I am writing this journal entry under conditions of immense disappointment.
Three days ago, we finally arrived in Windward.
The city sits along the eastern coast facing the vast Eastern Ocean.
Even from a distance, Windward looked enormous.
Like some giant sleeping creature sprawled along the shoreline beneath layers of smoke and sea mist.
Long rows of dark wooden warehouses stretched across the harbor.
Behind them stood crowded buildings of wood and stone stacked unevenly against one another as though the city had expanded faster than anyone could properly control.
Nothing here resembles Port Roderick’s polished elegance.
Windward feels rougher.
Louder.
More alive somehow.
The harbor itself is massive.
Dozens of great Galeons stood anchored beside the docks like floating fortresses.
Towering masts.
Heavy sails.
Crews shouting across wooden piers blackened by salt and age.
Some ships unloaded cargo.
Others repaired storm damage.
One vessel near the outer docks had an entire section of railing missing.
Yet workers still moved across it casually while carrying crates on their shoulders.
The entire harbor smelled like fish oil, wet rope, tar, smoke, seawater, and exhausted ambition.
Honestly…
I liked it immediately.
For the first time since leaving Yggdra, the world felt human again.
Messy.
Sweaty.
Imperfect.
Nobody here moved with sacred grace.
People shouted.
Argued.
Laughed loudly.
Dockworkers swore at each other openly while hauling cargo through the mud.
It was strangely comforting.
Naturally, after seeing both the harbor and the size of our caravan, I immediately began calculating transportation costs.
The profits from the Voidscale deal must have been enormous.
After all, we still possessed twelve wagons worth of cargo.
And based on my admittedly limited understanding of naval travel, transporting that volume safely across the southern sea would surely require a Galeon.
A proper one.
The magnificent kind with multiple decks, towering sails, and enough crew members to resemble a floating city.
Perhaps eighty people.
Possibly more.
I imagined standing dramatically at the front of the ship beside Ryn while sea winds destroyed my hair with theatrical intensity.
At one point I even considered climbing onto the bow itself and posing heroically like ruler of the ocean.
I smiled quite confidently while imagining this.
That confidence has since died.
Painfully.
Because I am currently sitting inside a Caravel.
A very ordinary Caravel.
Not terrible.
Merely…
Small.
Deeply small.
When I first saw the vessel this morning, I became confused immediately.
I asked Ryn what had happened to the Galeon we were supposedly using.
Ryn stared at me for several seconds.
Then asked when exactly I had decided we were traveling by Galeon.
I explained that transporting twelve wagons of cargo across the sea logically required a vessel of substantial scale.
Ryn laughed so suddenly that nearby sailors turned to look at us.
Apparently, during the past three days, the Caravan Master had been meeting with various “close friends” throughout Windward.
He arranged for large portions of our cargo to travel aboard several other merchant ships already heading toward Port Roderick.
In exchange, he agreed to personally deliver sensitive documents, trade contracts, and certain debt collection notices directly to their intended recipients.
According to Ryn, the Caravan Master spent nearly the entire three-day stay visiting old business acquaintances to negotiate these arrangements.
The six additional wagons have already been returned.
Most of the temporary workers have also gone home.
By the time she finished explaining all of this, I simply sat there silently.
The world of business is terrifying.
The Caravan Master is terrifying.
At this moment, I find myself profoundly grateful that I was born into the DeLuna family instead of House Roderick.
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