Storm Strider

A year passed.

The Harbour City was awake before the sun, its streets thick with voices and movement, the scent of brine mixing with the oil of frying bread. Market stalls lined the avenues, packed with fishmongers gutting their morning hauls and traders shouting deals over barrels of salt and spice. The sea breeze carried the sound of ship bells ringing in the distance of the far western docks, masts swaying over the messy terracotta roofs like blades of grass.

And Marisol? She moved between it all, glaives gliding over sun-warmed stone, bare and light as the wind. She danced on the streets, weaving through the thin veil of sand grains she'd kicked up herself, and the grains swirled around her as she spun, twirled, backflipped off a pallet and then hopped off a line of wooden nails hammered into the docks.

The crowd gathered fast, as they always did. Sailors fresh from the docks, merchants on break, locals who knew her routine by now. Some clapped in sync with her movements. Others whistled and cheered as she flipped mid-air, twisting her body into impossible angles before landing soundlessly. They may not all know her real name, but they knew her title, and it rang through the streets she skated through like a chant.

She could feel their eyes. Their anticipation. The rising energy that surged in time with her heartbeat.

And then she slid into the district square, arms opening like wings to give a final step. A graceful bow, though slightly trembling and slightly wobbly.

Tch.

Not a perfect end.

Guess I still can't control the shaking perfectly, huh?

Even still, applause crashed over her like a wave. Coins clinked into the water fountain behind, scattered in a mix of copper and silver.

She straightened, wiping sweat from her brow, her breath steady despite the exertion. "Thank you, thank you!" she said with a grin, throwing in a little flourish of her hands. "Thank you all for your generous patronage!"

Then someone whacked her on the back of the head.

She spun fast, hands already up, instincts flaring—and froze when she saw her mama standing there, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Old Miss Vellamira was still in her apron, sleeves rolled up, probably straight from the bakery where they lived on the second floor of. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek, which only made her glare more comically fierce.

"What the hell are you doing taking donations for?" her mama grumbled, flicking her forehead this time. "Don't the Imperators pay you enough already?"

Marisol rubbed at the sore spot, pouting. "I ain't taking any for myself. It's all going to the infirmaries."

"You sure none of that's going to your sweets coffers?"

"... Okay, maybe just a few Scales here and there—"

"You've got an actual job now," her mama whacked her on the head again. "Go to work."

Marisol smirked, stepping back with a dramatic bow. "And you told me sand-dancing can't be a real job anymore."

Her mama just smirked back and waved her off. "Go. You've got something you gotta do this morning, don't you?"

Marisol was already laughing and moving before her mama finished.

Sand kicked up in her wake as she sped through the Harbour City. She blurred through the morning bustle, leapt over stacked crates, skimmed past merchants with a breath of space between them, and vaulted off several barrels to catch the ledge of a second-story awning before flipping off and landing smoothly on another street.

A tall stone watchtower loomed ahead, its shadow stretching long over the docks. She skidded to a stop at its entrance, the crowded counter inside packed with soldiers coming and going. Their voices overlapped in a steady hum of orders, reports, and complaints, but she wasn't paying attention to any of them. She searched the crowd, eyes flitting about, and then…

There.

Bruno and Aidan sat behind the counter, scribbling onto forms, their movements stiff but steady. The worst of their injuries had healed, but neither of them could fight anymore. They'd traded their days on the battlefield for the monotony of paperwork.

Bruno was the first to notice her, leaning back with a grin. "Going up already?"

"Mhm." Marisol nodded, knocking her knuckles against the counter as she continued looking around. "Where's Helena?"

Aidan raised a brow. "Behind you."

A hand clapped down on her shoulder. Marisol whirled as Helena fell into step beside her, already moving toward the spiralling flight of stairs in the centre of the watchtower.

"Let's go." Helena thumbed back.

The stairs were steep and winding and wholly uncomfortable for people with glaives for legs—even more so for people with trembling glaives—but Marisol took them in easy strides, Helena matching her pace.

"How's being a Lighthouse Imperator treating you these days?" Marisol asked, chewing her lip as she focused on not tripping, not making a fool of herself in front of countless soldiers racing up and down the stairs past the two of them.

Helena exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders. "Like carrying a ship on my back," she muttered. "Hugo left big shoes to fill but we take it as it comes. There's not much more we can do."

"And… your older brothers?"

"I haven't given up on returning to the Whirlpool City, if that's what you're asking," Helena replied. "If I want Aidan and Bruno fighting on their feet again, I'll need two vials of healing seawater, and if I ever want my siblings to see Familiar again… I've gotta get that sign back, at least."

Marisol smiled. "One day."

Helena glanced at her. "One day?"

"You helped me get my vial," Marisol said simply. "So I'll help you get yours."

Something softened in Helena's eyes, and she nodded cheerily as they kept climbing.

Halfway up, the stairs opened into a circular chamber stacked with supply crates and spare weapons. There were plenty of watchtowers in the Harbour City, after all, and they served as Harbour Guard bases for soldiers to rest and train and arm themselves in. This early in the morning, there was only one person waiting for the two of them here with her arms crossed, hugging a massive stack of papers.

"Intercepted," Reina said bluntly.

Marisol groaned. "Can I please get to the top without someone throwing something at me—"

The stack of papers landed in her arms.

Marisol stared down at them. Then at Reina.

"No," she said flatly.

"Yes," Reina said, deadpan.

She let out a long, exaggerated groan, flapping the papers at Reina's face as the three of them continued their way up. "I've already been forced into a six-month-long Harbour Guard Academy course," she grumbled. "I know most warships aren't just normal sailing ships and are actually powered by bioarcanic machines. I know the Shattered Reefs north of the great blue are marauder-owned territory. I know the further north you sail, the larger the risks of encountering a rogue Plagueplain Front faction on a 'fishing' trip. You still want to bog me down with more papers to read?"

"Yep," Reina said. "Here's more."

Marisol exhaled through her nose, muttering under her breath as she flipped through the stack with enhanced speed, skimming pages in seconds. More logistics, more reports, more hard-to-comprehend diagrams. She'd learned how to read when she was a child since her mama had been planning on shipping her off to a far eastern academy, but she could barely process half of the stack before leveling a look at Reina.

"I still don't think I should be training anyone," she admitted. "I only started doing this two years ago."

The Archive seized the moment to twist the knife. [You are also not the most impressive human to date. The Magician, ranked two of the Arcana Hasharana, killed his first Insect God three days after gaining his class, whereas you—]

Shut up.

Reina ignored her and crossed her arms. "Uncle trained you, you know."

Marisol made a face. "That's different."

"You're a Flower Cape now, and that means people look up to you," Reina said simply. "You're doing this."

Marisol groaned. Before she could get another word in, Reina slipped something into her palm.

A piece of wrapped candy.

Marisol blinked.

"After this," Reina whispered, winking, "let's go to a candy house."

… Oh, fine.

She grinned, unwrapping the candy and popping it into her mouth.

The open-air top of the lighthouse was bright under the morning sun. It was a wide stone platform surrounded by a half-wall, several dozen metres high above the bustling Harbour City below. Given it was built on the far western walls, Marisol had a good look at the great blue stretching in every direction but east, but she had an even better look at the twelve new recruits already standing in stiff formation.

Backs straight. Imperator uniforms crisp. They were all young—maybe her age, maybe older—but their eyes followed her with something too close to admiration, which made her want to immediately turn back around.

But Maria was already there, circling them like a bloodhound, her sharp gaze sweeping over each recruit as if trying to burn straight through their skulls.

Marisol sighed.

Of course.

Before Maria could start demanding push-ups or something equally excessive, Andres grabbed her by the arm and tugged her back, muttering something that made her scowl and stop moving. The Harbour Imperatrix shot Marisol a look and gave her a nod.

"Go ahead," he said. "They're yours."

Marisol hesitated only for a second.

She glanced over the recruits, feeling the weight of their attention settle on her like an uncomfortable coat. She wasn't bad at being the center of attention—she thrived on it in a dance, in the middle of a fight—but this was different. This was expectation. These people were waiting on her, and she wasn't used to being the one late to the party.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

She cleared her throat.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, she launched straight into the welcome speech.

Her Archive handled most of it, feeding her the words like a script she barely had to think about. She felt her voice was steady and firm enough. She spoke generically about their duty, their responsibility to the eastern end of the great blue, and the missions they'd undertake from here on out to keep the sea routes safe from the Swarm. It was all very official, very Imperator-like—very not like her—but she kept delivering it exactly the way Andres liked it until, finally, she reached the end.

She let out a breath, glanced at Reina, and mouthed 'now what'.

Reina, utterly unhelpful, just mouthed back 'give them their first mission'.

Right.

That, she could do.

She lifted the stack of papers in her arms and flicked through them. The assignments were all relatively standard extermination missions: pest control, clearing out crustacean gathering spots, protecting trade routes from brood infestations. All across the eastern end of the great blue. It'd been an entire year since they were forced out of the Whirlpool City, and given there was no whirlpool to dive, the Imperators had basically folded into the Harbour Guards, taking on the same missions so they could all secure their remaining territory.

Marisol clicked her tongue and started calling names from the papers.

One by one, the recruits stepped forward, taking their mission details from her. It was all smooth, very efficient—until she glanced to the side, just briefly, and looked further towards the western end of the great blue.

Dark clouds churned on the horizon, thick and heavy, rolling over the water like a moving wall of storm.

That hadn't changed.

An entire year had passed, and they still hadn't been able to send a single ship past the border between the eastern end and the western end. No constructs, no scouts, no recon teams. They had no idea what was happening in the west. The Swarm had swallowed their half of the great blue, and now it sat behind that curtain of storms, completely untouchable.

The Imperators were still trying to breach it. Slowly. Carefully. But they knew nothing, and for the time being, it was all anyone could do to wait for the bioarcanic construct specialists from the far northeastern end of the continent to arrive. They may know a thing or two about building warships powerful and sturdy enough to sail into that black storm spanning a few thousand kilometres.

Even I ain't dumb enough to skate into something like that.

[Correct.]

[It is not the storm that is dangerous, after all. I fear the very western end of the great blue has become permeated with Corpsetaker's essence, and is currently undergoing some very violent upheavals.]

How so?

[For one, it is a consistent phenomenon across the entire continent that the closer you are to a Greater Insect God, the more their essence seems to affect in an area.]

She blinked.

Come again?

[Bioarcanic essence affects all biological beings, including the earth, the sea, the sky, and living, breathing people. It is not out of the question that some of the more powerful Greater Insect Gods have the capability to essentially speed up or slow down the perception of time for all biological beings in an area,] the Archive said. [Perhaps the reason why no bioarcanic constructs and scouts can sail into the western end of the great blue is because that stretch of the sea is currently a 'sealed box': time is moving much, much faster on that end of the horizon. It has only been a year since humanity lost the Whirlpool City, but to the bugs currently residing there, it may have been well over a hundred years since they last spotted a human.]

… Fantastic.

So they're getting even stronger even faster?

[They are the Swarm.]

Do we stand a chance against them at all?

[Please. Probability calculations are meaningless to you.]

She smiled. She would've flicked the little water strider off her shoulder if it'd said anything else, so, instead, she finished handing out the last mission paper to the new recruits and placed her hands on her hips.

"That's it," she said. "You're all set. Head down to the docks, find the dockmasters, and they'll set all of you up with your own ship and crew. If you've got any questions, ask now, 'cause I'm gonna be this batch's special instructor for the next…" She paused, glancing at Maria. "Three months?"

Reina nodded.

Marisol turned back around, and immediately, the recruits burst into noise.

"I have a question!"

"Me too!"

"Miss Vellamira, what's your Specialized Class?"

"What's your Swarmblood Art do exactly?"

"Don't you carve up the floor wherever you go?"

"Do you have a lover?"

"How do I get as strong as you?"

Marisol had dealt with quite a lot of trouble in the past two years—marauder ambushes, digestive acids, and god-like bugs that could snap a man in half like a twig—but standing here, surrounded by bright-eyed fresh recruits all talking at once, she felt like she was drowning.

She tried answering one question, but before she could finish, another voice cut in. And another. And another. It was like being swarmed, except instead of claws and fangs, it was excitement and rapid-fire curiosity.

[My, my,] the Archive purred, [It seems you are still quite the celebrity.]

Shut it.

But she couldn't deny it. People knew her now. Two years ago, she'd been nobody. Now, every fresh Imperator recruit in the Harbour City was looking at her like she had all the answers.

She was about to tell them all to take turns—or maybe just disappear off the roof entirely—when a loud, deliberate cough cut through the noise.

The chatter died instantly.

A young man leaned against the parapet at the back of the group, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Marisol furrowed her brows a little. He wasn't using an Imperator uniform like everyone else. His was more casual, a loose blue and gold-streaked cloak wrapped around his entire body, and when he spoke, his voice carried a cocky, almost lazy drawl—but the sharpness underneath was impossible to miss.

"Alright, Miss Vellamira," he said. "No disrespect, but are you really fit to be our instructor?"

Silence.

Maria shifted beside her, rolling her shoulder. Marisol didn't have to look to know that if the young man said one more dumb thing, Maria was going to blast him off the roof.

Marisol exhaled quickly, turning to the young man fully. "And you are?"

He met her gaze head-on. "A nobody. Just another Flower Cape. Just passed this year's Hasharana Entrance Exam."

Her brows lifted.

A Hasharana.

[You have yet to meet one apart from Antonio and Victor, correct?]

That's because the other twenty or twenty-one of them around the Deepwater Legion Front hate living in cities, so they leave me to liaison with the Imperators all by myse—

Reina crossed her arms, looking slightly miffed as well. "What is your problem with Instructor Vellamira, Flower Cape?"

"It's not a problem," he countered. "It's a question." Then he pushed off the parapet, shifting his weight, and Marisol caught it: that subtle, wobbly movement, the way his balance adjusted fluidly as he strode forward.

Her gaze dropped to his legs.

Thin, curved glaives.

Water Strider Class.

Marisol couldn't help but let out a low whistle. "Heh," she whispered, tilting her head with a small grin. "So another idiot has chosen the Water Strider Class."

His expression twitched, but he didn't flinch. "I don't have a death wish."

"Could've fooled me."

His jaw clenched, but instead of snapping at her, he took a breath. "I chose it," he said, quieter this time, "because I want my home back." Then his gaze flicked westward, and everyone followed it. "I grew up in Whirlpool City. I lived there. And I was… flung through a wormhole and sent running on a warship when we lost it."

A deep, familiar ache curled in her chest.

For the longest time, all she'd wanted was to leave the Whirlpool City, but though they'd settled most evacuees down in the Harbour City over the past year—which wasn't an easy feat whatsoever, considering they had to rapidly expand the city both north and south by a few hundred kilometres—she knew most of them didn't want to live here. This wasn't their home.

She inhaled, the sea breeze threading through her hair, carrying the taste of salt and rain.

"... I get it," she murmured.

Because she did.

One day, she'd take everyone back to their home, because she still owed the old man his vial of healing seawater—and the man in front of her was right.

She wasn't a professional soldier. She'd never trained in fleet tactics, never commanded a ship, and never done half the things these recruits had spent years preparing for.

So fine.

She'd prove herself her own way.

Cracked her knuckles, she grinned and puffed her chest out. "Alright, then. Listen up!"

The recruits snapped to attention.

"I'll admit it: I'm no proper Imperator. I've never studied formations, and I sure as hell don't know how to run a fleet like some seasoned captain." She stretched her arms behind her head. "But there is one thing I know, and that's speed."

The recruits exchanged confused glances.

She spread her arms. "There's twelve of you here and twelve missions. I've already looked through all of them. So here's the deal." She jabbed a thumb at herself. "If I can finish all twelve of them before even one of you manages to complete a single one, then you all owe me a week's worth of your pay. And I'll be using it to take Reina and the others to the biggest candy house in the city!"

The rooftop erupted .

"That's impossible!"

"No way! Some of our missions are seas apart!"

"It's just the Flower Cape who's challenging you! We're not questioning you!"

"But even you can't—"

The Hasharana simply scoffed, crossing his arms. "Don't be so sure of yourself," he muttered. "You're far stronger than all of us, sure, but we're twelve people heading in twelve different directions."

Marisol's grin widened. "I never said you were weak. Just that you're slow."

The sea breeze rolled in, thick with salt and the distant scent of stormwinds. She closed her eyes for a brief second, breathing it in. It filled her lungs, thrummed in her bones—and, without hesitation, she jumped onto the parapets and balanced on the tips of her glaives.

There was a single, sharp, worried intake of breath from the recruits.

She didn't answer. She let the wind play with her hair as she gazed out at the great blue where the waves crashed and churned, where ships rocked gently in their docks, waiting for their crews to set them free.

Then she turned, glancing over her shoulder, and flashed the new recruits a playful, reckless grin.

"I'll give you all a head start," she said. "Three hours. Get to your ships. Get your crew settled. And try to keep up."

With that, the rooftop exploded into motion. Shouts, curses, and boots pounded against stone as the recruits scrambled for the stairwell, shoving and tripping over each other in their hurry to get moving.

The young Hasharana lingered for half a second longer, meeting her gaze. Then, with the barest flicker of a smirk, he turned and disappeared down the tower.

Andres and the Lighthouse Imperators followed soon after, yelling at them to stop running around.

And then there was silence.

Alone, Marisol exhaled slowly atop the parapets, the wind wrapping around her like an old friend as she looked out at the great blue.

… Ain't it a little outdated now, still calling myself a Sand-Dancer?

She smirked, murmuring it under her breath, testing it against her tongue. The name had followed her through blood and sweat, through the desert sands of her childhood and the storm-ravaged seas of her battles. But now she was here, in the Harbour City, and her glaives were no longer bound to land alone.

Sea-Dancer?

[Hah.]

It sounds cool, but… not quite right.

[True. It does not have the same ring to it.]

Her gaze flicked downward, to the docks below. The recruits were scrambling to their ships, some shouting orders, others barely keeping themselves from tripping over their own feet in their rush. It was funny, really.

Two years ago, that'd been her running up the gangplank of Antonio's warship, barely knowing what she was doing, but damn if that'd stopped her. The great blue had been terrifying back then. Being out there, trapped on a ship, surrounded by nothing but churning waves… it'd made her sick just thinking about it.

Now?

Maybe she didn't need to come up with a new name for herself. Maybe she could just call herself what the people in the Harbour City called her these days.

After all, the name was starting to grow on her.

Without another thought, she kicked off the parapet and flipped backward into open air. The wind rushed past, the world tilting, and for that brief, singular moment—as the sky spun and the sea blurred beneath her—she was weightless.

Free to go wherever she pleased.