Kingdoms in Chaos by Michael James Ploof

be another calm day. Gods willing,” Tyrron noted.
    Whill had almost forgotten the man was there, lost in his ponderings as he was.
    “Yes, it seems so.”
    “We should make Cerushia in three days at this pace. The trade winds are weak for the season, but should pick up once we head north.”
    Whill nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but this was a good time to get to know his fleet commander better. “Tell me more about yourself, Greyson. Where were you brought up?”
    The general perked up—people loved to talk about themselves.
    “Probably not a place you ever heard of. Lil’ village called Buckton, north of White Lake, nestled in the shadow of the Elgar Mountains.”
    “I’ve heard of it, though I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing it. Sounds like a nice quiet place.”
    “You mind if I speak plainly?” said Greyson.
    “Can you trust a man who doesn’t?”
    The old seaman grinned at that, liking the sound of it.
    “You seem like you wouldn’t mind a nice quiet place right about now.”
    “You’re right about that,” said Whill with a laugh. “As a kid I used to daydream for hours on end about traveling and adventure, magic, dwarves, dragons, elves. I was so naïve. Now, the thought of a quiet cottage at the end of nowhere sounds great.”
    “You thought the fighting would end when Eadon was defeated?” Greyson asked.
    Whill searched the man’s eyes, but couldn’t tell if he was being condescending or trying to relate.
    “I had hoped.”
    Greyson nodded and looked back to the ocean.
    “This isn’t as bad as all that, though, just an uprising in the north. A thing like this is to be expected when so much power shifts. You defeated the most powerful enemy Agora has ever seen. I have no doubts you will be victorious.”
    Whill was grateful for the man’s words, finding that he reminded him a lot of Abram. They looked nothing alike, but they shared a quiet strength and an optimism that Whill missed. He realized just how cynical he had become since the Taking. Still, it was hard to be optimistic in a world that seemed hell-bent on destroying itself.
    “Do you believe the tales of undead walking around in Shierdon?” Greyson asked.
    “I do. If I’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s that anything is possible.”
    Greyson shook his head and spit over the rail.
    “How in the hells do you defeat the undead?”
    “There’s always a way,” said Whill, though he wondered the very same thing.
    “Indeed,” said Greyson with a chuckle.
     
    Later that night Whill sat at the large desk in his private quarters staring blankly at the tomes spread out before him. He had yet to find anything in them that would help him understand Kellallea’s motives, and hoped that the elves might be able to shed some light on the subject.
    With a heavy sigh he shoved off from the desk and looked out the window at the moon hovering above the calm waters. There was little wind, and the ship traveled slower than he would have liked.
    Feeling quite bored, and tired of being alone, he made his way from his room to the deck above. A soldier announced his presence loudly, and all those nearby offered up a smart solute. Whill returned the gesture, nodding to the men, and wondering if he would ever get used to being king. Aside from the heavy—and boring—workload involved, being a king was a lonely job. What bothered him most was the fact that he had no peers. He had guards, servants, advisors, and subjects, but no friends.
    Whill and the Watcher had become close over the last six months, but Whill had never felt on equal ground with the ancient and wise elf. Lunara was a friend, Whill soon realized, but she harbored feelings for him that he could not reciprocate, and it was an unmistakable wedge between them.
    After a time Whill grew bored of watching the water from the helm and went downstairs, meaning to return to his quarters, when he heard a ruckus coming from the mess hall. Intrigued, he