Rainy Reflections

The morning sky had transformed into a sight cloaked in dark clouds. Weary of the load they carry, these heavy clouds could no longer bear the burden and began to weep, releasing cascades of raindrops to the world below.

Meanwhile, on the training field that stood apart from the expanse of the estate grounds, Talon persevered through the downpour, running around with unrestrained energy. 

He dashed regardless of the rain-soaked landscape, heedless of the pitiless downpour that drenched his clothes and hair. The sounds of the raindrops hitting the ground intermingled with the splashes of his shoe soles, meeting puddles formed in his wake.

There was no shelter from the storm, no respite from the deluge. Mud stained the hems of his pants, but Talon paid it no mind. For hours, he had been relentlessly following the rigorous daily routine of the Marquess' retinue.

As Talon continued, his chest began to heave with exhaustion. The hours seemed to blur together as he pushed himself to keep up with the pace of the knights ahead.

'These folks are monstrously… impressive.'

Talon couldn't help but think, not fearing them but admiring their prowess. These were knights honed and shaped in the crucible of tireless effort, the shedding of blood, and a shared purpose that bound them together.

His thoughts turned back to the spar against Sir Daelan, a vivid memory that was etched in his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could not land a scrape on him. It had felt like he was merely slicing through the air, not even coming close to touching Sir Daelan's shadow.

Talon's self-doubt deepened with each fruitless try, and he could not help but wonder if he was truly even cut out to call himself Mikael's knight. 

Upon reflection, it dawned on him that all the knights who had challenged him back then were of junior ranks. It kept him questioning whether he could ever measure up to the higher rank.

Nevertheless, the memory of Nicolaus' battle with the wild boars in the forest weighed most heavily on Talon's mind.

Talon had the chance to witness how effortlessly the Marquess handled the wild boars with the finesse of a master chef, his blade slicing through them as though they were nothing more than softened butter.

The way the Marquess moved, his movements fluid and assured, painted a picture of a man who was in control and knew exactly what he was doing.

Not just the precision of his strikes that left an impression, but the effortless way Nicolaus advanced, every motion radiating confidence and control. Talon couldn't help but admire the man, even as a subtle self-doubt crept into him.

How could he not see the chasm that separated him from that man?

At that moment, Talon felt not only inadequate but also painfully small in comparison to Nicolaus. He wished he could be as capable, as worthy to protect Mikael in times of danger.

In the middle of the rain, Talon continued to run, each step mirroring his thoughts' turmoil. He understood that to earn his place as Mikael's knight and stand shoulder to shoulder with these extraordinary individuals, he would have to train harder and surpass his current limits.

…

Nicolaus stood alone in the captain's quarters, his office on one of the ships anchored at the port of Odelle. 

The room was spacious, with hardwood floors and walls lined with bookshelves filled with volumes on navigation and other more. A large desk stood in the back of the room, covered in charts, maps, and navigational instruments.

Beyond the sheltering walls, the distant thunder rumbled, and the rain drummed steadily on the windowpane. Lightning occasionally tore through the stormy clouds, casting brief flashes of illumination. 

The rhythmic taps created a soundtrack to the maritime empire Nicolaus' father had built. The unrelenting downpour poured from the overcast skies above, as if on a mission to cleanse the vessel and all who sailed within it.

Nicolaus took great pride in the business his father had crafted, and he was determined to carry it forward, not just as it was, but to elevate it even further.

His vision stretched beyond the horizons his father had known, venturing into uncharted territory. He'd ventured into islands and markets where his father had never set foot. He had done so through hard work, determination, and a willingness to take risks.

Now, in the middle of the storm, the anchored ship groaned and creaked as it was tossed and turned by the furious waves. It swayed from side to side, the ship's timbers protesting with every jarring movement. 

Nicolaus held a tobacco pipe in his steady hands, the smoky tobacco lingering in the air. As he took a deep drag from the pipe, the ember at the bowl's tip glowed a fiery orange, casting flickering shadows across his sharp features.

His golden eyes remained fixed on the tumultuous sea as the ship continued to sway and shudder under the assault of the waves, the groaning timbers, and the howling wind forming an eerie symphony. 

Then, at long last, the knock Nicolaus had been waiting for came. With a final exhale of tobacco smoke, he carefully set the pipe aside on his desk, his fingers clenching the wood.

Nicolaus called out, "Enter."

He didn't need to look up when the door to his office creaked open; he knew exactly who was entering. The door creaked open, revealing his left-hand person, a figure shrouded in a dark, damp cloak. 

This man, Rafte, had been his most trusted confidant and the one who managed the physical aspects of their trading business while Nicolaus was away in the capital city.

The cloak this person wore bore droplets clinging to the fabric. Yet, not a single one had touched the man underneath.

As the door closed, the cloaked figure pulled back the hood, revealing a shock of dry hair and clothes. It was as if the raindrops had yielded to him, never daring to mar his appearance.

"Marquess," the trusted individual began, his voice low and respectful, "the suspect has been secured in the dungeon. As you instructed, we have moved him from the other ship."

The suspect had initially been detained on one of their smaller vessels. Still, Nicolaus had personally ordered his relocation to the largest ship in their fleet, the vessel that housed his office.

"Let's get moving."

Nicolaus tore his eyes from the tumultuous sea and stormed out of the room, his eagerness to see the fucker who had tried to tarnish his business palpable. He stormed out of the room, his destination the dungeon, the prisoner's holding area on the ship's lower deck.