Helletta sits in a rickety cell, the bars rusted and bent, overlooking a restless expanse of ocean. Through the small window, she can see the waves churn and crash against the distant pillars of Stratus Heaven, their endless motion echoing her thoughts. The cell smells of salt and damp, the floor slick with condensation. She does not protest her abrupt imprisonment; there’s a numbness inside her, a dull acceptance of this strange turn of events. The crier’s shocked expression as they hauled her away remains vivid in her mind, but she had not struggled, had not begged. She had simply gone with them, her head lowered.

  On the other side of the room, separated by a crumbling wall, lies a narrow bench. A man is sprawled across it, limbs loose and relaxed, his eyes half-closed. He is dressed in patched and faded clothes, his boots scuffed and worn, and for a moment, Helletta thinks he might be asleep. Then, he shifts, the movement stirring a shaft of light that catches his hair—hair that is almost impossibly pale, a striking golden white that seems to glow in the gloom.

  “What did you do to end up here?” she asks, her voice breaking the silence. The question slips out before she can think better of it, more out of curiosity than any real desire to know.

  The man’s eyes flicker open, pale and watery. He regards her with mild interest, then shrugs. “Mostly drinking,” he says, a lazy smile pulling at his lips. He props himself up on one elbow, taking a closer look at her. “Turns out they don’t take too kindly to drunks falling asleep on someone’s doorstep around here. Go figure.”

  Helletta doesn’t reply, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward despite herself. The man continues, his tone light and conversational, as if he were speaking to an old friend. “I hate this place, you know. Everyone talks about how fascinating it is down here—‘Oh, the customs are so strange, the races mix so freely,’” he mocks, rolling his eyes. “But I’m bored out of my skull.”

  He trails off, muttering something under his breath that she can’t quite catch. He lifts a hand to rub his forehead, frustration seeping into his features. Helletta watches him, curiosity growing, when suddenly his expression shifts, a flicker of something almost like recognition sparking in his gaze. “That damn woman,” he mutters, as if remembering something.

  He blinks, and Helletta can tell he’s far away, caught in some memory. “She said if I went to the Southern festival, I’d find something interesting,” he says, his voice dropping. “She told me I wouldn’t regret it. But so far, all I’ve found is disappointment. It’s a scam, I tell you. A waste of time.”

  His words hang in the air, and Helletta leans forward slightly, intrigued despite herself. His eyes are distant, fixed on something she can’t see, and he almost looks lost. He rubs his head with a sigh, as if trying to clear away the memory, but Helletta’s eyes are sharp, and she doesn’t miss the flicker of something—something significant—in his expression when he recalls the woman.

  The man turns his gaze back to her, and she takes a long look at him. It’s more than his shabby clothes or his pale hair that set him apart. He has the air of someone who doesn’t quite belong. There’s a weariness to him, and Helletta’s instinct, honed by a, albeit short lifetime in these waters, tells her he is not just a wanderer, not just a drunk. He is not from here—he’s an outsider, a stranger in a place that, to her, is as familiar as the waves.

  Helletta looks at the man curiously, the question hanging between them like a strand of seaweed caught in the current. “Where are you from?” she asks, almost cautiously.

  He sighs and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bench. “Someplace far away,” he says dismissively, waving a hand as if to brush away the thought. “Doesn’t matter.” There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—boredom, perhaps, or regret—but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “What about you, girl? What did you do to get yourself locked up in a place like this?”

  Helletta’s gaze drops again, her shoulders hunching. Her voice, when she speaks, is barely above a whisper. “They think I lied,” she murmurs, “when I said I caught six hundred fish.”

  The man’s eyebrow arches, and he leans in, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in amusement. “Did you?” he asks lightly, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Did you really catch six hundred fish?”

  Helletta’s head snaps up, her eyes blazing with a sudden, fierce pride. “I did!” she says sharply, the words echoing off the damp stone walls. “I wouldn’t lie—I’m not a liar. My master taught me better than that!”

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  The man opens his mouth to argue, to challenge the impossibility of her claim, but something stops him. His expression shifts, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. He studies her, really studies her, and then his brows draw together in confusion. “Since when,” he mutters, half to himself, “do they arrest little girls for telling tall tales?”

  “It’s not a tall tale!” Helletta’s voice is firm, each word a declaration. “It’s true, all of it! If I had brought back my catch, I would’ve been the best fisher the southern region has ever seen. My master said that if I did well enough, he’d let me participate in the festival next month.” Her small hands clench into fists, knuckles white. “I could’ve been the best.”

  The man chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, but his laughter dies abruptly. He recalls something—a snippet of conversation exchanged between two guards as he had been dragged to the cell. There had been mention of a young girl, a fisher, who had done something extraordinary. A catch. A corrupted sea beast—a Servhal. Though, the guards had called it a smaller one, they had sounded awestruck, even unnerved.

  “What else did you do?” he asks suddenly, his tone sharp and urgent. “Why are you really here?”

  Helletta’s eyes flicker downward, and she hesitates. “I pulled up something,” she says softly, her voice barely a whisper. “Something I wasn’t supposed to pull up, I think.”

  The man’s expression shifts. There’s no longer any trace of mockery in his gaze, only a sharp, assessing look. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxed but his eyes intent. She was the one, he realizes—the girl who caught the sea beast. The very one the guards had spoken of, their voices tinged with both wonder and fear. A small smile tugs at his lips, but there’s nothing kind about it. It is a smile of recognition, of understanding.

  “Interesting,” he murmurs to himself, his gaze never leaving her face. "Very interesting."

  The stranger’s demeanor changes in an instant. He straightens, his eyes sharp and alert, all traces of drunkenness vanished as if they had never existed. There is a sudden intensity in the way he looks at Helletta, a clarity that cuts through the fog of confusion that has surrounded them both. “You got a bigger prize today than any of those fishers out there,” he says, his voice low but forceful. “Your catch is worth more than a thousand fish.”

  Helletta’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand,” she says, shaking her head. Her voice is hesitant, uncertain. The man’s words feel like riddles, twisting and elusive, and she struggles to grasp their meaning.

  He looks at her steadily, a strange sort of smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Of course, you don’t understand,” he says softly. “It’s because you’re strong. The strong never see their enemies for what they are—only obstacles to be stepped over, things of no real consequence.” His gaze grows distant, as if he’s speaking from some deep, personal truth. “But that strength,” he adds, his voice taking on a somber edge, “it can make you blind to others. It can drive you away from them, even when you don’t mean to be.”

  Helletta’s confusion deepens. She opens her mouth to question him, but the words don’t come. He watches her for a moment longer, then sighs and turns to go, pausing only at the threshold of the cell. “Listen,” he says, his tone brisk and matter-of-fact now. “You don’t need your master’s permission to join the festival. If you want to compete, you delegate yourself. Or you get someone to delegate you—that’s all there is to it.”

  She stares at him, the weight of his words settling over her like a gathering storm, and for the first time, she sees something hard in his eyes, a resolve that sharpens his features. He raises his hand, his fingers moving with a casual flick, and suddenly the rusted cell door groans and then tears free from its hinges. It crashes into the opposite wall with a deafening bang, leaving a twisted, gaping hole where it once stood.

  He bows to her with exaggerated grace, a mocking curtsy, the gesture almost playful. “Oh, and a bit of advice,” he says lightly, though there’s an unmistakable seriousness in his tone. “Grow your reputation. Make them know your name. Fight, test yourself, make people take notice. And if you get far enough, if you’ve managed to gather a proper crew and enough respect to count, head to Feydak Village at Westport. It’s a miserable, rundown place, but from what I can tell, you’ve got a talent for thriving in those sorts of places.”

  He turns away, his face unreadable, and starts to leave. But then he hesitates, as if there’s something more he wants to say. “Seek out the grandmother there,” he continues at last, his voice almost a whisper. “She might help you… might make things easier.” He seems to struggle with his next words, faltering for just a moment, before shaking his head, whatever he intended to say lost to silence. With a swift motion, he steps into the shadows beyond the cell.

  “Wait!” Helletta calls after him, her voice rising with sudden urgency. “What’s your name?”

  He pauses, his back to her, then glances over his shoulder. A sad, almost wistful smile crosses his face. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I lost it somewhere... a long time ago.”

  And then he is gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving Helletta standing alone in the shattered remains of her cell, staring at the place where he had stood, her heart beating faster than the waves crashing against the rocks below.