The sun was overhead and shining brightly when the ship docked and its cargo began being unloaded.

  Morrow rises gently from the sea, not in jagged cliffs, but in rolling green slopes that catch the afternoon sun like open hands. The island is ringed with pale stone beaches, broken here and there by wooden docks that stretch into clear blue water. Fishing boats drift lazily in the harbor, their sails half-tied, rocking in a rhythm older than memory.

  The town itself is woven into the land rather than carved from it. Whitewashed houses with sun-faded shutters climb the hills in uneven rows. Terraced gardens spill over with herbs, citrus trees, and bright flowers that seem too vibrant to be accidental. Laundry flutters between homes in ribbons of linen and color.

  In the afternoon, Morrow hums rather than roars.

  Fishermen mend their nets in the shade, hands working without looking. Children race down the sloping paths barefoot, chasing one another with carved wooden boats. A baker leaves his door propped open to let out the warmth of fresh bread. Two old women sit near the well, shelling peas into a tin bowl, pausing now and then to comment on passersby. The blacksmith works slowly, unhurried — as though nothing on the island demands panic.

  Near the harbor, traders unload crates of oranges and salted fish while a group of sailors argue cheerfully over whose turn it is to patch a sail. No one seems rushed. Even the gulls glide rather than shriek.

  As the afternoon deepens, the light changes.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Everything softens — rooftops glow amber, the sea turns molten gold, and long shadows stretch like quiet fingers across the cobbled paths. People begin closing shutters halfway, not to shut the day out, but to prepare for its turning. A bell rings somewhere inland — not urgent, just a reminder.

  And then you notice it:

  Every street faces east.

  Every bench, every porch, every watchtower is angled toward where the sun rises.

  No walls block the horizon.

  Morrow was built not for the sunset, but for the dawn.

  Years ago, the first settlers arrived after months at sea, carrying what little remained of their former lives. They had lost cities, names, and histories to war and ruin. When they reached the island and saw the sun rise clean over empty hills, someone said, “Then we live for the morrow.”

  They did not name it for what it was.

  They named it for what it promised.

  And so the island became Morrow — a place that refuses to belong to yesterday.

  Violet and Astrid stood by the pier as their cargo was loaded onto a carriage. They were dressed in flowing white dresses and large feathered hats, with accessory fans resting lightly in their hands. It was a getup designed to remain hidden from their aunt and whomever she might have sent their way — including the blue-flamed aetherist’s group, whom Violet had privately begun calling the Hands of Darkness.

  Maybe the aetherist’s group and her aunt were in contact.

  Maybe they weren’t.

  Violet didn’t know.

  But she would make sure neither party caught her or Astrid.

  The harbor breeze tugged at the ribbon on Astrid’s hat as she watched the workers lift the final crate. She looked calm — composed, almost delicate in white — but Violet knew better. Astrid’s stillness was calculation, not comfort.

  Soon their bags were secured — filled with clothes they’d bought along the way and runic equipment they’d stolen from the Zephyr branch back in Gaspinn.

  Compact sigil plates. Aether anchors. Calibrated lenses wrapped in linen.

  Another thing she would have to make up for when the time was right.