“No one has ever properly surveyed the Aeternian ruins,” Sir Edmund said, his voice sliding smoothly between them like silk, though his words were sharp, edged with the kind of intensity that made the tavern feel chill despite the tropical heat.. He gestured vaguely to the room as if the very walls themselves might be complicit in his tale. 

“Not truly. The Castillians have ransacked a few, superstitious twits, the Dons. They have no real understanding of what they’re dealing with. It’s all smoke and mirrors to them.”

Camilla’s gaze flickered to the fire, where shadows seemed to creep up the stones like forgotten memories. The warmth of the day seemed to retreat as Edmund’s words sank in, seeping into the room, thickening the air. She took a slow sip of her own wine, letting the rough burn settle in her throat.

“What wonders might be uncovered,” Sir Edmund continued, leaning forward, his eyes wide and fevered. “If we could only pierce their mysteries…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment, Camilla could almost see the images of strange, forgotten cities flickering in his mind. 


“The common folk speak of it as though the Aeternians were gods themselves capable of miracles that would make even the Vaticine priests tremble. Strange stories, yes, but we both know the truth behind them. The King of Castile’s brazen head, which speaks portents of the future so dire they drove poor Queen Johanna mad. The Duc de Belchite’s cup, which never empties no matter how much you drink from it.” Edmund’s voice dropped lower, as though sharing a secret too terrible for daylight. “And yet... no one truly knows where these things are. Only rumors.”

Camilla’s fingers tightened around her glass. She had heard the stories, of course. Every sailor, every drunkard, every fool in the tavern had whispered about those treasures. But there was a weight to Edmund’s word,s a darkness that made them more than idle tavern talk.

"And how did you come to know of these ruins?" Camilla asked, though the question felt almost foolish, as though she already knew the answer, and yet her curiosity would not be silenced.

Edmund smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Ah. You must’ve heard of Sir Roger Popham, surely? Gunsmoke Popham, the pirate?” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper, as if speaking the name aloud might conjure something from the deep shadows of the room.

Camilla stiffened. Of course she had heard of him. The name was spoken in hushed tones, as though even the wind feared to carry the legend too far. A pirate, a legend, and a madman Popham had raided the Castilian colonies decades ago, bringing back treasure and stories so fantastic they had become impossible to believe. It was said that Popham had made a deal with Abbadon himself, so furious he was in battle. There were stories of him putting entire colonies to the sword, of setting captured ships afire with their crews lashed in the rigging. Despite these black rumors he had returned to Albion covered in glory, laying an empire ransom at the feet of his Queen and rumored lover.

Edmund took a long draw from his glass, letting the silence hang in the air. He stared into the fireplace, his mind clearly far away and his face troubled.

“After the flux claimed him,” Edmund continued, his voice now a rasp, “his papers were handed to my father. I spent many an hour poring over them as a boy. And there, among the dust and old ink, I found something curious. A scrap of his logbook. Torn. Nearly unreadable. But it spoke of a great hurricane…” His voice dropped low, almost reverential,as if the storm were something more akin to the biblical flood than simple weather. 
“They were caught, you see. After raiding Aratheusa, a hurricane hit them, tossed their ships about like toys. Rain so hard you would drown for looking to the heavens. Mizzen and topsail yards ripped away by the winds, and six out of seven hours at the pumps to keep from founderin’.  For nearly a week they fought it, until the seventh day dawned bright and calm as the pool of Cadiz. The ship was near shattered. The crew was near mad with fear and exhaustion. But when the storm cleared…” Edmund’s eyes glinted, wild now, “they found themselves surrounded by islands, the purest blue water you’ve ever seen. Three islands. He called them the Azul Islands.”
The tavern felt suddenly colder. The fire seemed dimmer, the shadows in the corners of the room stretching longer, as if something unseen was creeping just out of sight.

“They had to go ashore, you see, needed to cut a new mizzen mast and replenish the stores that had been lost overboard in the storm.  Took six able hands and bosun Higgs to cut fresh timber and provision, discovered ruins of a great city. Coriablis. ” Edmund’s tone made clear he was quoting from the papers he had found. 

Coriablis. The name tasted strange on Camilla’s tongue. There was no record of such a place. No map, no mention. It felt wrong, like the name had been forgotten by time itself and only now was it being forced into the light.

“What happened?” she asked, intrigued and fascinated by the odd tale.

“He doesn't say, not one more word about it appeared in any of the papers I could find, I even tried to track down surviving crew, but even the cabin boy was an old man by the time I found him, and him half mad and blind besides. The only record I could find was the muster book. It was curious. It listed Bosun Bartholemew Higgs and six able seaman as discharged dead that very day. Pophman was the only one who came back alive… the only one.
The fire crackled, the wind outside howled, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to pulse, as though listening.

Camilla’s pulse quickened. She could almost feel the weight of the dark sea pressing in on her, the pull of something ancient and unknowable. She swallowed, her throat dry. “And after that?”

Edmund’s smile was wide, almost mad. “After that? Well, he stumbled upon the treasure fleet at San Jose, didn’t he? Found it by pure accident, no doubt. A man with such luck, never a fellow so damned lucky in all of Albion’s history.” This part of the story she had heard. Dark his reputation might be but everyone agreed that Gunsmoke Popham never fell down a hole but it had silver in the bottom. Popham’s Luck was a well known saying on Albion to express inexplicable good fortune.

“And you have bearings for these islands?” Camilla asked, her spirit fired by this strange and mysterious story despite her best efforts.

“Aye,” Edmund said, his eyes burning with feverish certainty. “I’ve pieced it all together from Popham’s records. It won’t be easy, but we will find those islands. And when we do, we’ll uncover the treasures that have been buried there for centuries. And glory will be ours, Camilla. The glory of the ages.”

Camilla felt the weight of his words settle into the pit of her stomach. Edmund drew on his pipe, his eyes hooded as smoke trailed from his nostrils. Something about the tale certainty unsettled her, as though he had already crossed some unseen threshold.


“Just a few more souls for the crew and we will be ready to sail,” Edmund breathed.