We took the East Road out of the ghost village just as the sun started bleeding over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of tangerine and rose. The dead forest was far behind us now—just a bad dream we'd both agreed not to bring up unless absolutely necessary.
The world beyond stretched wide and open, dotted with grassy hills, rivers that ran like silver ribbons, and scattered farms that smelled of wheat and hard work.
We were headed to a seafront town, one I'd heard about from a couple of travelers who passed through Eldoria months ago.
They described it as a bustling port with salted air and taverns filled with too much music and not enough sense. It sounded like exactly the kind of place a man without a crown and a cat in boots should find themselves.
"Why east?" Puss had asked that morning, hanging lazily off the saddle, his tail flicking with every bump Valor took on the dirt road.
I didn't look back at him when I answered. "Never been to the open sea." Technically I have, back in my childhood but the docks was as far as I went.
That was all I needed to say. The silence afterward was comfortable.
The days rolled into each other after that. The road was mostly quiet save for the occasional merchant wagon and a few curious herders tending their goats.
We didn't talk the whole time, but when we did, it was mostly about nothing: favorite foods, weird dreams, worst injuries. Puss had an uncanny knack for turning every story into something absurd.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I mistook a chimera for a slightly overfed goat?" he asked one evening as we set up camp under a twisted old tree. "Three heads! One of them very offended."
I shook my head, poking at the fire we'd built. "You've told me that twice now."
"Yes, but this time I tell it with a French accent," he said, puffing out his chest and switching tongues mid-sentence. "Mon dieu! Ze beast was magnifique!"
The flames cracked as I laughed. "Please never do that again."
Our food was basic—mostly dried meat, hard bread, and whatever we could gather or fish from nearby streams. But the company made it taste better than it should have.
Puss would make a show of 'blessing' each meal, raising a strip of jerky to the sky and announcing in a booming tone, "To adventure and indigestion!"
But about three days in, something changed.
It was midday, sun high and lazy, when we first heard the music. Faint at first—just the soft plucking of strings and the distant thump of a drum. We crested a hill and saw them: a caravan of wagons, painted in wild colors, with cloths flapping in the breeze and a banner that read The Featherfoot Company.
There were a dozen or so travelers, all laughing, dancing, playing instruments. One woman twirled fire on a staff. A tall man with bells on his boots strummed a lute while balancing on the edge of a moving cart.
A young boy rode atop a goat, playing a harmonica like he was born for it.
"Well," Puss said, tilting his head, "either we have stumbled into the most cheerful band of thieves ever, or the road just got a whole lot more interesting."
I smiled. "Let's say hello."
They were headed to the same seafront town we were, traveling slower because of their wagons but with much more flair. When we introduced ourselves, they welcomed us with open arms and no questions.
We told no lies, but we didn't spill everything either. Sometimes it's enough to be "just travelers."
That night, our camp didn't just glow—it sang.
Lutes and fiddles filled the air as the sun set, and people danced barefoot on the packed earth, kicking up dust under a thousand stars.
One of the singers, a curly-haired man with a voice like honey and leather, started strumming a familiar tune. It was slow at first, thoughtful.
"Almost Heaven, West Virginia~
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River"
I couldn't help it. I joined in. My voice wasn't great, but it was loud and full.
"Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, growin' like a breeze"
The whole group picked up by the time we hit the chorus. It didn't matter that most of them didn't know what or where West Virginia was. Music doesn't care.
"Country roads, take me homeee~
To the place I belonggg~
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads"
Someone handed me a tambourine. Puss, I kid you not, found a tiny guitar some child had left unattended and plucked a few off-key notes with his claws like he was born to be a one-cat band.
"Take me home... country roads... (x2)
All my memories gather 'round her
Miner's lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye"
It was silly. Beautiful. Free.
The music didn't stop with that song. We sang old travel ballads, drinking songs that didn't require talent, and even made up our own tunes. There was one that became a crowd favorite, something about a cat who fell in love with a tavern stool and lost it in a game of cards.
I'm not sure who started it, but it ended with Puss pretending to weep into his tail, dramatically wailing about "the one that got away."
We stayed with them for two more days, moving slower but never bored. The Featherfoot Company was all about the road. They didn't care much for the destination.
Their leader, a woman named Fenna, was older than she looked and carried herself like a storyteller in mid-spin.
She said they'd been traveling since before the last frost and had no plans to stop until the ocean kissed their boots.
"We follow the winds," she told me one night as we watched fireflies dance. "The road sings to people like us. If you listen close, you can hear it call your name."
I didn't tell her mine. I just nodded.
By the fifth day, we could smell the salt in the air. It was faint but there, tugging at something deep in my chest. The trees thinned, replaced by grassy dunes and flatter land. The sky opened wider, bluer. And somewhere beyond the next rise, the sea waited.
Puss rode behind me, tail flicking lazily, his hat tilted forward to block the sun.
We said our goodbyes to the Featherfoot Company before the town gates came into view. They had their own path to follow—one that didn't include ports or pirates.
But they gave us food, music, and a few memories we'd probably laugh about in a week or two.
[ A few hours later]
[City Gates]
[3rd POV]
The sight of the distant ocean shimmered like a sapphire ribbon along the horizon, and beside him, Puss in Boots adjusted the feather in his hat with a satisfied nod.
Camden tugged gently on Valor's reins as they approached the city gates, where the guards were carefully inspecting every incoming traveler.
Camden leaned slightly in his saddle, eyeing the guard holding up a wanted poster. The image was unmistakable—a man with long, disheveled dreadlocks, an open shirt, and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
"Well, well," Camden murmured, "he's either very good or very dumb to get caught looking that." He exchanged a glance with Puss, who squinted at the poster and gave a low whistle.
"Ah, I know this face. That is a man who walks on the edge of death and debt. Jack Sparrow. Surprisingly the most notorious pirate in this region, and all for wrong reasons."
The inspection didn't take long. Camden answered a few half-hearted questions, flashed a bored look of innocence, and with the wave of a hand, was let through. The moment they entered the town, the buzz of the harbor hit them like a wave.
Gulls cried overhead, sailors shouted over crates of goods, and the mingled scents of salt, fish, and cooked meats filled the streets.
"Alright," Camden said as he slipped off Valor, stretching his arms, "first things first—I want a seer orb."
Puss blinked. "A what?"
"You know," Camden replied with a shrug, "a glass ball that lets me see people. Talk to them, too. Magic stuff."
With Puss reluctantly trailing behind, Camden wove through the market streets, eyes scanning for a stall that reeked of old incense and vague mysticism.
It wasn't long before he found a corner booth draped in violet cloth and tattered flags that fluttered like they had stories to tell.
A wooden sign above read Madame Velora's Visions of Tomorrow. That seemed sketchy enough.
Inside, an old woman sat hunched over a small table, wrinkled hands adorned in rings and wrists wrapped in bangles that clinked together every time she shifted. Her eyes lit up with a cunning gleam when she spotted Camden.
"You seek something from the fog of fate, don't you?" she rasped.
"I'm here for a seer orb," Camden said plainly, eyeing the shelf behind her. "One that still works."
"Ah, I have one… but such things come at a price." She gestured dramatically, her fingers forming spirals in the air. "For the whisper of the future, I ask one-hundred gold."
Camden let out a soft scoff and crossed his arms. "Try again, hag. It's just glass and charmwork. Fifty."
Her rings clicked as she bristled. "Seventy-five and not a coin less."
"Sixty, and you throw in that cool little pouch over there." He pointed to a velvet bag covered in moons and stars.
Madame Velora gave him a long stare, as if trying to pierce his soul—or count how many coins he had. "Fine," she muttered, pushing the orb toward him with a clawed hand. "But if it cracks from your energy, don't come crying to Velora."
Camden passed her the coin pouch, snatched the orb and the bag, and stepped outside with a triumphant look.
"Why do I have the feeling you just got robbed politely?" Puss asked as they continued down the road.
Camden chuckled. "Doesn't matter, I have money to spend. I've got what I need."
They found a quiet alley near a bakery and a lazy cat lounging in the sun. Camden sat on a wooden crate and cradled the orb in his hands.
It was smooth and cold at first, but as he closed his eyes and poured a little of his magic into it, it began to glow faintly with swirling light.
He thought about his mother—her smile, the warmth of her presence, and her soft, commanding voice.
Within seconds, her face appeared in the orb, a little blurry at first, but growing clearer. Her silver hair was pinned up in a regal bun, and she looked like she had just been reading a book by the window.
"Camden?" she blinked, surprised. Then, her features softened, and she smiled. "Camden, my love… is that really you?"
"Hey, Mom," Camden grinned, relaxing a bit. "Miss me yet?"
Evelyne's eyes shimmered. "Always. Where are you?"
"At some port town to the east. Sea smells awful, food's great though. I bought a talking orb. Isn't it cool?"
She chuckled gently. "Only you would treat magic like a toy."
"It's not a toy, it's a lifeline. I was starting to miss hearing your voice." He shifted his legs and leaned closer to the orb. "How's Benedict doing?"
"He's handling things… well, actually," Evelyne replied softly. "Still rough around the edges, but he's growing into the role. Alistair pretends not to be worried, but I know he checks the court schedule three times before breakfast."
Camden laughed. "Of course he does."
There was a comfortable silence between them for a moment, the kind that doesn't need filling. Evelyne finally spoke again, her tone a little more tender. "Are you taking care of yourself?"
"Best I can," he replied, looking at the orb. "Still haven't lost a fight, if that counts for anything."
"Camden…"
He raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"You know I support you, always. But stay grounded, alright? You have a good heart, but the world is wide and sharp. Not everyone deserves your trust."
"I'm not handing out loyalty like bread," he said. "But… I'm happy, Mom. Really. I can breathe out here."
Evelyne smiled faintly. "Then keep breathing, darling."
Camden was about to say something else when a loud crash echoed across the street, followed by shouting and the clatter of boots. He turned his head sharply.
"Something's up," he said, standing.
"I have to go," Evelyne said quickly, her expression softening. "Be careful, Camden."
"Always," he replied, and with a tap of his finger, the orb dimmed and the image faded.
Camden tucked the orb into his pouch, adjusted his coat, and looked over at Puss, who was already halfway to the edge of the alley.
"You hear that?" the cat asked.
"Oh yeah," Camden said, starting to walk toward the commotion with that all-too-familiar fire lighting up behind his eyes. "Let's see what the seaside fuss is all about."
=-=
[Location:???]
[Somewhere in an alley]
On the far side of the seaside town, the people had gathered in the dusty plaza under the sun, fanning themselves with paper fans and hat brims as they listened—somewhat unwillingly—to Mayor Dix deliver a lengthy speech about "prosperity, security, and the architectural triumph of their brand-new bank."
Mayor Dix, a rotund, overly proud man with cheeks redder than his cravat, stood on a marble platform in front of the new building.
A plaque beside him read: "The Dix & Coin Savings Vault – Grand Opening Ceremony." The mayor's voice boomed across the plaza with theatrical gusto, as if he were reciting Shakespeare rather than talking about interest rates.
"…And with this mighty vault," he bellowed, "we ensure the safety of our fine citizens' gold, jewels, heirlooms, and, yes—priceless family recipes! No longer will your fortunes be subject to the sea winds or dishonest men!"
Somewhere among the townsfolk, an old fisherman leaned toward his wife and mumbled, "We was safer when we hid our gold in the fish barrel."
His wife gave him a jab in the ribs. "Shhh. Quiet Benjamin."
Meanwhile—quite literally behind the bank—three shadowy figures crouched low by the back wall, pressing their ears to the stone like kids sneaking cookies before supper. The trio wore pirate coats patched more times than a net and smelled of rum and regret.
Among them, naturally, was one Captain Jack Sparrow, blinking slowly through half-lidded eyes and looking more disoriented than usual.
"We've got exactly twelve minutes before they unveil that vault with the crowd starin' right at it," grunted Mr. Gibbs, fiddling with a loop of rope.
"That's eleven minutes more than I need," Jack replied, his voice laced with slurred confidence. "Remember, we're not just takin' the gold—we're takin' the vault."
The other two pirates paused. One scratched his head.
"You mean just the loot inside the vault?"
"No," Jack grinned lazily, "we're takin' the whole bleedin' vault."
"…Why?"
Jack dramatically raised a finger, staggered slightly, and said, "Because no one will be expectin' that."
Moments later, they were inside. Jack had somehow acquired the keys—no one asked how—and they crept through the halls with exaggerated sneaky steps, like drunk raccoons.
The inside of the bank was fresh, polished, and completely unsuspecting. All the better for what came next.
The vault door stood massive at the rear of the bank, towering like a giant silver tombstone, complete with etched lion motifs and brass trim. It was beautiful. It was sturdy. It was about to be forcibly removed from the building by ten rented horses.
Working fast, Gibbs and the crew tied thick ropes around the base of the vault. They ran them through pulleys and hooks outside the window where ten burly stallions were parked casually by the alley, munching carrots and looking like they hadn't been informed about the crime they were about to commit.
As the ropes were tightened, Jack gave each horse a pat on the nose.
"Avast ye, me buccaneers," he said, slightly wobbling, "when I give the signal, we ride."
Jack then re-entered the building, stumbled up to the second floor balcony, and flung open the window shutters like a stage actor. With arms wide, he declared in a voice both regal and idiotic:
"Ahoy! Citizens of this… fine, sandy, financially-prepared establishment—I am Captain Jack Sparrow, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news but... You are being robbed."
A stunned silence gripped the square. Mayor Dix's monocle popped clean off his eye.
"You insolent drunkard!" Dix roared, pointing a meaty finger. "Marines, shoot him!"
The line of red-coated British Marines at the edge of the plaza raised their muskets—
—but before a single trigger could be pulled, a great cracking sound ripped through the air. Behind the bank, the horses had been startled by something—possibly Jack's shouting, possibly the ghost of common sense—and they had bolted, yanking the ropes.
The vault didn't move.
The horses pulled harder.
The vault groaned.
The marble beneath it cracked.
Then, with a sound like a cannon exploding underwater, the entire back half of the bank detached with the vault still lodged inside it. The walls buckled. Bricks flew.
Window frames fell sideways. And the whole back of the building—vault included—lurched forward like a drunk dancing.
The ten horses surged forward, kicking up dirt and neighing in confusion, dragging the vault and the entire rear of the bank across the cobblestone street.
People screamed.
Dust flew everywhere.
The front half of the bank remained standing, with the mayor still on the podium mid-speech, while the back half rolled away with horrifying speed.
Jack leapt from the balcony with a yelp, landed in a flower cart, and rolled off it with a dazed "I meant to do that."
"AFTER THEM!" screamed Mayor Dix, coughing on plaster.
The Marines chased after the horses, which had now reached the fish market. The vault, weighing several tons, crushed three stands, flipped a cart of clams, and bounced over a poor man's tomato stall like a skipping stone.
People dove for cover, dogs barked, and somewhere in the distance, a goat fainted.
Jack scrambled to his feet and tried to jump onto the moving vault, only to miss and cling to one of the trailing ropes like a drunken kite.
"Wait! Wait! Wait! Pull me up!" he shouted, spinning in circles. "I am the captain!"
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