Vethia. Port city and capital of the Marak kingdom. White stone buildings crowded the coast where the Syruval Sea met the Alyrian shores. The docks reeked of salt, fish, and exotic spices. Merchants haggled in multiple languages while dock workers hauled crates and barrels from ships that had traveled from every corner of the known world.Morgana leaned against a stack of crates, watching gulls circle above the busy port where traders shouted prices and sailors hauled cargo.Ten months had changed her.The rough cotton of her dress felt natural now, and her once-soft hands had grown calloused from months of crafting – weaving baskets, carving trinkets, and sewing the intricate patterns the Veyshari were known for.Behind her, the Veyshari were preparing their ship for departure. The Viento Libre had been her home since that winter night when she'd left Arkhos behind. Now they were leaving, and she was staying.Mirko approached, his massive frame blocking the morning sun. His beard was tied with colorful threads, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he spotted her."Still making sad face?" he asked, crossing his arms. "Not too late to change mind."Morgana smiled despite herself. "I've made my decision.""Bah! Decisions." He waved a meaty hand. "I decide to eat fish yesterday. Today, I want bread. Tomorrow?" He shrugged dramatically. "Maybe horse."She laughed. "I don't think you've ever eaten horse.""Not important." Mirko leaned closer. "Important is you belong with us now. Ten months! You speak our language, you make coin with us. My sister teach you medicines. Why stay in boring port?"The question hung in the air. Why indeed? The past ten months had been the freest of her life. With the Veyshari, she'd sailed to ports she'd only read about in books. She'd slept under stars so bright they seemed close enough to touch. She'd danced around campfires, learned to haggle in three (...)