The transition from the jagged, rose-quartz peaks of the North to the humid,
suffocating opulence of the Southern coastline was like moving from a clean,
sharp winter's dream into a fevered, jasmine-scented hallucination. The Iron
Sovereign, now meticulously camouflaged under layers of weathered oak planks and
carrying the faded, salt-stained banners of a third-rate merchant house from the
Silver-Stream, cut through the turquoise waters of the Southern Channel with a
heavy, labored grace. The silver-iron core of the ship was silent, its divinity
buried under the mundane hum of a backup coal-engine that belched a thick, grey
soot into the pristine sky—a deliberate blemish designed to make us look like
the very thing the Southern Alphas despised: poor, industrial, and
inconsequential.
I stood at the mid-deck, leaning against a rough-hewn timber crate. The leather
of my merchant's jerkin was stiff, smelling of wood-tar and cheap ale, a stark
