Chapter 1
Valente’s brush hovers over the page, ink still fresh. _“Sometimes huge sacrifices are necessary to make small changes.”_ His eyes wander out the small cabin window, where the waves crash relentlessly. His thoughts weigh heavy
**Footsteps approach.**
Dmitri bursts through the door, breathless.
"We've sighted land, Master Valente!"
Valente remains motionless, his brush finally dropping to the page.
"Land... yes, we have arrived, finally."
His eyes narrow. A deep silence fills the room,
The cabin door creaked as Dmitri stepped inside, his weathered hands still gripping the frame.
"Please, Dmitri. Sit," Valente offered, motioning to the seat. Dmitri hesitated, his old bones reluctant to rest. "You are the eldest among us. It's only fitting."
With a grunt, Dmitri lowered himself into the chair, though his mind still clung to the chores waiting on deck.
“Strange lands ahead,” Dmitri muttered. “New beasts to hunt... that I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Valente’s gaze remained fixed. "It’s been nearly **twenty years** since we set sail, hasn't it?"
Valente stood .
He stepped out of the cabin, his eyes squinting instinctively as the intense sunlight slammed into his face. The soft glow of the candlelight inside had shielded him from the harsh reality of the day, and now, the world felt blinding. The white sands of the beach stretched endlessly before him, dazzling under the the sun. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but it did little to stave off the onslaught of light. The sand, blindingly white, seemed to shimmer with heat, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and coconut. Tall, lean coconut trees lined the edge of the beach, their dark trunks and swaying leaves the only contrast to the blinding light around them.
The beach felt foreign, almost surreal, as though the brightness itself were a different world entirely—too sharp, too painful for eyes used to dim, flickering candlelight. He took a step forward, his boots sinking slightly into the soft sand, and felt the weight of the sun bearing down on him like an unseen force. It was beautiful, but in a way that made him uneasy, like the island itself was too perfect to be real.
Valente and his crew stood on the sand, tense and ready, as soldiers circled them, swords drawn, their eyes filled with fear and desperation. Locals watched from the edges, hesitant but aligning with the soldiers , just cautious. Valente’s hand hovered near his sword hilt, his voice calm but firm.
“My sword skills are second to none. Back off.”
Before the situation could escalate, Arthur Hawk, the captain, stepped forward. His weathered hand landed on Valente’s arm, holding him back.
“ Valente. Our language is alien to them.”
A crew member who was a trader from Persia moved forward and negotiated with the soldiers.
The soldier, his voice sharp and commanding, **shouted toward the crew** as he continued the negotiations. **“Reveal your presence before the king!”**
the Persian paused, turning back to the group with a slight nod. He glanced briefly at **Valente** and then translated the demand. **“They require us to present ourselves to the king. The decision lies in his hands .”**
Valente’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment, but there was no hesitation in his step as he motioned for the crew to follow. Together, they walked toward the **castle**—a towering structure built of heavy stone, standing in sharp contrast to the soft golden sands of the beach. The procession caught the attention of the **locals**, who gathered along the edges of the path, whispering among themselves. The sight of these strangers—was enough to capture their curiosity.
Valente’s long black coat fluttered in the wind, his **dark hair** swept back, while the crew wore variations of heavy coats, weapons at their sides, and an air of military discipline. They were men out of place, both physically and culturally, walking through a world they had never imagined but were now part of.
As they approached the entrance, Valente’s sharp gaze flickered upward to the grand castle, its towering walls casting shadows that felt almost oppressive. The gates opened slowly, and they were led into the castle courtyard, where they were ushered forward. A long hallway stretched before them, **marble floors gleaming in the dim light**, and high wooden doors opened into a **vast hall**.
At the far end of the room, on a raised platform, sat the **king** in a grand throne, his dark robes lined with gold thread, his crown a simple yet regal thing. **Surrounding him** were soldiers, ministers, and various officials—some standing at attention, others whispering among themselves. They all stared at the newcomers, sizing them up, their eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. The presence of **Valente** and his men was an unusual one. These were men who did not belong in the native world, with their foreign ways, weapons, and even **their very presence**.
**Arthur Hawk**, ever the diplomat, stepped forward first, his voice carrying through the hall with a tone of respect. He bowed deeply, his hands clasped in front of him, in a gesture of **deference**.
“**Great King**, we come in peace. From far beyond the oceans, we have traveled, seeking only the opportunity to trade and offer you gifts as a token of goodwill,” Arthur spoke, his words measured and diplomatic.
The **translator**, standing next to him, immediately repeated every word in the local language, his voice carrying across the hall.
The king remained silent, his eyes flickering over the **foreign visitors**, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, Arthur took a step back, gesturing for the crew to present the **offerings**. The **gold** and other precious items were laid before the king—**coins, fine silk, rare spices**, and **luxuries** from far-off lands, all meant to demonstrate the value the Portuguese were willing to bring.
The king’s eyes flickered over the offerings. He did not immediately respond, though his gaze lingered on the **gold**. **Gold** was something the kingdom already had in abundance, but it was not the same as **trust** or **alliances**. The **wealth** was impressive, but the king had lived long enough to know that **true power** lay not in the gleaming trinkets of distant lands, but in **loyalty**, **military strength**, and **control over his people**.
After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice **low** and **measured**, the translator carefully relaying his words:
**“Your gifts are generous, strangers from the sea. Yet, though they gleam, they are not enough to sway me. I see your offering, but I also see what it hides.”**
The king's eyes hardened as he spoke the next words:
**“You come from beyond the waters, with men, weapons, and fire. I have lived too many years to not see a threat where one stands.”**
A ripple of discomfort moved through the crowd of ministers and soldiers. The tension in the room was palpable. The king leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed firmly on Arthur Hawk.
**“While I welcome trade, I cannot ignore the storm you bring with you. You are not the first to arrive in search of riches. Others have tried, and many have failed. But you… you carry something different. You bring more than goods—you bring ideas, perhaps, and ambitions of your own. I cannot offer you the trust you seek. Not yet.”**
His voice rose, the final words echoing through the hall:
**“You may stay, for now, but know this: You are under my watch, and your actions will be judged. If you pose a threat, you will not be permitted to remain.”**
The room fell into silence once more, the weight of the king’s words hanging in the air.
To Be continued
