In Vesenia, the air always carried the salt of the Vereda Sea into the fishing village of Teken. But that morning, something felt different. Kia remembered her arrival in the imperial carriage, surrounded by Academy graduates; she, the orphan from a farming village handed over to the army, had always expected a heroic destiny. Instead, her days had been swallowed by the monotony of watching over old docks and signing off on dull logbooks. Only the nights at the Salan Masan—under the neon lights, tangled in silk sheets with that woman from the coast—had given her any relief. Now, that world was falling apart.
As they pushed deeper into the fish market, the botanist looked like he was living through his own personal hell. The stench of scales and death was a torment he couldn't hide.
"You okay?" Kia asked, noticing how pale he'd gone. "I hate fish," the young man managed, hand clamped over his mouth. The pirate let out a rough laugh. "If you can't stand fish, why in the hell do you live in Vesenia?" "It's safer… or it was," he answered, before bolting toward the public restrooms.
After throwing up and covering his nose with a cooling herbal mask of his own invention, the botanist rejoined the group. But the pirate had news worse than the smell of dead fish.
"We're dead," the Caryac declared, staring hard at Kia. "The roads are locked down. The Imperial Guard has every exit covered, and on top of that, the mercenaries are out for blood." "They're looking for us?" Kia asked, her stomach tightening. "More like they're looking for *you*," the pirate shot back. "Word is a sentinel deserted. There's a bounty on your head." "Don't forget you're a Caryac," Kia reminded her coldly. "You're illegal just by being born." "You and the Empire can go straight to hell, hand in hand," the pirate spat.
The silence that followed was dangerous. The nearby merchants, ears sharpened by greed, had caught the key words: *deserter, bounty, Caryac*. In an instant, the mood of the market shifted; men dropped their nets and cleaning knives and lunged toward them.
"Now, botanist!" Kia shouted.
The young man didn't hesitate. He reached into his satchel and hurled a handful of **huama seeds** into a nearby barrel of water. On contact with the liquid, roots burst out unnaturally, spreading across the ground and releasing a thick, yellowish gas. The smell was putrid and toxic; within seconds, the merchants began losing consciousness, collapsing over their own stalls.
"Run!" the botanist ordered between coughs.
With no roads out and the city turned into a trap, only one suicidal option remained: fall back. Under the cover of the chaos and the gas, the three fugitives slipped away, retreating toward the only place that—however vulnerable—was still their only shelter: the botanical shop.