The Prodigal Daughter Returns  

Amara peered up at the pale cliffs looming beyond Cerulean City's bustling harbour. The last rays of sunset gilded the familiar crags in sepia tones, bringing back moments from her distant youth. Things once imprinted indelibly in heart and mind now seemed the legacy of a different life. Could she ever truly reclaim that innocent past?

Behind her, Rhys issued orders for the spectral crew to bring Sea Raven into an empty berth and make fast. None of the dockhands milling about took notice of the undead sailors clambering in the rigging high above. The glamour spell Amara had woven kept prying eyes blind to their chilling presence. She hoped it would hold a while longer. There were already enough obstacles ahead without adding open witchcraft.

Rhys joined her at the prow as the ship eased against worn pier timbers with a gentle thump. "Hard to be home after so long," he offered gruffly. "I know that well."

Amara gave him a muted smile. In truth, memories of Cerulean brought little but loss and bitterness now. Yet her heart could not help quickening as childhood haunts drifted into view through the bustling crowds. The smells of fresh bread and spices mingled with the everywhere salt tang, just as in her dreams. However changed, this city remained a vital part of her.

On impulse, she grasped Rhys's rough hand. "Stay close in case I falter."

He blinked then nodded, twining their fingers tighter as they descended the gangplank together. Dock workers and sailors gave them curious glances but made way without challenge. Despite travel-worn garb, Amara carried an undeniable air of command learned through her harsh trials. None would question her right to walk these streets. At least not yet.

They passed unhurriedly through narrow, winding lanes that awakened more bittersweet recognition with every step. The port bazaar's cries and clutter washed over Amara in a mélange of homecoming. A turn, and the crooked spire of Saint Elgar's chapel came into view. There she had sat endlessly through droning sermons, stifling girlish daydreams. Another winding bend brought them to the stoop of her childhood tutor, Domian. How she had squirmed under his stern tutelage, never guessing the greater discomfitures life held!

The meandering course finally led them to the shuttered Old Garrison tower. Behind those lichen-flecked walls, Captain Vaugn had drilled raw recruits until they staggered. Amara gazed up at arrow slits she had once thought impregnable, hiding a hollow laugh. Fortunes were never so immutable as youth believed. Even stone and steel passed in time.

As they walked on through deepening twilight, memories weighed on Amara more with every step. She was relieved when Rhys directed them unerringly toward a rough sailors' inn near the wharves. She had half expected him to suggest trying the palace itself at first opportunity. But he knew better than any the perils of reopening old wounds unprepared. Tonight called for rest and reflection, not bold gambits.

The inn's cluttered warmth enfolded Amara gratefully as they entered beneath a creaking signboard. Aroma of fresh bread and roasting fowl set her mouth-watering. She let Rhys procure a private room and simple repast while she basked anonymously near the hearth. Soon they ascended a narrow stair to a small chamber furnished only with curtained bed, washstand and wooden stools. But to Amara it seemed the height of luxury after so long bereft of simple comforts.

They ate ravenously, weary muscles reminding them they were only mortal after all. For once conversation flowed easily between them, bonds of shared hardship overriding old divisions. No further plans needed making this night. Tomorrow's trials would unfurl as they would.

Amara's eyes grew heavy as she nibbled a final honeyed fig. Rhys chuckled softly, the low sound rumbled pleasantly along her skin. "Come to bed, Amara. These straw mattresses put any ocean cot to shame." His glance toward the curtained alcove was both an invitation and question.

She considered only a moment before nodding assent and standing to unlace her grime-stained tunic. They had found dreamless rest wrapped together aboard Sea Raven when deeper solace eluded them. Perhaps this night the past could grant them similar grace.

Rhys's warmth enveloped her from behind as they nestled atop coarse sheets, his hands traced gentle patterns along her bare curves and valleys. Amara relaxed into his touch, letting the day's tensions unknot. Here there were no artefacts of power or cloying memories, only skin and breath and companionable silence. Sleep crept upon her before she could reflect further.

***

Morning birdsong filtered through the curtained window along with buttery light. Amara stretched leisurely atop the rumpled bedding before rising to rinse the night's must from her skin. Rhys was already departed because his side of the mattress was long cold. Amara smiled slightly. The rogue was too old a hand at covert errands to change course now. She could only hope he trod carefully while she made ready for her own return.

Hot water worked wonders to refresh body and spirit. Amara took her time braiding her hair neatly and garbing herself in a plain russet dress from her restored travel pack. A kindly maid had left bread and strong tea on a corner table. Amara broke her fast gazing pensively out the sole window that faced toward the looming palace atop the city's highest hill. The royal standard snapped lazily atop countless spires and domes. Had word of her arrival reached those halls yet? And if so, would it be as guest or prodigal? This day should tell.

Booted steps on the stair heralded Rhys's return. He regarded Amara freshly apparelled with approval. He carried a leather satchel that clinked promisingly.

"Good hunt?" she inquired lightly.

"Markets are flush as ever. I'm still well remembered around the taverns." Mischief glinted in his one good eye.

Amara lifted one brow wryly. "Please tell me you were discreet. This journey needs no more chaos."

He held up both hands disarmingly. "As a churchman, I swear it! Their coin spends clean at least." His grin turned serious. "Ready to face this day, Amara?"

She drew a slow breath then shook her head. "The halls where I grew up are but cold stone in truth. I will find the warmth that matters there." She clasped his rough hand briefly. "Lead on, friend rogue."

Morning bustle filled Cerulean's steep, serpentine avenues as they worked upward through the terraced city. Traders' cries rang from open stalls and laden carts trundled past on mysterious errands. The timeless rhythms of commerce flowed on uncaring around two more transient travellers on the winding lanes. None marked their measured progress toward destiny's meeting place.

Now, they crested a final wide thoroughfare that opened onto the great central plaza before the palace itself. Sunlight drenched white stone and reflective mosaics, forcing Amara to narrow her eyes. Even at this distance, towering green copper domes and spires kindled poignant recognition. The sight scarcely seemed real after so long. Had she ever truly called this citadel home?

Armoured guards in silvered mail stood to attention as Rhys and Amara crossed the empty expanse. Their stern gazes spoke mutely of duty and tradition unbroken since ages past. At the foot of those steps awaited final judgment on Amara's choices. A father's wrath...or something more? Fear fluttered in her chest, but she tightened her grip on the carved skull in its sack and kept pace with Rhys' measured tread. She was no longer a frightened girl. Let come what may.