Far from the grim northern frontier and the weighty deliberations in Alkaer’s Royal Citadel, in the unassuming market town of Millford nestled beside the Verdant River in Argren’s more temperate eastern midlands, Sabine was, as usual, taller than everyone else. At fifteen summers, she stood a full head above the tallest man in town. Her dark hair, tied back in a practical single braid, often escaped in unruly wisps around a face open and honest, just as prone to wide smiles as to stubborn frowns.
Her eyes, the color of a summer sky, were currently narrowed in frustration.
She hefted a sack of grain onto her shoulder with an ease that made the stout farmer blink. "There, Master Grumbles," she said, her voice still holding a youthful timbre despite its surprising depth, now striving to sound theatrically unbothered by the impressive load. "Last one. Are we square?”
Grumbles, a man whose moniker was well-earned, grunted, counting out a few copper pieces into her calloused palm. "Aye, girl. Strong as an ox, you are. "Waste of good muscle on a lass," he grumbled, dropping the coppers into her palm. "King's Guard would pay you in silver, not copper, if you had a beard. Now off with ye, you're blockin' the sun." He squinted at her, as if having a sudden thought. "Still skippin' your lessons with ol' Master Ennyus, are ye? Your father won't be pleased when he gets back."
Sabine shrugged, the massive sack barely indenting her shoulder. "Master Ennyus drones on about crop rotation and the proper way to address a minor baron. I’d rather be doing something useful. Besides," she added, a familiar note of wistfulness creeping into her voice, "Father’s been gone three moons now. Said he’d be back by the harvest festival." She flung the sack up on the pile in the cart, startling Grumbles with her swift, almost careless motion. “Watch it! These need to be stacked properly, ye turnip-head!”
With a wide grin and a curtsy, she was back on her way.
Her adoptive father, Masillius Thorne, was a merchant of modest means but considerable daring. For years, Sabine had grown up on his tales of far-flung journeys: the shimmering silks of the Southern Free Cities, the strange, aromatic spices of the Ssylarr reptilians dwelling in the Ashen Desert – a land with two suns! – and his expeditions to the borders of the K’thrall Fens, though her father didn't venture deep into their swamps. He told her of this fascinating outpost known as The Silted Isle, a half-day's journey into the marsh, built upon the forgotten ruins of an ancient mage’s fortress. That’s where he was now, and she couldn’t wait to hear his latest (and outrageously embellished, she suspected) adventures in that strange land.
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In his tales, the Isle was a world unto itself, home to a handful of hardy, eccentric people who developed a rudimentary language – a bizarre mix of Argrenian, guttural K’thrall clicks, and elaborate gestures – to trade with the mysterious amphibian folks.
Sabine had devoured these stories. She had completed her primary schooling with Master Ennyus years ago, and for the past two years, father had been teaching her the merchant's trade – ledgers, laws, the art of negotiation. But it was all theoretical, confined to Millford’s dusty market square and Masillius’s small, cluttered office. But he always found an excuse to leave her behind when his caravans departed. "You're still too young, Sabine," he’d say, or "The roads are too dangerous for a girl," or, more recently, "Your education here isn't finished."
She was an eagle in a chicken coop, her wings already strong enough to carry her far, yet confined to a clucking small town. Being so different didn't help. While most folk in Millford were kind, used to "Masillius’s giant lass," she was always aware of the stares, the whispered comments. Local lads of her age were either intimidated by her size or treated her like an oddity. Annoyingly she knew that, if she only were shorter, she’d have to shoo them away. So, when Masillius was away, she often skipped the tedious lessons and took odd jobs – hauling timber for the cooper, mucking out stables, helping out Grumbles – anything that allowed her to use her strength and earn a few coppers of her own, rather than waste her time and patience with the provincial boys and girls of her own age. The pay was always an apprentice's rate, a constant reminder of her youth in their eyes, despite her capabilities.
Sabine wandered towards the riverbank, her mind restless, pretending to not have seen Velia and her court of short-arsed vipers by the laundry fountains. She longed for the open road, the scent of unknown lands, for the thrill of discovery she heard in her father’s voice when he spoke of his travels. She wanted to see the Silted Isle, to hear the strange clicks of the K’thrall language, to bargain for iridescent pelts herself. Why did her father keep her cocooned here, in this quiet, predictable town? Was he afraid for her? Or was there another reason, one he wasn't sharing?
She picked up a smooth river stone, feeling its weight in her palm, and skipped it across the water’s surface. Five skips. Not bad. But her heart yearned for journeys far grander than a stone across a river.
The world was vast, full of wonders and dangers, and certainly she was meant to be a part of it, not just an observer from the sleepy banks of Millford. The restlessness was a constant hum beneath her skin, a yearning for an adventure that seemed perpetually just out of reach.
