breakfast of stale bread, and even staler cheese (a man couldn’t live on passion alone, unfortunately), and I was out the door.

Navigating through the labyrinth of streets, I couldn’t help but curse at the city’s chaotic pulse. Anchorfell in the early hours was a force of nature - a maelstrom of humanity and commerce that could sweep a man off his feet if he wasn’t careful.

The city had a way of growing on you – not in a pleasant, ivy-covered-cottage sort of way, but more like a particularly tenacious barnacle. It had sprung up, not with any grand plan, but with the chaotic, unstoppable energy of a weed determined to conquer every crack and crevice. Narrow, winding streets designed for donkeys and desperate men (not naval officers in a hurry) were now choked with carts, hawkers, and enough humanity to make a hermit pray for a storm.

And then there was the Serpent’s Bazaar.

Gods, the place is a madhouse. A riot of colors, smells, and sounds that assaulted the senses from all sides. I plunged into the throng, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my dagger – not that it would do much good if someone decided to start a riot here. I’d seen tavern brawls that were more orderly.

Wagons laden with spices from the Eastern Isles were unloaded with shouts and curses, their exotic scents mingling with the stench of fish from a nearby stall where a mountainous woman with a voice like a foghorn was haggling over prices with a skinny merchant who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

A group of dwarven craftsmen were setting up a display of gleaming armor and weapons – I made a mental note to come back later. And just beyond them, a tent billowed with brightly colored silks and tapestries – Calderan, by the looks of them – where a sly-eyed merchant with a smile as fake as his gold teeth was enticing a pair of giggling noblewomen with promises of “unparalleled luxury and unimaginable delights”.

The air was thick with a thousand different smells - incense, sweat, roasted nuts, the ever-present tang of the sea, and something that smelled suspiciously like a troll had taken a bath in a vat of rotten fruit.

And yet, for all the chaos and sensory overload, my destination was clear. Each step I took towards it ... gods, I didn’t know what to call the feeling that was twisting my gut. Tension? Anticipation? Fear? Lust? Probably all of the above, and then some.

I cursed under my breath. I’d just spent a night tangled up with a woman who could make a saint question his vows, and here I was, my cock already stirring at the mere thought of ... her. The woman was a bloody menace.

And a temptation I didn’t trust myself to resist. Every time I was around her, it was like walking a tightrope over a chasm of want.

But then again ... I doubted anyone, for that matter – could truly resist her. I’ve witnessed her reduce both men and women to stuttering, blushing messes with just a glance.

There was something about her that bypassed all reason, all logic. She had that kind of power. A magnetism that drew you in, a fire that burned away all reason promising delights and dangers in equal measure.

Leaving the relative sanity of the Serpent’s Bazaar behind – I found myself in one of those narrow, shadowy alleys that Anchorfell seemed to specialize in. The shops here were ... less concerned with Imperial regulations and more focused on the kind of commerce that thrived in the dark, things that dwelled on the fringes.

A grimy-looking apothecary with jars of unidentifiable ingredients and a distinct smell of something that might either cure you or kill you (possibly both). Next to it, a shop overflowing with dusty books and scrolls – its owner a hunched-over figure with eyes that seemed to see right through you. And then ... there it was.

The shop was unassuming - its sign, barely legible, simply read: “The Raven’s Wing.”

No fancy sigils, no promises of power. Just ... that name.

I stood there for gods knew how long, lost in a haze of ... well, not exactly deep thoughts. More like the mental equivalent of a ship caught in the doldrums – sails slack, no wind, and a growing sense of impending doom.

“Oi! Watch where you’re standing, you blind bastard!”

A shout, followed by the thunder of approaching hooves, jolted me back to reality. I leaped aside just in time as a cart laden with what looked like barrels of ale barreled past, missing me by a hair.

I ignored him, ran a hand through my hair, and stepped into the shop, the door creaking shut behind me like the mouth of a hungry beast.

The door closed behind me with a soft click, and the noise of streets- the shouts, the rattle of carts, the screaming fishmongers – was cut off as if someone had thrown a switch. The silence inside The Raven’s Wing was almost as disorienting as the chaos outside.

It was bigger than I’d remembered- spacious, almost minimal. No shelves crammed with dusty jars and dried herbs, no cages of squawking ravens. Just polished wooden floors, a few tapestries depicting scenes of ancient forests and starry skies, and in the center of the room ... a table. Behind it sat a woman– probably not much older than myself.

She had dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, and round spectacles perched on a wrinkled nose. Her robe – a deep indigo silk, embroidered with silver thread in a pattern I didn’t recognize – was both elegant and somehow ... intimidating. She didn’t even look up as I approached.

“Welcome to The Raven’s Wing. What service may I provide?” Her voice was calm and collected.

“I’m here to see the ... proprietor,” I said, leaning casually against the table. “Is she available?”

Finally, her eyes met mine. She studied me for a moment, a frown creasing her brow, before replying in a voice devoid of warmth, “She is out. Return next week.”

“Out?”

“Indeed.”

I glanced around, confusion battling with the familiar prickly feeling of impatience. I knew this was the right place. Unless Thalira had decided to relocate her ... business ... since our last encounter. “ And when exactly will ... she ... be back?”

“Next week,” she replied. “Now, if you have no other business...”

“Wait ... I’m here to see Thalira,” I said, getting straight to the point.

The woman froze, her eyes widening as if I’d just spat on a sacred shrine. “ You ... you dare speak her name so casually? In such a place?”

I blinked. What in the hells...

“Names are meant to be spoken, aren’t they? Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“You must prove yourself worthy to utter My Lady’s name in this place.”

This lass was nuttier than a squirrel’s breakfast. “Listen, lady, can you just tell Thalira I’m here? It’s urgent. Naval business.”

She rose from her chair, her entire body radiating an indignation that was both confusing and slightly terrifying. “Your arrogance is appalling! You think you can waltz in here, demanding an audience?”

“Listen, I don’t know what your deal is—” I took a step back, starting to feel like I’d wandered into a religious ceremony gone wrong. “All I need is a few minutes of her time. It’s important.”

“Nothing is more important than respect,” she snarled. “ And you ... you will learn your place.”

“My place? Look – “ I started to say, but the woman cut me off with a gesture. Her hands, slender and surprisingly strong-looking, moved in a series of intricate patterns, her lips moving silently, forming words I didn’t understand. The air around her crackled, and I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck.

“Aperiam Abyssum, vincula solve. Surgite, servi mei!”

Behind her, a swirling vortex of energy erupted, tearing open a rift in the air. Black tendrils, slick with a viscous substance that reeked of rot and decay, snaked out from the portal, reaching for me with an unholy hunger.

Oh, fuck. This wasn’t good.

I backed away, my hand going to the hilt of my dagger. Not sure a bit of steel was going to be much help against ... that.

“This is your doing!”

“Look, let’s not do anything rash.”

“You need to learn.”

“Fucking hells,” I muttered, backing away from those tendrils as they snaked closer, dripping that foul-smelling goo. The woman was stark raving mad! Summoning things from the abyss just like that? I was starting to think Elara’s idea of me getting thrown in the brig was starting to look like a pleasant holiday.

I glanced around, looking for an escape route. Not a bloody window in sight. The door was blocked by a wall of writhing black tendrils. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

But just as I braced myself for a fight I had no chance of winning, another voice cut through the tense air.

“Inanitas!”

The word crackled with power, the air shimmering around us. The tendrils, as if burned by an unseen fire, retracted with a hiss, vanishing back into the closing vortex.

“Sybil, what in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing?”

I turned, heart still pounding, to see a familiar face—Hectate, her golden frills shimmering in the ambient light. She’s shorter than most, but what she lacks in height, she makes up for in presence. She wore a robe, not unlike Sybil’s, but hers was a deep crimson velvet, embroidered with golden symbols that hummed with a faint, magical energy.

“But ... H-He...” Sybil stammered, her face flushed with indignation. “He ... he was insulting, disrespectful, he...”

“Enough, Sybil.” Hecate’s voice was ice. The poor girl actually flinched. Then, she turned to me, her expression softening. “My apologies, Captain. Sybil is ... new. Still learning. I hope you understand.”

“It’s ... alright, I guess.”

“It is good to see you again.”

“You too, Hecate.”

“Come, Mistress is waiting.” She turned and headed towards a doorway hidden behind a tapestry depicting a scene I didn’t quite recognize – something involving stars, serpents, and a city that seemed to float in the clouds.

Sybil glared at me but remained silent as I followed Hecate up a narrow, winding staircase. The inside of The Raven’s Wing was ... well, not at all what one expected. It was bigger on the inside than out, the rooms shifting, expanding in a way that made my head spin.

Dimensional magic.

I’d heard rumors, of course, but never often seen it in action. It was a tricky business, manipulating space and reality like that – one wrong calculation, one stray thought, and you could end up folding yourself into a dimension where the air was made of cheese and the trees sang opera.

It’s a high-risk, high-reward game, and very few have the audacity or the skill to use it. That’s why it’s rarely taught, even in the most prominent magical academies.

Hecate stopped in front of a door at the end of a long, shadowy corridor. It was made of dark wood, polished to a shine, with no visible handle or hinges. She placed her hand on the wood, and it swung inwards silently.

“Wait here.”

I nodded, stepping into the room as she closed the door behind me.

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and something else ... something ancient, powerful. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

To my left, a towering bookshelf stretched from floor to ceiling, its shelves laden with tomes bound in leather, scales, and materials I can’t even identify.

Over on the far wall, a bunch of jars grabbed my attention. They were stuffed with these glowing stones, pulsing with every color you could think of like they had their own heartbeat or something. I couldn’t help but let my imagination run wild, wondering what the heck they were used for.

Are they soul gems? Or perhaps they’re conduits for elemental energies?

A large, ornate desk dominated the center of the room, cluttered with an assortment of magical paraphernalia. There were wands made from twisted roots, their tips shimmering with residual magic; athames with blades forged from meteoric iron; and orbs of crystal that swirl with inner storms. Scattered among these are sheets of parchment filled with arcane symbols, quills made from phoenix feathers, and inkpots that seem to shimmer with iridescent hues.

I took a seat in one of the plush chairs positioned in front of the desk, feeling a bit like I’d wandered into a dragon’s hoard.

What was I going to say to her? How was I going to convince her to help? Even the Emperor, with all his power and influence, had failed to sway her.

Thalira was a force of nature – wild, powerful, dangerous. How do you negotiate with a damn hurricane?

She was a woman cloaked in mystery, whispered to hold ancient power and deals with forces beyond our comprehension. Separating truth from fantasy, the woman from the myth, was a challenge. Resisting her pull, both physical and spiritual, was even harder.

I shifted in my seat, my mind drifting back to our last encounter ... that night of passion, fire, and magic so forbidden it’d make a priest blush. Gods, she could make a saint question their devotion. Just the memory had me heating up, and it wasn’t because of the crackling fireplace.

“Snap out of it, Aedan,” I muttered to myself. “Don’t let your dick do the thinking.”

A soft giggle, like wind chimes on a summer breeze, echoed through the room. “And why not, Captain? Your instincts have guided you well so far, haven’t they?”

I turned, and there she was, standing in the doorway—Thalira, Mistress of the Arcane, haunting both my dreams and my waking hours. Her presence was magnetic; you couldn’t help but look. Her hair cascaded down in fiery red waves, like sunsets and flames woven together, accentuating her curves. Her lips were full, promising both pleasure and danger.

But it was her eyes that truly captivated me. Every. Single. Time.

There are few things in this world a man can truly lose himself in—the vastness of the Azure Expanse under a starry sky, the depths of a lover’s gaze, the swirling depths of a perfectly mixed potion ... and those eyes. Violet. A shade so unique, so alluring.

Every inch of her radiated power, confidence, and a sensuality that could bring a man to his knees. Her body held the fullness of a maturity—breasts full and heavy, hips curved invitingly, and those legs... oh, those legs—the epitome of strength and sensuality combined.

She moved with a grace that was almost predatory, her every step a calculated seduction. Thalira was a tall woman, and as she approached, my eyes – against my better judgment – were drawn to the sway of her hips. Beneath that midnight blue robe, her curves were a symphony of sin, a promise whispered in the language of lust.

Most people, in my experience, were driven by something. Avarice, ambition, a desperate need to leave their mark on the world – a statue in the Grand Plaza, a name whispered with awe for generations to come, a mountain of gold that could buy them a kingdom ... or at least a very comfortable retirement. They craved power, love, security, meaning. A place in the grand tapestry of history, even if it was just a frayed thread in the corner.

Not Thalira.