A boy sprawled across the sun-warmed red tiles of the harbor master's warehouse, his tricorne worn-off hat tipped over his face, his feet dangling over the edge. The heat of the day pressed down like a woolen blanket, and the salty cold breeze from the bay did little to stir it. Somewhere below, gulls squabbled over scraps, their cries mingling with the distant shouts of sailors and vendors and the creak of ropes.

Lonk loved this time, when the world slowed down, when the bustle of the docks eased just enough that a boy could steal a moment for himself. He was not supposed to be up there, of course, but then, he wasn't supposed to do a lot of things, like mysteriously moving an apple from the stalls to his own pocket, or napping using his boss' hat. Yet there he was, with the sun baking his skin except for the help of the hat and the core of a half-eaten apple in his pocket. It was the closest he could get to the freedom he wished for.

But a looming shadow fell on top of him, clouding his enjoyment.

"Hey! Tunnel-face!"

The voice was rough and loud, way too loud for a sleeping boy. Lonk groaned, unamused by this interruption, lifting the edge of his hat just enough to see the broad silhouette of his boss, Master Harlow. The man's originally white face from the north, now leathery and darkened from the years of sea wind, his beard streaked with gray, was trying to strike a scolding grimace, yet his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Aye, I see you... Sadly," said Lonk, letting the hat drop again. "Come back when the sun is kinder and the breeze is setting down."

Harlow chuckled, standing on a wooden ladder, and then with the swiftness of a man hardened by the sea and the hauling of cargo he snatched his hat clean off Lonk's head. The boy yelped as the sunlight stabbed his eyes.

"Up with you, lazybones!" Harlow put on his hat back at his head where it belonged. "The Saint Dinna's made port, and her belly's full of spices, silks and blue shrooms. The Captain is in a mood to offload quickly... And look at you, lying around like a lord's lapdog."

Lonk stretched dramatically, with the back of his hand against his forehead, imitating and mocking the actors from the weird theatrical shows from the north. "Oh, what a cruel fate, Master Harlow, that of a boy working his fingers to the bone, and what does he get in return? Just more work to chisel away his condemned soul."

"And if you don't get up, you'll get my boot as well," said Harlow with a grin across his face.

Lonk rolled towards the edge, sitting beside Harlow. His dark hair and tanned skin contrasted with the white teeth that he exposed to flash a wide smile to Harlow.

"I suppose I could lend a hand, if the pay's right, obviously."

"The pay is keeping your pretty teeth," Harlow snorted.

Lonk laughed, as he jumped towards the ground with the sure-footedness of a cat, landing in a crouch beside Harlow's ladder, before springing up again. The old man shook his head, with a tired smile adorning his face.

They walked side by side back to the docks, where the Saint Dinna sat heavy in the water, her sails furled, her deck alive with sailors hauling crates and barrels with the help of Harlow's men. The scent of cinnamon and salt filled the air, and Lonk breathed deep, savoring it.

"Think there'll be oranges?" asked the boy, dancing on tiptoes.

Harlow smirked. "And if there are, what?"

"Well, some might magically land on our pockets. A mysterious disappearance."

"Mysteriously disappearance of your teeth, maybe, again," Harlow replied, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small bright orange, tossing it to Lonk. "Captain was in a good mood, so be thankful."

Lonk caught it with his right hand and put it inside his own pocket, a wedge of it appearing inside his mouth, the burst of sweetness was worth every second of Harlow's teasing.

For all the hardships, Lonk thought that this life was good. The sun was warm, the work was honest, the men were humble and affable, and if Harlow called him lazy with a smile on his face, well, that was part of the work's charm.

The last crate of spices and blue mushrooms thudded onto the warehouse floor, and Lonk wiped his brow with the back of his hand, grinning at the men around him. The work had been hard, but satisfying. He knew that he could've done most of the work by himself without even sweating, but where was the satisfaction on it? The Saint Dinna's cargo now sat neatly stacked in the dim, musty storeroom, ready to be dispersed come morning. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg still clung to the air, mingling with the salt and sweat of labor.

"That's the lot," Harlow declared, slapping dust from his hands. "Fine work, lads. Ale's on me tonight."

A ragged cheer went up from the dockworkers, and Lonk whooped, already imagining the frothy tankard waiting for him at the Sailor's Rest. But before the men could disperse, the heavy warehouse doors groaned open, and three figures stepped inside.

Silence fell like a blade.

The newcomers were not sailors, nor merchants. They wore the dark blue coats of the governor's guard, their breastplates polished to a hard gleam, swords at their hips, their tricorne hats coronated by a long black feather. Their boots struck the wooden floor with deliberate, ominous weight.

Lonk felt his stomach tighten. The governor's men had no business here, not unless there was trouble.

The lead guard, a hawk-faced man with a scar running from temple to jaw, scanned the room before his gaze settled on Lonk. "That's the boy," he said, voice flat.

Harlow stepped forward, blocking the guard's line of sight. "Something we can help you with, Captain?" His tone was polite, but his stance was anything but. Broad-shouldered and stubborn, he planted himself like a ship's mast in a storm.

The guard didn't even wait a second before he spitted out, "We're here for the lad. Orders from the governor, every magic wielder from the province should go to Savoirfort in less than a month."

"Magic wielder?" scuffed Harlow. "The only thing this lazy lad can do is push an apple half a quarter on a table-top, and I can do the same just by blowing. My grandma would be more useful than this boy... For whatever reason you want him."

"Don't care, war is coming, all mages are needed and that's the governor's order."

The word war landed like a fireball. Lonk's breath caught. He'd heard whispers, talk of tensions across the land, of new nations gaining more territory and the empire fearing the possibility of being affected, but he wouldn't imagine that the rumors would be a reality.

Harlow's jaw set. "Lonk's fifteen. He's no soldier."

"Old enough to serve and be trained," the guard countered. "And the governor's not asking."

One of the other guards, a thick-necked brute with a missing ear, shifted his grip on his sword. The dockworkers tensed, hands drifting toward crowbars and ropes, all improvised weapons, but weapons all the same.

Lonk swallowed hard. He knew these men would fight for him. But he also knew what happened to dockworkers who brawled with the governor's guard.

Before Harlow could speak again, Lonk stepped forward. "It's all right," he said, forcing a grin. "Suppose I've always wanted to see the world. Just didn't think it'd be at the point of a sword."

Harlow shot him a sharp look, but Lonk shook his head slightly. Don't.

The scarred guard smirked. "Smart boy." He gestured towards himself. "Come."

Lonk took a step, but then Harlow's hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Hold." He turned back to the guard, voice low. "You'll take him now? No chance for goodbyes? No chance to pack?"

"We're not taking him now," he said, grabbing Lonk's hand. "But he'll have to go." His glove shined lightly, leaving a mark on Lonk's wrist. An unmistakable indication that he's a mage. A circle within a dot within a circle. "If he's not on Savoirfort in a month... He'll realize what the word consequences means."

Harlow gave a curt nod, and the guards turned on their heels, boots echoing as they left. The moment the doors shut, the warehouse erupted.

"War?" one of the men spat. "Since when?"

"Damn governor's press-ganging boys now?" another growled.

"Look boy," Harlow said, turning Lonk around. "You won't go there, you don't know what awaits you on those training grounds, it's always been said that for commoners is mainly torture, and now that a war is on the horizon? Now it'll be worse..." His eyes trailed off, looking into nothing but seeing so much from the past. "You don't know how they treat the ones like you."

"Oh, boss." Lonk grabbed Harlow's hand and patted it. "I know very well."

Harlow looked at the boy's eyes, and for a moment they weren't the eyes of a young innocent boy, but those of one who has suffered, one who has lived through the hardships of life.

"Aye, aye... I won't insist then." The man turned around and walked towards the small table he called office and grabbed a leather pouch. "As said, the Ale's on me tonight, and we'll be cheering for a blessing of good luck." He looked down and then back at the men. "We'll need it."

The warehouse stood silent, the scent of spices suddenly bitter in the air. War was coming, boys were now soldiers, peace in the empire was now on the brink of becoming a tale of the past, just as war was a few seconds ago.

And soon, there'll be one less helping hand on the docks.

Chapter 1 - End

Author's comments:

And well, here it is, the beginning of the project that was supposed to be a comic but the lazy sad excuse of an  artist failed catastrophically (the artist was me). So now it's going to be a book.
Welcome to my new story, one that was born a while ago and is finally seeing the light. I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy creating it, and if you vote or comment it would be even better. Thank you for being here, dear reader, and have a nice day.