The Sin Eater Chronicles

Time passed, and sure enough, several more figures stepped forward: a minor lord from a neighboring region who stuttered through an unremarkable proposal, a merchant adventurer hawking exotic goods, and even a scholarly philosopher who believed he could chart the star paths for the new colony. Aiyara listened politely, mentally noting any sincerity or possible advantage. Yet her spirit felt weighed down by the repetitiveness of these claims—everyone wanted something, and they believed wedding her was the fastest route.

Kida tapped her on the arm, drawing her attention to the back of the crowd. "I think you'll want to see this," she whispered, her eyes alight with a mixture of amusement and caution.

Aiyara followed her friend's gaze and saw a young man in a simple, well-worn tunic, hesitating on the edge of the assembly. He clutched a cap in his hands, twisting it nervously. His sandy hair was tousled, sun-bleached at the tips, and his skin bore the tan of someone who spent long hours exposed to the elements. Faint lines of salt crusted his boots. A fisherman, by all accounts.

Without waiting for a formal introduction, he edged closer to the dais, earning more than a few puzzled glances from the elegantly dressed dignitaries. Some even scoffed, but he steeled himself, eyes locked on Aiyara. Despite his palpable nervousness, there was a steadfast resolve about him.

At last, he reached a respectful distance from the dais and bowed low. "Your Highness," he began, voice trembling yet determined. "My name is Harim. I'm… I'm a fisherman from Havenport, down by the south wharves. My father and grandfather, too. My family's boats have sailed Masan's waters for generations. I know the tides, the currents, the very taste of the sea."

An immediate hush fell around him, punctuated by the faint snickers of a few wealthy suitors who saw no threat in a mere fisherman. Others watched with curiosity, reminded of Masan's maritime custom that allowed any man to declare intention if he believed himself worthy.

Aiyara offered him a reassuring smile, intrigued by his earnest gaze. "Harim of Havenport, I welcome you. You stand in the presence of many illustrious guests—what is it you wish to say?"

He swallowed hard but lifted his chin. "I know I'm just a commoner, Princess. And I ain't got armies or gold fleets to wave in your face. But I do have my strength, my loyalty, and a love for Masan. When your mother sets sail, the seas around this city won't simply vanish. Someone has to keep fishing, keep feeding our people, keep the spirit of the waves alive. That's what we do. And I… I'd stand by your side as a consort if you'd have me."

A wave of laughter rippled through parts of the crowd—particularly from a cluster of foreign lords, including Prince Orin and Lord Davren. Some openly snickered, while others guffawed. A few more polite souls merely exchanged puzzled glances, uncertain whether to find his audacity charming or ridiculous.

Aiyara's cheeks warmed, not with embarrassment for Harim, but with a slow burn of anger at the dismissive laughter. She felt an instinctive urge to protect this man who embodied Masan's maritime soul. "Harim," she said, her voice laced with gentle respect, "Masan indeed flourishes because of her fishermen. Your role is vital. Please, continue."

He flushed with gratitude at her words. "Yes, well, I may not be a prince, but I know the tides, the storms, the seasons of fish spawning. I'd treat you the way I treat the sea—with respect, patience, and love. That's all I can promise, Princess—that you'd never lack for loyalty or an honest day's work. If you… if you want someone like your father, who stands with the queen because he truly loves her, not because of a crown or title… then perhaps—"

"How dare you compare yourself to the King-Consort!" came a cold sneer from behind. Davren stepped forward, arms crossed, his ring-laden fingers tapping against his velvet sleeves. "This is laughable. We stand here discussing alliances that could shape the entire known world, and a fisherman dares to claim the princess's hand with nothing but… fish nets and a vow of sincerity?"

The courtyard's hush turned tense. Harim glared at Davren but did not speak. He simply pressed his lips together, knuckles whitening around his cap. The merest glance at Aiyara's face revealed the conflict in her eyes—she was torn between responding to Davren's insult or letting Harim stand up for himself.

Prince Orin chimed in, his tone mocking. "Masan's tradition is charming, but let us be realistic. A princess who must rule in her mother's stead cannot rely on a man whose greatest offering is a fishing boat. Is that the image you want to present—Your Highness? Especially when half our realms would line up to protect your city with steel and gold?"

More snickers followed from some of the foreign aristocrats. Aiyara's stomach twisted in indignation. She saw the heartbreak flit across Harim's face, as though each derisive word chipped at his spirit. Yet that heartbreak sparked something within her too—a fierce protectiveness. Harim represented her people, the lifeblood of Masan's everyday existence. How dare these outsiders belittle him?

Her temper flared. "Enough!" she snapped, the single word echoing across the courtyard. The mocking lords fell silent in surprise. "Masan's tradition allows any man to declare. Harim has honored that law. Will you shame our customs simply because you find them beneath you?"

Prince Orin raised his hands in mock surrender. "No shame, Princess, but let's be rational. A fisherman cannot provide the security you need. Why waste your time listening to him?"

Waste your time… The words gnawed at Aiyara's pride. She clenched her fists, feeling a trembling heat build within her chest. "That is for me to decide. Masan's law is older than your entire cavalry, Prince Orin. I suggest you honor it as a guest in our city."

The pointed retort drew murmurs of approval from nearby Masani nobles. Davren scowled, glancing around as if to gauge the crowd's mood, and attempted a placating smile. "Of course, Princess. We respect your ways. But let's not pretend this man can safeguard your future. He can't fill the void of your mother's departure with fish and sincerity alone."

Aiyara's breath grew shallow, fury simmering just beneath her calm façade. She turned to Harim, who stood crestfallen, his shoulders slumped under the weight of ridicule. Her heart twisted at the injustice. He did nothing wrong, she thought. He only spoke from his heart, and they humiliate him as if he's worthless. The flicker of pride flared like a hot coal. She felt it coil in her belly, stoked by the insults these suitors threw at her treasured customs.

"Harim," she said, voice softening for him, "I appreciate your words. If I may ask, what does your family think of your coming here tonight?"

He blinked, as though surprised she was still addressing him kindly. "They… well, they think me a fool. But they also said if I believe in something, I should go for it." He swallowed. "My father nearly lost his life in a storm years ago. He survived thanks to the queen's fleet. I owe Masan everything. So if there's even a chance I can give back to this land, I had to try."

His sincerity drew an approving murmur from the crowd, especially among the local Masani. Aiyara felt tears threaten at the corners of her eyes, but she held them back. This is real devotion, she thought. Not a cunning scheme for wealth or power, but pure loyalty. She parted her lips to respond, but Davren interjected again, refusing to let the moment stand.

"Princess, with all due respect," Davren said, a cold edge to his voice, "while your fisherman's loyalty is touching, such sentiment won't expand your colony, nor shield your throne. You need alliances that matter—ship fleets and coin to pay for them. Let's not indulge illusions that an everyday laborer can handle the responsibilities of a king-consort."

The direct insult—both to Harim and to Masan's law—ignited Aiyara's anger. She could sense the crowd's reaction; some foreign lords nodded in agreement with Davren, while many Masani bristled. A tension filled the air, thick enough to taste. This is our tradition, she repeated in her mind, and they insult it openly. The notion sparked an inner flame that roared to life, building on the pride she carried for her homeland, her culture, her people.

At that moment, Harim opened his mouth as if to speak, but a sneering baron behind Orin cut him off: "Enough from the commoner. Let the real contenders speak." It was a final humiliation, layered with scorn. Harim glanced at Aiyara in heartbreak, wounded more by the collective dismissal than by any single remark.

A furious warmth coursed through her veins, centering in her chest. She tasted something metallic on her tongue, as if lightning were dancing behind her teeth. The flickering torchlight around her seemed to intensify, casting elongated shadows. She heard Kida's voice, distant yet urgent, warning her to stay calm. But the crowd's scorn—especially directed at one of her own people—threatened to unravel her composure.

Aiyara's pride was a blazing coil now. Her fists clenched at her sides as she confronted the foreigners. "You come to my realm, you degrade my subjects, and you dare speak over our laws? Masan's traditions are not trifles for you to belittle. They are the foundation upon which we stand." Her voice rose, each word punctuated by a subtle vibration in the air.

The suitors exchanged nervous looks, some stepping back involuntarily. The surrounding torches flared higher, their flames bending toward the dais as if drawn by an unseen force. Aiyara's breath came in rapid bursts, the swirl of color at the corners of her vision intensifying. She could sense something building inside her, a surge akin to a tidal wave.

"Princess—" Kida hissed, placing a hand on her shoulder, but Aiyara barely registered it. The courtyard seemed to fade, replaced by the thunderous sound of her own heartbeat. They scoff at our ways. They think us weak. I will show them who we are.

Her eyes locked with Harim's for a fleeting second. In his gaze, she read raw hurt and disillusionment. Then, focusing on Orin, Davren, and the sneering baron, she stepped forward, voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Your arrogance has no place here. Harim declared himself with honor. You trample that honor as though it's worthless. You trample Masan's pride. Enough is enough."

A stifling silence enveloped the courtyard. The watchers, transfixed, sensed the air crackle with latent power. The flicker of magic in Aiyara's chest expanded, fueled by her outraged pride. She couldn't contain it—didn't want to contain it. Even as alarm bells rang in some corner of her mind, the swirl of anger demanded release.

"My lady," Harim whispered, fear in his eyes. "Please… it's alright, I—"

"It is not alright!" Aiyara's shout rattled the marble columns. She felt heat radiate from her core. She threw her arms wide, as if physically repelling the mockery. A kaleidoscope of swirling lights erupted around her, sparks that crackled across the dais. In that terrifying instant, she sensed a well of power surging from deep within, responding to the raw fury in her soul.

Faces blurred. Shouts rang out, but she couldn't parse the words. Her entire being vibrated with an alien energy that demanded release. She tried to clamp down on it—but it was like holding back a tsunami with her bare hands.