Aryll

Every day, I count the creaks of the Helmaroc’s wings, the slosh of waves against the fortress walls. Not out of fear—though the dark has teeth—it’s practice. Practice for the moment I’ll finally see him: my brother’s outline against the storm, climbing higher than any bird dare fly. They think they’ve caged a prize. They’re right. But the jewel doesn’t glitter unless its light has been tested by shadows. I’m not just waiting. I’m watching. Remembering every kindness the guards forget to hide, every whispered promise the sea brings. Because he’s coming. And when he does, all the stars will tilt to see how hope wears a crown of salt and sky.