Caldera never stopped moving. The port city hummed with life, filled with voices carried on the salt-heavy wind. Dockworkers shouted as they hoisted cargo, traders haggled over bolts of fabric, and the sea slapped against the wooden pylons in a never-ending rhythm. Ships, bearing sails of every shape and color, bobbed gently in their berths—some marked with familiar names, others hailing from distant places Erin had only dreamed of.
To Erin, the city's constant motion felt like both a promise and a mockery. The world beyond Caldera was vast and alive, beckoning to him, while he remained here—caught in an endless loop of quiet domesticity and half-hearted duties. The horizon called out to him like a secret only he could hear. Yet every time he edged closer to it, something—or someone—pulled him back.
Today, it was his mother.
"Do you think fish will gut themselves?" Maris's sharp voice cut through Erin's thoughts as he lingered on the pier. She stormed toward him with her sleeves rolled up, hands raw and red from the day's work, her wicker basket teetering dangerously under the weight of folded linen. "I told you to come straight home. Or did you forget?"
Erin turned reluctantly, the sunlight catching the streaks in his unruly hair. He avoided her eyes. "I was just watching," he muttered.
Maris stopped a few feet away, her expression tight. Her face, still pretty despite the lines carved into it by years of worry, hardened in the way only mothers' faces could. "Watching? That's what you'll tell Farik when his ball guests show up wearing ripped coats and unfinished waistcoats? Thought watching would do the work for me?"
Her words struck with precision, more exasperated than cruel. Still, Erin flinched.
"I'll help you later," he said weakly.
"You'll help me now," she snapped. "And you'll stop wasting time down here staring at boats you'll never set foot on. I won't say it again."
"I'm not wasting time!" Erin's voice rose suddenly, and for once, he stood his ground. "The docks aren't a waste. This—this city's the waste! Spending my life sewing buttons while the rest of the world is out there—living. Is that what you want for me?"
Her eyes narrowed, the lines on her face deepening. "What I want is a son who won't throw himself into the sea chasing fairy tales."
"They're not fairy tales, Ma! People leave every day. They survive! Some of them come back, don't they? If others can do it, why can't I?"
"Because you're not 'others'!" Her voice cracked. "And because your father thought the same thing. Look where that got him."
Erin froze. The words cut deeper than they had any right to.
"That's not fair," Erin said, his voice low now, quivering. "He wasn't afraid to do something that mattered."
"Mattered?" Maris's voice caught, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the basket. "You think it mattered? Leaving me? Leaving you with nothing but that broken compass?"
At the mention of the compass, Erin's fingers instinctively brushed the pouch at his side. His mother's eyes locked onto the motion, and she took a step closer.
"That's the only legacy he left you," she said bitterly. "A rusted piece of junk and a hundred unanswered questions. Is that the future you want?"
"Maybe I'd rather have his questions than your answers!" The words escaped before Erin could stop himself. His voice echoed along the dock, louder and sharper than he had intended, and guilt immediately followed.
Maris recoiled, her face pale with hurt. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them spoke.
When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "He left, Erin. He didn't look back. Not for me. Not for you. And whatever he's chasing, wherever he is—you think that's noble?" Her gaze hardened, her grief reshaping into anger. "I'm trying to keep you alive. But if that's what you want—if you want to follow him, go ahead! Take his compass, take his dreams, and see how far they'll get you. But don't expect me to watch while you throw your life away."
Her voice faltered on the last word, and Erin realized she wasn't angry—she was scared. Beneath the bitterness, there was something raw, an unspoken truth too painful to voice. She had already lost her husband to his dreams; she could not bear the thought of losing her son to the same fate.
"I don't want to leave you," he said at last, softening. "But Ma… this life, this place—there's got to be more than this."
Maris shook her head, tears glinting in her eyes. "More than what? Than family? Than the life we've scraped together? Maybe that's not good enough for you, Erin. But it's all I have left."
The argument followed Erin like a shadow as he wandered the pier that evening, avoiding the chores his mother expected him to finish. Each passing wave mirrored the churn of his thoughts: the guilt of his outburst, the resentment at her refusal to see his side, and—most of all—the persistent ache of unfulfilled purpose.
On Pier Eleven, Lenya the shipwright greeted him as she hammered nails into a hull frame. "Let me guess—your mum had another go at you," she said without looking up.
"She thinks I'm throwing my life away," Erin replied bitterly, kicking at a coil of frayed rope.
Lenya shrugged. "All mothers think that. Comes with the job, don't it?"
"She doesn't get it," Erin said, slumping against a pile of crates. "I can't just stay here forever, sewing buttons and mending sails. What's the point of living like that?"
"Point's different for everyone," Lenya replied, squinting at her work. "You're lucky to have one. Lotta people don't."
Her words didn't comfort him. If anything, they only reinforced his unease. What if she was right? What if he was just chasing shadows, trying to find meaning in something that didn't exist?
As the sun dipped lower, a shadow caught his eye—long and unfamiliar against the pier. He turned and froze.
Out on the horizon, a ship broke through the deep orange glow of the setting sun. Its hull was dark and narrow, the sails tattered but full of purpose.
The chatter of the docks quieted as the vessel glided into the harbor, its sheer presence commanding attention. Erin leaned forward, his heart quickening as the anchor dropped with a heavy splash and chain clattered over the side.
Something about the ship felt different. It wasn't just another merchant, here to offload silks or spices. No, this ship—and whatever it carried—had a story. A story that might finally give him the answers, or the purpose, he had been longing for.
For a moment, Erin's grip on his father's compass tightened.
Whatever this was, it felt like the beginning.