Cover created by me, Pixei!
Note: Yes! I am posting ML here now! But before we start, here’s a quick BLURB!!!
In the War Seas, survival belongs only to those who understand value—drachma, risk, people—all of it was one and the same. Up until this point, “Zeke Cutlass” had lived a sheltered life among merchants—useful, watched, contained, and never truly able to make his own choices—so when he decides to take control of his own life and escape in search of something more, he quickly realizes that freedom is not the escape he imagined.
In a world where power decides fate and hesitation invites death, knowledge is not enough. As trade turns to conflict, and a bounty is placed on his head—despite him being no criminal—Zeke is forced to confront the one thing he cannot calculate: Will he ever be able to choose what kind of life he wants to live—or will the War Seas decide for him?
AN ARCANE ODYSSEY STORY THAT TAKES PLACE 5 YEARS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF THE MAIN GAME
features characters created by @cherry_berries , Drakosaur, Cookie, and many, many others. There’s a WHOLE guild based off this fic…
Tags: Implied Child Abuse, Angst, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Almost Everyone Cusses, Lessons on Economics, Smart MC, Morally Gray Characters.
[CHAPTER 1: SUPPLY CHAIN DOMINANCE]
SEPTEMBER 2nd, 1849
0525 - EARLY MORNING
(Approximately five years before the events of Arcane Odyssey)
Zeke had that dream again. That dream of a memory that never quite began at the beginning. It never showed him why he had been there—only that he was.
It always started with endless water. Black, swallowing, rising and falling like something alive and crawling beneath him. The kind of sea that did not reflect the sky because there was no sky—only a suffocating gray that pressed down as much as the waves pulled under. He was small in that dream too. Too small. Hands raw, clinging to splintered wood that bit into his palms and crushed his little fingers. The cold had already set in. He knew that, even inside the dream.
There were voices sometimes. Not words—just sounds. Shouting. A crack of something breaking. The distant, hollow boom of something collapsing into the water and slowly quieting as he was carried further and further away from some sort of ordeal. Then silence.
Always silence after.
The next part came the same way every time—sudden, jarring, like the dream itself had skipped forward. Like the amount of days he had spent stranded on the ocean was insignificant—nothing more than a blur. It came in the form of a net. Rough rope scraping against his skin as it tightened around him, lifting him from the water like he was no more than a catch of the day. He remembered the smell of the ship more than anything—salt, rot, piss, smoke. The groaning wood of a merchant vessel above him. Shadows leaning over the edge.
And then—
A face.
Norman Winterfield. The man who “raised” him.
It wasn’t clear. It was more just the shape of him—broad shoulders, tanned, yet reddish skin, deep blue eyes that were impossible to read. There was something in that expression that he had upon seeing Zeke, something he always felt like he was about to understand before—
—Before it suddenly slipped away.
Before the dream ended without preamble. Before Zeke woke with a sharp inhale, his body already tense as if he had been dragged from the water again.
Dark canvas above him. The faint sway of a lantern somewhere outside. The distant creak of ships and wind brushing against the camp’s perimeter. He stared upward for a long moment, waiting. Maybe… if he stayed still enough, the dream would come back. Pick up where it left off. Show him more. Maybe… this time, he’d finally know why his subconscious held on to that lost memory so much. Maybe he’d finally figure out why he was out in the sea for some reason.
But nothing else followed.
Zeke scoffed. He turned his head, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. Sleep was gone completely. It always was after that goddamn dream. He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Encore…” he muttered under his breath in his first tongue. “Toujours la même chose…”
Again. Always the same thing.
Nothing else.
(For possibly ever).
He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood, already knowing there was no point in trying to lie back down. His body still felt like it was moving with waves that weren’t there. It made staying still unbearable.
So—fine.
If sleep wouldn’t come, there was no point in chasing it. Zeke grabbed his green and white Proxy Knight uniform, shrugging it on as he weaved between the cots of other sleeping knights and stepped out into the cool night air. The Knights Proxy camp was quieter than usual, but not silent. It never was. Somewhere, metal clinked softly. A low murmur of voices carried from one of the outer fires. A watch rotation, probably. It didn’t involve Zeke. Therefore, Zeke didn’t care.
He scanned the area out of habit, sharp-eyed even through the lingering haze of that dream. Most were asleep. A few weren’t.
Good.
Zeke adjusted the collar of his coat and started walking, boots crunching lightly against the ground. His movements were easy, familiar—like he had done this a hundred times before.
(Because he had).
(And because if he didn’t, he’d start thinking about it again. And then he’d start panicking again. Better to move. Better to do something than sit there and think about—).
“…I’m telling you, the numbers don’t add up.”
“They do—you’re just not accounting for the transport fees.”
“What transport fees? We already paid the captain—”
“Yeah, once,” another scoffed, “and then again when he decided the route was ‘dangerous.’”
Zeke’s steps slowed. He hadn’t meant to listen, but when it came to subjects like this, he just couldn’t help himself. A small circle of Proxy Knights sat around the fire, a ledger open between them, one of them tapping the page with growing frustration. Crude columns. Messy figures. Ink smudged where someone had clearly tried—and failed—to fix something.
“…If we sell at that price, we lose money,” one of them muttered.
“No, we don’t. We just—break even, maybe.”
“Tch! That’s worse!”
Zeke sighed softly through his nose.
“Mon dieu…” he muttered.
He stepped closer, boots crunching just enough to announce his presence. A few heads turned.
“Cutlass,” one of them said cautiously. “Didn’t realize you were up so early.”
Zeke gave a loose shrug, slipping easily into the edge of the firelight.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said lightly, accent curling around the words. His gaze flicked to the ledger. “And now I see why.”
One of them frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zeke didn’t answer immediately. He crouched instead, reaching out and—without asking—tilted the ledger toward himself.
Messy.
Inefficient.
Wrong.
Soooo embarrassingly wrong.
He clicked his tongue softly.
“You’re calculating as if each shipment exists on its own,” he said, almost absently. “C’est faux. Completely wrong way to think.”
“…We’re calculating profit,” one of them said defensively.
“Non,” Zeke corrected, tapping the page. “You’re calculating survival.”
They went quiet. Zeke’s finger dragged down one column, then another, eyes moving quickly—too quickly for someone who had just woken up and was still reeling from the effects of a terrible dream.
“You paid the captain twice, oui? Once for the job, once for the ‘risk.’ And you’re treating that as a loss on this.” He shook his head. “That’s why your numbers look so bad.”
One of the Knights gave him a look.
“…Because it is a loss.”
Zeke huffed a quiet laugh. “Only if you intend to never use him again.”
They blinked. He continued, a little more animated now despite himself.
“If he charges more because the route is dangerous, that tells you something important—he values the route less than the cost of risk.” He tapped the ledger again. “So you don’t pay him more next time.”
“…Then what do you suppose we do? Just not ship goods?”
Zeke smiled slightly.
“Non. You make the route less dangerous.”
A pause.
“…What?”
Zeke leaned back a bit, resting his arms loosely over his knees.
“You send smaller shipments more frequently,” he said. “Less attention. Less risk per trip. The captain loses his leverage because the danger decreases.” He tilted his head. “Or—you contract two different crews and alternate routes. Now neither of them can raise prices without risking losing your business.”
The group stared at him.
“…That’s,” one of them started, then stopped. “That’s actually…”
Zeke wasn’t done.
“And your pricing—” he added, almost lazily, “—you’re selling at what you paid, not what the market will bear. Why?”
“…Because that’s fair?”
Zeke gave him a look.
“Fair?” he echoed, amused. “You’re not running a charity, Mon Ami.”
A few of them shifted uncomfortably.
“You set your price based on demand, not cost,” Zeke continued. “If the goods are rare, you charge more. If they’re common, you move them quickly by selling them closer to market value to keep em’ competitive. The more you got, the cheaper you ought’a sell them to move them along quickly.” He gestured lightly. “Your goal isn’t to make a profit. It’s to control the flow and guarantee a profit.”
Silence fell over the group. The fire crackled.
“…How do you know all this?” someone finally asked.
Zeke blinked once, as if the question surprised him. Then he shrugged.
“Picked it up,” he said simply. “Growing up around merchants.”
He didn’t elaborate.
Didn’t mention cramped hulls, or long nights listening to negotiations through ship-thin walls while he tried to sleep. Didn’t mention almost never touching solid land because he was never allowed to go out alone. Didn’t mention being sent where others couldn’t go (or rather, where others didn’t want to go), or memorizing routes and prices because it was expected of him. Didn’t mention the daily threats of being thrown off-board for not doing the job “well enough”, or for even daring to use his magic.
Didn’t mention Norman.
Instead, he pushed himself back to his feet, brushing off his hands.
“You were about to lose drachma,” he added lightly. “Now you won’t. You’re welcome.”
“… Cutlass,” one of them said, still staring at the ledger. “That was—”
“—obvious?” Zeke offered.
“…No.”
Zeke chuckled softly.
“Ah. Dommage.”
He turned slightly, beginning to step away—then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and next time,” he added, “organize your ledger. It’s giving me a headache just looking at it.”
A few of them laughed, still half-stunned.
“…Right.”
Zeke waved a hand dismissively and continued on, as the voices faded behind him, his pace slowed slightly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a worn, red notebook—a notebook he’d carried for years now, filled with scattered notes, rough calculations, and anything he thought might be useful later. He flipped it open without looking, already knowing where the last entry had ended, and added a few quick, messy lines—adjusting figures, crossing something out, rewriting it cleaner this time.
“…Control the route, not the cost,” he murmured, tapping the page where he had just written a passage:
Most merchants think profit comes from price alone. It doesn’t. It comes from the gap—from what the market would bear and what it would actually cost to supply it. The wider that gap, the more control you have… It’s almost mathematical. Would it even be possible for me to somehow turn this concept into a mathematical formula? Reminder to look into THIS more later…
He scribbled in a concept of a proposed equation before closing it, and once he put it back in his coat, and was certain he was out of their sight, his expression shifted. His thoughts transforming into something intrusive. He forced them back. Back to neutral. Back to quiet. Better to move. Better to think about something—anything else.
Anything but the sea. Anything but—
Recognizing that buzz of familiar panic in his ears, he ran a hand through his messy, unkempt white hair and quickened his pace, reciting common economics concepts in his head to drown out the noise:
Supply chain dominance, micro and macro-economics, inflation, elasticity, fiscal and monetary policy, opportunity cost—
Without even realizing it, his feet had carried him to the bounty board that stood near the edge of camp, half-lit by a crooked lantern that swayed lazily in the wind. Parchments overlapped one another in messy layers—faces, names, crimes, prices. Zeke stopped in front of it. For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t think. Then his eyes began to drift, name after name.
He sighed.
Every bounty was a price assigned to heads like they were nothing more than cargo. In the Knights Proxy, mercy is never an option. All crime-doers were viewed as a plague to be cleansed off the Earth. It didn’t matter if they wanted to make a turn around, or genuinely regretted their actions. One way or another, the Knights Proxy saw to it that they were beheaded and had heads turned in to the Grand Navy for their bounty. But it wasn’t the brutally-beheading-and-turning-that-in part that irked Zeke.
He was… fine with fighting. He wasn’t amazing at it, but… well, that wasn’t the problem. It was what was expected to come after the fight. That stillness. That idea of standing over someone as they gazed up at you and you prepared to deliver to killing blow and—
“…Non,” he almost sighed out. He clicked his tongue and leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he stared at the board again, this time less focused. Joining the Knights Proxy because they believed all criminals deserved to be “cleansed” wasn’t why he was here. Hell, he didn’t even completely agree with that philosophy. He hadn’t even planned to be here. Joining this organization was just… necessary to his survival.
…“Necessary.”
The word didn’t stay his for long. It twisted—shifted—until it wasn’t his voice in his head anymore. It was Norman’s.
“Ya’ don’t get to choose what’s necessary, boy. The sea decides that for ya’.”
The creak of wood. The smell of salt. A taller man towering over a younger Zeke as he tried tying a rope too big for his little fingers—
“When I fished ya’ up that day, these boys with me ere’ wanted to throw ya’ off board. Said you’d eat up all our supplies. You know why they didn’t ditch you? Cause I knew yous’ could reach in dem’ small places BIG BOYS can’t. You’re ALIVE cause’ of me! Cause the sea decided to give ya’ to ME! Ya’ better not forget it!”
Zeke’s expression hardened slightly. His eyes flicked back to the board. Or more like past it, to another memory.
She had been standing with her arms crossed, posture straight, eyes sharp.
“Explain to me,” Helywese—the exceedingly beautiful leader of the Knights Proxy—had said coolly, “why you’ve yet to finish a bounty, and why you continue to loiter.”
Zeke had smiled then—easy, charming, like always.
“Ah, ma dame, I was simply… observing. Learning the structure. It would be foolish to rush, non?”
Her expression hadn’t changed. Not even a little.
“You’ve been ‘observing’ for three days.”
“Three very productive days,” Zeke had replied lightly. “I’ve even improved your camp’s financial literacy and—”
“I didn’t recruit you for your commentary, Knight.”
Ouch. That had stung. Just a little. Still, he recovered quickly, tilting his head, letting the smile sharpen just a bit. “Then perhaps you recruited me for something else?”
Silence.
This was usually where it happened—where people shifted, just slightly. Where they reacted. Where the air changed. Where he won. But nothing changed. Helywese didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even consider it. She stepped closer instead. The movement was small—but it broke something in him.
“If you’re here,” Helywese said, “you will do the job.”
Zeke’s smile faltered.
“And if I don’t?” he asked, tone still light, but thinner now.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’ll see to it myself that you no longer call yourself a Knight.”
Silence again.
“…I see,” Zeke had said, finally allowing his smile to disappear. He really needed this job.
(He just wasn’t sure if he could ever bring himself to DO said job).
“You have one more chance,” Helywese continued. “Find a bounty. Complete it. And turn in the head. Cleanse this world of criminals.”
A beat.
“No more delays.”
Zeke blinked, the memory fading as the lantern above the board creaked softly.
“Quelle idée stupide…”
What kind of idiot signs up for this?
He already knew the answer.
Him.
He was the idiot who chose to be a bounty hunter. A job that—on the surface—looked like an easy, straightforward way to get drachma. He was the idiot who saw the beautiful Helywese and lost all train of thought when it came to choosing which organization to join. Because when it came to stuff like that, he never thought. And now here he was, staring at the board, jaw tight, mind turning in circles he didn’t want to follow. Then, slowly—
He reached up and tore a random parchment free. The paper crinkled in his grip as he looked down and read:
“WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: Ryan O’ Neill. BOUNTY: 600,000 DRACHMA. LAST SEEN IN EAST BRONZE SEA.”
Six hundred thousand drachma for his head. Zeke’s grip tightened slightly. Of course it would be something like this. Some guy with a big bounty, which naturally meant it was high risk. This was exactly the kind of job someone actually useful would take. The kind of job someone who was strong was supposed to take. Which, to put it simply, were two things Zeke was more than aware he wasn’t.
He could count the number of real fights he’d been in on one hand—and even then, most of them hadn’t been fights so much as situations where he’d gotten lucky, or where the other person had backed off once they realized what he was capable of. That was the part that really bothered him.
Zeke wasn’t strong because he had experience. He wasn’t strong because he had trained hard. He wasn’t strong because he knew what he was doing. He was “strong” because of… that. Because of something he’d been born with. Something he didn’t earn. Something he barely understood. And up until now, he had been careful—extremely careful—with how much of it he used. Small things. Controlled things. Enough to get by, enough to defend himself if he absolutely had to, even if summoning it sometimes felt wrong.
But… did he really have to kill this guy?
Zeke exhaled slowly, eyes lowering for a brief moment.
Yes.
He couldn’t afford to let this “fear” of his stop him. He had something to prove here, and though his fear twisted and raged and screamed in his chest that this was wrong—something else sat heavier. The truth of his living situation, cold and unavoidable: If he didn’t do this, he’d be out. He’d lose his only source of shelter, food, and protection.
Zeke’s brows furrowed.
“…Je n’ai pas le choix.”
I don’t have a choice.
He folded the parchment once, twice, and slipped it into his coat. Everything after came quickly. He took what he needed—rations, water, rope, serrated blade (A required item that went without saying as to what its true purpose was… Zeke didn’t want to linger on that fact at all). Then left without really saying goodbye—because in the Knights Proxy, nobody looked twice at anybody leaving for what looked to be a bounty hunt—and walked until the lights of the camp were gone.
Zeke was on a small hill now. The morning sun just beginning to peek through the horizon. Nothing but him and the quiet around him.
“…Ça suffit.”
That’s enough.
And for the first time since he joined the Knights Proxy, Zeke looked down at his hands and allowed his aura to draw out.
For a moment—
Nothing.
Then—
An unpracticed flicker.
Platinum light slipped between his fingers. It wasn’t silvery like iron or dark like steel. It wasn’t splendid like gold or captivating like rose gold. It wasn’t anything like copper either. No. Platinum was shinier. Vastly heavier-hitting. Larger. Untarnishable. And so dazzlingly reflective that though it resembled iron or gold, the more you looked at it, the more you realized that it was nothing like iron or any known variation of metal magic at all.
This was Lost Magic.
He let the light spread slowly, platinum, mirror-like cubes pooling in his palms, coiling around his fingers like liquid metal. The air around it felt… off. Pressured.
Zeke flexed his hand.
The magic responded instantly. It thinned out, the pressure around it slightly dispersing.
He watched it blankly.
Lost magic was something that was supposed to be learned with decades of practice and study. But not for Zeke. He’d had this since he was a child. Since before he even understood the nature of this anomalous power that most mages would spend entire lifetimes to even hope of discovering. The glow pulsed—brighter for a split second. Zeke closed his hand. The light dimmed, but didn’t vanish right away. It lingered, stubborn, like it didn’t want to leave.
And there was the other problem. Lost Magic—at least, what Zeke knew of Lost Magic—didn’t behave like normal magic. In Platinum’s case, it had an inconvenient habit of persisting. If anyone saw this—
Zeke’s expression hardened. If anyone with even a decent amount of knowledge for magic saw this for more than a few moments… They wouldn’t see a Proxy Knight or a merchant. They wouldn’t even see a person. They’d see something anomalous. Perhaps, if their intent was malicious, they’d even see something valuable and worth using.
In that case…
Zeke let out a quiet breath. He wouldn’t just be hunting bounties.
He’d become the hunted.
SEPTEMBER 3rd, 1849
1015 - MORNING
Norman was having a no-good, very bad day.
Nothing had gone right since dawn. The shipment logs for his division of the Winterfield Maritime Consortium sat open in front of him, ink still wet from corrections he’d been forced to make himself—because apparently no one in his stupid employ could read a stupid route map properly anymore. One of his captains had taken a “safer” path through the western currents and lost half a shipment to pirates for his trouble.
HALF.
Norman’s brows furrowed as he stared down at the figures, then shut the ledger with a sharp snap.
“Stupid… Incompetent…” he muttered under his breath, dragging a rough hand down his face. That alone would’ve been enough to sour his mood—but of course, it didn’t stop there.
Because the boy was gone.
“Zeke Cutlass.”
Vanished. Along with a hundred drachma—and clothes. His clothes. Norman scoffed under his breath, pushing back from the desk and beginning to pace.
“Ungrateful little—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, brows furrowing as the thought refused to settle cleanly. It wasn’t the drachma, no. That could be replaced. It wasn’t the clothes either. It was… the timing. The night before, the boy had been… off. Quieter than usual. Too quiet. Norman had noticed, of course, because he was observant. He wouldn’t have gotten as far as he did if he weren’t. But he just… hadn’t thought it mattered.
“…Should’ve known,” he muttered to nobody but himself.
The next morning, he’d stormed into Zeke’s quarters ready to drag him out of bed himself.
“Wake the FUCK up, boy! You were expected to be at post at 0600 SHARP! Get off your lazy—” he had trailed off when he found an empty cold bed and absolutely no signs of Zeke. Just a note.
Norman’s expression darkened at the memory. He didn’t need to read it again.
“DON’T LOOK FOR ME.
AND FUCK OFF.”
–ZEKE
Norman’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t tear into the anger the way he normally would at the blatant disrespect. Instead, his pacing slowed, then stopped entirely as his gaze lowered slightly.
“Stupid boy…” he muttered, quieter now. But the phrase now felt more like a bad habit he hadn’t quite put down yet. Instead of lingering on it, Norman’s eyes flicked toward the open doorway, toward the distant glint of sea beyond the docks. His hand curled slightly at his side.
For gods’ sake… that boy has LOST MAGIC.
LOST MAGIC!!!
And he was a—
Norman growled.
Does he realize how valuable he is?!
How many people would kill to control a power like that?!
And the lengths Norman had gone to keep that magic a secret… To prevent Zeke from using it—
Even if it meant slapping the boy’s wrists whenever Norman caught him trying any spells—
Even if it meant threatening to throw him overboard everytime he even allowed a spark through—
Even if it meant keeping him on the ship, right where Norman could see him—
Even if it meant doing everything under the sun to keep Zeke safe—
Norman’s hand curled into a fist.
No… not safe. Close to him.
Norman hadn’t told anyone about the true nature of Zeke’s magic, of course. Hadn’t dared to even brag about it. Kept it buried through bribes, lies, threats—anything, really. Because if word got out—
If the wrong person found out he was around—
“…They’re gonna’ tear this whole sea apart lookin’ for ‘im,” Norman muttered, voice low.
And that boy was… reckless. Too clever for his own good, but not clever enough where it mattered. Capable enough to defend himself, but not capable enough to hold his own in a drawn out fight. Book smart. Street Stupid. And stupid was still stupid at the end of the day. Norman would comfortably give Zeke one week before news would begin to spread of a “New Mage with Lost Magic”, and the stupid boy would somehow make enough enemies and draw enough hunters to make even a Warlord uncomfortable.
But enough on that…
Norman grabbed his coat from the chair in one rough motion.
“…Fine, boy.”
His voice came out low. Decided.
“If you’re gonna be stupid, I’ll fix your stupid myself.”
By the time the shipment issue had been resolved—barely—there was only one place to go: Shieldguard. The Grand Navy’s base in the Nimbus Sea.
The bounty office was busy when he arrived—voices overlapping, drachma exchanging hands, paper shifting back and forth across the counter—but Norman ignored all of it. He moved through the room with a kind of quiet force that didn’t need to raise its voice to be felt, his employees trailing just behind him as if they knew better than to fall out of step, and by the time he reached the counter, the clerk was already looking up, mid-sentence, whatever he’d been saying dying in his throat under the weight of Norman’s presence alone.
“I needa’ bounty posted,” Norman said, flat and direct.
The clerk blinked once, then straightened. “Name?”
“Zeke Cutlass.”
“…Alright. And… And what charges does this Cutlass have?”
Norman’s brows shifted slightly, but his expression stayed even.
“Boy’s a mage,” he said. “Capable. More than he lets on. Left my company without authorization. Took some drachma and clothing that wasn’t his. Likely somewhere north in the Bronze Sea.”
The clerk glanced up. “…And how much drachma did he take?”
“One hundred.”
The clerk frowned. “With… all due respect, sir. The amount of drachma this person has taken from you is not enough to warrant a criminal offense,” he said slowly. “This seems more like a… a personal dispute. Something for a small claims court. We can’t issue bounties for that.”
Norman didn’t respond.
So the clerk continued, a little more confident now. “Bounties are for criminals, sir. If this ‘Zeke Cutlass’ hasn’t committed an actual crime under Grand Navy jurisdiction, then—”
“He’s not where he’s s’ppose to be,” Norman cut in, voice still level. “And the boy shouldn’t be left unattended.”
“That still doesn’t qualify,” the clerk replied, firmer now. “We can’t just—”
Norman exhaled once through his nose. Then, without another word, he reached into his coat. The first pouch hit the counter with a heavy thud.
Then another.
And another.
And even more.
The sound alone was enough to draw attention, conversations around the room faltering as heads turned, the growing stack of drachma pressing into the wood until it creaked faintly under the weight. Norman didn’t look away from the clerk.
“Five hundred thousand drachma,” he said.
Silence.
“…I’m placing a bounty,” Norman continued, each word measured. “On Zeke Cutlass. Mage. Metal magic. White hair, golden eyes. Twenty-one years old. Approximately 185 centimeters tall.”
Silence.
“Alive.”
More silence.
“I don’t care if you have to hold him in prison for as long as it takes for me to come pick him up.”
And once again, even more silence.
“NOT dead. That’s the most important part. I. Need. Him. Back.”
The room had gone quiet now—properly quiet.The kind of quiet that didn’t come from discipline, but from something unexpected, something wrong enough to make the Naval officers stop, listen, and momentarily forget all the training they had. The clerk swallowed.
“…Sir, that’s—”
“Write it.”
Norman’s words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. For a moment, the clerk hesitated—then glanced to the side, toward one of the nearby officers who had stepped closer during the exchange.
A young woman. Uniform neat, posture relaxed in a way that suggested she wasn’t nearly as unsettled as everyone else, though there was a flicker of something in her expression—interest, maybe, or quiet disbelief. She looked from the bags of drachma, to Norman, then back to the clerk.
“…You’re really arguing with five hundred thousand drachma?” she asked, tone light, almost amused. “I’ve never seen someone offer half a million for a man alive.”
The clerk hesitated. “I… Yes, Lieutenant Fallenfire, but—this isn’t procedure—”
“No,” she agreed easily. “It isn’t.”
Her gaze lingered on Norman for a second longer, sharper now, like she was trying to figure him out. Then something in her expression shifted.
“…This is new… I’m sure Commander Eaves is going to get a kick out of this…” she said so quietly under her breath that Norman almost didn’t hear it. She straightened up and gave the clerk a small nod. “Go on. Write it. And don’t worry about any possible push-back for procedure. I can ask the Commander to issue a waiver if it comes down to it.”
The clerk swallowed again, then finally dipped his pen into ink.
“…Yes, ma’am.”
As the bounty began to take shape, the room slowly came back to life—but quieter now, voices lowered, attention still lingering on the counter. One of the nearby merchants leaned in, unable to keep his curiosity to himself.
“Winterfield, Sir. You… really put in a five hundred thousand drachma bounty,” he said, eyeing Norman. “For the kid… who just ditched us—who isn’t even a criminal—and you don’t want him dead?”
Norman didn’t look at him at first.
“…No,” he said.
The merchant frowned. “Listen, you might be going a bit too far with this. I know you’ve always been easy on the boy, but why would you—”
Norman’s gaze shifted then, just enough to cut him off.
“Because when I get that boy back,” he said evenly, “I’m gonna’ kill him MYSELF.”
If you enjoyed reading this, or like the art, feel free to drop a <3 and a comment! It seriously means a lot to myself and everyone else who has contributed to this story!
