Bringing Stella Home

I’m working on another Sea Mage Cycle book right now, alternating between the AI revisions (where I generate multiple iterations of each chapter using the same prompts, and combine the best parts for the final AI draft) and humanizing the AI draft to produce the rough human draft. So far, it’s working out really well. I do a little bit of work each day: maybe a chapter of the AI draft, or a scene of the human draft, but it’s steady progress and the kind of thing that I can probably keep up to some degree, even with the demands of a newborn baby, which is sure to throw things off in the coming weeks.

In any case, here is an excerpt from the first scene of the first chapter of The Unknown Sea. This is the rough human draft, so the writing is all mine and not AI-generated, though there may be some AI-isms because I used the AI draft as a guide. I’m going to write a post next week detailing my current AI-assisted writing process, so if any of that is confusing, check out my post there. In the meantime, enjoy!

The sea-soaked wood of the pier groaned under Enoch’s boots as he walked out onto the dock. He squinted, eyes stinging a little in the salty breeze as he peered out across the bustling harbor. Fat merchant caravels sat low in the water as they crawled into port, dockhands rushing to secure them. Elsewhere, sailors hauled heavy sacks of trade goods down to the docks, or rolled barrels of supplies up the narrow gangplanks for the ships that were preparing to depart. 

Enoch Ashenford took a deep breath. Few ports on the Azure Sea buzzed with the raw, desperate energy of the capital of the kingdom of Caravelia. Many a merchant prince had made his fortune here, and many a man with little to his name had rewritten his own story.

So why did he feel so thoroughly out of place?

He fished the letter of introduction from his waistcoat pocket. The elegant script had smudged a little at the corners from nervous handling, but the words on the parchment were still clear. Our son is of sound mind and steady hand, he read, taking encouragement from the words. He has a promising magical talent and will serve you well in the position of sea mage.

Of course, it wasn’t just the endorsement that had landed him the position. His father had had to pull some high-placed favors to get it. Not that Enoch wasn’t qualified, of course—as the only one in his family to be born with magical talent, he had worked hard to cultivate it with what meager resources the dwindling family wealth could acquire. But few young mages landed a berth quite so lucrative as a merchant caravel so early in their apprenticeship.

He tucked the letter away, hoping it would dutifully impress the captain. The morning air was thick with the stench of old fish and burning pitch, the unlovely aroma of commerce. Enoch drew another sharp breath and squared his shoulders before setting out to find the ship.

He pretended not to notice the stares and glances aimed his way. It was rare for a noble scion to set foot on these docks, let alone seek employment on a common merchant. His mother had insisted on dressing him well, in fine leather boots and a silk tunic, but these made him stand out almost as much as his pale, untanned skin and soft hands. He also had all his teeth, which was more than he could say of many of the men he passed.

It was frustrating, because if any of these gawkers looked closer, they would see the threadbare patches on his tunic and pants, the cracks and creases in the ageworn leather of his belt and boots. A noble son he might be, but the battered satchel slung over his shoulder held little of real value. 

He stopped to get his bearings. It seemed like the forest of masts and sails stretched almost to the horizon. Somewhere among them was the merchant ship that would be his ticket to wealth and glory—if he could only find the blasted thing.

“Make way,” a grizzled sailor shouted, carrying a large barrel on one shoulder. Enoch tried to get out of his way, but the man still nearly knocked him off his feet, swearing as he did so.

“Ouch!”

“Watch yourself, young lordling. This is no place for soft hands and slippered feet.”

Blood rushed to Enoch’s cheeks. “I’m not a ‘lordling,’” he muttered under his breath. “Just the seventh son of a penniless house.”

It was no use, of course. These common folk probably all thought that all nobles were rich. But Enoch’s noble birth had been more of a burden than a blessing. His older brothers had already divided up the Ashenford house’s few minor titles, barely managing to secure respectable positions and marriages for themselves. Even Carl, the second youngest in the family, had received a captain’s commission in the King’s Fleet. But by the time Enoch had come of age, the Ashenford house’s coffers had run as dry as a salt pan at high noon.

The manor still stood, of course. One couldn’t exactly pawn bricks and stone. But the paintings and tapestries had been sold, then the family silver, then most of the furniture. His mother wore the same gown to every court function, cleverly disguising the fact with slight alterations made by her own hands. As for his father, he spent most of his days in the family library, poring over the same old tomes—as if the secret to restoring the family’s fortune could be found in books alone.

No. Enoch had had enough of that dusty old manor, and he had no patience for the duties and pretenses of the court. He’d be damned before he gave up and turned around, even with all the snickering glances and gawking stares. He thought again of the letter of recommendation in his pocket, resisting the urge to take it out. If he could just find that blasted ship…

“You look a bit lost, lad,” a voice called out. “You wouldn’t happen to be young Master Ashenford, would you?”

Enoch turned to see a burly clean-shaven man in a leather apron, a crooked grin splitting his wind-chapped face. Sun and sea had tanned his skin to the color of old rope, which was almost as tough and leathery as the apron he wore. He swayed a little where he stood, and his shrewd eyes shone with the keenness of a man who had spent most of his life at sea.

“I might be,” Enoch hedged. “Who’s asking?”

“Marcus Reed, ship’s cook of the Waverunner. Captain sent me to fetch our new sea mage. That’d be you, I’d reckon?”

Enoch nodded, extending his hand. “That’s right. Pleased to meet you, Marcus.”

The man took it and gave him a single shake before gesturing toward the dock. Enoch quickly fell into step with his confident gait, grateful to have a guide to his new berth. 

“So,” Marcus asked, breaking the silence between them, “what brings a young nobleman to life at sea? Chasing adventure? Seeking your fortune?”

“A little of both,” Enoch admitted. “As the seventh son, it’s not like I’ve got much of an inheritance.”

“Ah,” said Marcus, chuckling dryly. “Well, the sea’s a great leveler, lad. Noble or commonfolk, it’s all the same when the storms hit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Marcus. We’re mates now, after all.”

“Right,” said Enoch, nodding. “And I guess you can call me Enoch. Like you said, the sea’s a great leveler.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow at him and smiled.

The Waverunner sat moored at one of the last piers. Enoch felt his breath catch as his eyes fell upon it. The sturdy single-masted caravel creaked a little as it swayed gently at the dock. Sixty feet of weathered oak, with a dark, waterlogged hull that had clearly seen many voyages. Despite her elegant curves, the salt and sun had clearly had their way with the wood.

“You there!” a commanding voice rang out from the upper deck. “The new mage?”

Enoch looked upward, meeting the gray eyes of a woman whose gaze held the relentless intensity of a hawk. She stood with confident poise, her graying hair pulled back into a tight braid, and her weather-beaten face held the sort of authority that needed no crown or title.

“Enoch Ashenford, Ma’am,” he answered, straightening his posture. “I’m to be your new sea mage.”

“Don’t just stand there, lad. Come let me get a look at you.”

He quickly climbed the narrow gangplank, ignoring how his stomach lurched. Once on board, he withdrew the letter of introduction and handed it to her.

“For you, Ma’am.”

Captain Maren Black plucked the letter from his hands and stuffed it into her waistcoat, barely giving it a glance. Instead, she looked him over from head to toe. Her eyes narrowed, making Enoch swallow.

“Hmm,” she muttered—a sound that could have meant anything. “Ever worked a ship before?”

“I’ve studied maritime magic extensively, ma’am. My family’s library—”

“That’s a no, then.” She turned away. “Marcus! Show the boy where to stow his gear. Thaddeus, check those lines again. They look slack.”

The pit in Enoch’s stomach fell—a pit that until now, he hadn’t realized was there. Like a dog with his tail between his legs, he quickly followed Marcus across the wooden deck and down into the hold.

“How large is the crew?” he asked the burly.

“Just five of us,” Marcus answered cheerily, ducking as they passed through the door. “Captain Black, First mate Thaddeus, Felix, yourself, and me. But what we lack in manpower, we’ll more than make up for in your magic. Right?”

“Right,” said Enoch, swallowing nervously. Just what had he gotten himself into? Seeing his discomfort, Marcus chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll do fine, friend. Think of it this way: the fewer of us to crew the ship, the greater each man’s share of the profits.”

That was a good point, though it did little to quell Enoch’s growing anxiety. He also couldn’t help but notice how rough and calloused Marcus’s hands were to his own. With only five of them, he’d have to work hard to earn his keep, and not just with book learning and magic.

“This is where you’ll bunk,” Marcus announced, pointing to a cramped berth with a nod of his head. He leaned casually against the doorframe, folding his arms atop his leather apron. “This your first time at sea?”

Enoch’s cheeks burned. “Is it that obvious?”

“Don’t worry, lad. You’ll find your sea legs soon enough. The sea’s a harsh mistress, and an even harsher teacher.”

Enoch drew a sharp breath and nodded. A harsh mistress indeed, he told himself silently, but one I intend to master. As Marcus watched, he quickly unpacked his meager belongings, making space near the head of his bunk for the two most valuable pieces.

“Those look interesting,” Marcus remarked. “Family heirlooms?”

“Gifts from my parents,” Enoch explained. He unsheathed the dagger his father had given him and tilted it in the gleam of the candlelight. “The edge is inlaid with silver. It’s supposed to let it cut through magical shields and wards.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “And the amulet?”

He pulled out his mother’s amulet, fashioned from a spiral shell and hanging from a leather cord. “This one is called the Whispering Shell. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s enchanted with a powerful spell that helps the one who wears it to translate foreign speech.”

“So it lets you understand what the people around you are saying?”

“That, and it makes the bearer’s speech intelligible to all who hear. Like I said, it’s a powerful spell.”

Marcus whistled appreciatively. “Now that’s a rare piece of work. Must have cost a pretty penny.”

More than my family could afford, Enoch thought but didn’t say. His mother had pawned her grandmother’s emerald brooch to raise the funds, one of the last valuable pieces the family possessed. Instead of saying that, though, he simply nodded.

“My family wanted me to have every advantage.”

“Aye—and they’ll serve you well, I’d wager. Though not half as well as a sturdy pair of sea legs and a strong stomach.” Marcus grinned and slapped his back. “Though we’ll be giving you those in no time.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Marcus turned and left then, his footsteps creaking along the old, wooden floor of the deck. Enoch watched him for a moment, then carefully tucked the dagger and amulet away.

He thought of his mother, pawning a priceless family heirloom to buy him this chance. His father, struggling to maintain the fiction of their wealth while the walls grew bare around him. Seven sons, and the seventh was their last hope for something more than genteel poverty.

The thought hardened Enoch’s will until the pit in his stomach no longer seemed so terrible. He would not fail them. He could not afford to. He would stay on this ship and win his own fortune, restoring the family name and making his own way in this world. All of his doubts, all of his misgivings—it was time to throw those away. He was not just the overlooked son. It was time to become something more.