Robin woke to warmth and the smell of woodsmoke.

For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The hammock swayed gently beneath him. Voices murmured somewhere nearby—the crew, already stirring.

Then yesterday came flooding back. The waterfall. Flying through the sky. Landing. Lara revealing herself.

Be vigilant. Not everything that looks like opportunity actually is.

Something twisted in Robin's stomach. He sat up carefully, his body protesting every movement. His hands were still raw from pulling the ship to shore, the skin tight and stinging. His shoulders ached with a deep, bone-tired heaviness. But he was alive, and the morning sun streaming through the hall's windows was warm on his face, turning the dust motes to floating gold.

Justin was already awake, sitting on the edge of his hammock, trying to unwrap his splinted arm with his good hand. The wrapping had loosened overnight, the linen strips hanging limp.

"Morning," Robin said.

"Morning," Justin replied without looking up. After a moment of fumbling, he gave up on the wrapping and just let it hang loose. "My arm's throbbing."

"Sigrid can re-wrap it."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a moment. Around them, the crew was stirring—rolling out of hammocks, stretching, heading outside.

Then—

Shouting.

"UP!" Sigrid's voice cut through the morning air like a whip. "We need all hands! NOW!"

Robin's heart jumped. He nearly fell getting out of the hammock, his feet tangling in the canvas.

Justin was struggling even more—trying to extract himself one-handed while his broken arm just hung useless. His hair stuck up at odd angles, eyes barely open.

"What's happening?" Justin mumbled.

"No idea. But it sounds urgent."

They stumbled after the crew, out of the warm hall into the cool morning air. The village was just waking—smoke curling from chimneys, a few villagers emerging to see what the commotion was about.

Robin jogged across the uneven ground—trampled grass and muddy earth near the riverbank. His legs felt like wood. His hands throbbed with every step, the torn skin pulling.

The Stormbreaker sat grounded in the shallows where they'd landed her yesterday, dragon prow pointing at the sky like an accusing finger. The crew was already gathering around her, and Bjorn stood on the bank with his hands on his hips, looking at something Robin couldn't yet see.

"What's going on?" Robin asked breathlessly as they reached the ship.

Sigrid pointed to the hull. "Storm damage inspection. We need to beach her properly, check for cracks. Can't risk sailing if she's taking on water."

Robin looked at the massive ship. Then at the riverbank. Then back at Sigrid.

"You mean we have to—"

"Pull her out of the water," Bjorn finished, grinning. "Aye. And you two are going to help."

Robin looked at the massive ship. Then at the muddy bank. Then at his raw hands.

"You're joking," he said.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Bjorn replied.

"No. That's the problem."

What followed was two hours of the hardest physical labor Robin had done since arriving in this land.

First, they had to lay out the log rollers on the riverbank—thick, heavy logs that took two men to carry. Robin paired with Olaf, gripping the rough bark with his burned hands screaming in protest, splinters catching in the torn skin. Justin stood to the side, jaw tight with frustration—he couldn't help carry the heavy logs with only one arm.

"Guide them into position," Sigrid told Justin. "Tell us where they need to go."

Justin nodded, directing the placement, but Robin could see the irritation building behind his eyes. Watching instead of helping. Always watching.

Then came the ropes. Thick hemp lines attached to the ship's hull, everyone positioned in teams along the bank.

"We pull her up onto the beach," Bjorn explained. "Then we can inspect the hull properly, make repairs if needed. POSITIONS!"

On Bjorn's count, they pulled.

The ship barely moved—the current fought them, the weight seemed impossible.

"HEAVE!" Bjorn roared.

Robin's raw hands screamed. Fire shot up his arms. His shoulders burned like someone had poured hot oil across his back. Beside him, Justin pulled with his good arm, the rope wrapped awkwardly around his right shoulder since he couldn't grip with both hands. His face was red with effort, straining twice as hard to compensate.

The ship moved. Six inches against the current.

"AGAIN!"

They pulled. And pulled. Slowly, impossibly, the vessel began to slide up the muddy bank. As the front rollers came free, crew members grabbed them and ran them forward, building the path as they went.

"This is insane," Justin panted beside him, his good arm shaking with strain. Sweat poured down his face, dripping from his chin.

"This is sailing," Sigrid said, not even breathing hard. "The ship takes care of us. We take care of the ship." She glanced at Justin's wrapped arm. "You're doing well with one arm. Most wouldn't even try."

Justin didn't respond, just kept pulling.

Robin's world narrowed to the rope in his hands, the burning in his muscles, the rhythm of the count. Pull. Reset. Pull. Reset. Nothing else existed. Just rope. Just pain. Just movement.

Just one more pull, he thought, remembering the storm. Just hold on. One more.

An hour later, the ship rested on the beach, water draining from the hull, fully exposed for inspection.

The crew immediately began examining the planks, looking for cracks, testing joints with experienced hands.

Robin collapsed on the grass, chest heaving. Justin lay beside him, staring at the sky, his good arm splayed out like he'd never move it again.

"I can't feel my hand," Justin said, flexing the fingers of his right hand weakly.

"I can feel both of mine," Robin replied. "I wish I couldn't."

exhaustion had stolen his ability to think clearly, and the moment passed.

Robin closed his eyes for a moment and prayed. Thank You for getting us through that. The gratitude was automatic, bone-deep. And please...help us make good choices. We need wisdom here.

Bjorn's shadow fell over them. "Well done, landlubbers. You earned your breakfast. And—" he grinned, "—you're starting to look like sailors."

From anyone else, it might have sounded like mockery. From Bjorn, it was respect.

After the hull inspection showed no serious damage—just minor scrapes that Olaf patched with tar—they had to wait.

"Needs time to set," Olaf grunted, pressing a glob of black pitch into a crack. The smell was sharp and chemical, catching in Robin's throat. "Two hours minimum. Go eat."

So they did. Breakfast was served on the beach—thick porridge sweetened with honey, dried fish that flaked on Robin's tongue, and fresh bread from the village still warm enough to melt butter. The crew sprawled on the grass, enjoying the unexpected break. The morning sun was warm, the air smelled of salt and tar and woodsmoke.

Robin ate slowly, savoring every bite. The porridge was creamy and sweet, honey pooling golden at the bottom of the bowl. The fish was perfectly salted, the flesh white and tender. The bread was crusty outside, soft and steaming inside.

Justin ate more slowly. He had to tear the bread with his teeth since he couldn't hold it and pull it apart. The porridge required careful scooping—every spoonful a small challenge, the bowl wanting to slide on his knee. When he tried to pour honey, the jar slipped, and he caught it with his knee just before it fell, honey dripping onto his trousers.

Robin pretended not to notice, but he saw the tight set of Justin's jaw. The careful way he moved. Every simple task taking twice as long.

After two hours, Olaf inspected his work, pressed a thumb against the tar, and nodded. "Set enough. Let's get her back in."

They pushed the ship back into the water. That took another thirty minutes of coordinated effort, but going downhill was easier than the climb up had been.

The ship floated peacefully in the river, anchored near the village dock, rocking gently.

"We'll trade here for two days," Bjorn announced to the crew. "Unload the Western Isle timber. Pick up local goods for the Eastern Market. Olaf, Finn—you're with me. The rest of you, shore leave this afternoon. Be back before sunset or we leave without you."

Robin watched as crew members began unloading cargo. Timber—rough-cut planks still smelling of sap and forest, the wood pale and fresh. They'd been stacked in the ship's hold, and now they were being carried to the village market where merchants waited.

"Can we watch?" Robin asked Bjorn.

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Watch?"

"The trading. We've never seen... I mean, we don't know how this works."

Bjorn's expression shifted to something calculating, but his smile seemed genuine. "Of course. Come. You'll learn something."

They followed him to the village market—a collection of wooden stalls arranged in a square near the river. Merchants called out their wares: smoked fish, pottery, woven baskets, leather goods, vegetables from underground gardens that smelled of rich earth. And in the center, a timber merchant stood beside an empty cart.

"Bjorn!" the man called. He was stocky, with a thick beard and shrewd eyes that missed nothing. "You're late this season."

"Storm delayed us," Bjorn replied easily. "But I've got quality timber. Western Isle, fresh cut."

The merchant ran his hand over one of the planks the crew had brought, feeling for splinters, checking the grain. "Not bad. How much?"

"Forty planks. Three silver per plank."

The merchant laughed—sharp and quick. "Three? I'll give you one and a half."

"Two and a half," Bjorn countered. "And you know that's fair."

Robin watched, fascinated, as they haggled. Back and forth, neither giving much ground, voices rising and falling like a dance. Finally, they settled at two silver per plank.

"Eighty silver," the merchant said, counting out coins from a leather pouch with practiced fingers.

Bjorn counted them again, his lips moving silently, then nodded and pocketed the coins. "Pleasure doing business."

As they walked away, Bjorn glanced at Robin. "Simple as that. I paid one silver per plank at the Western Isle. Sold for two here. Forty planks, forty silver profit."

"Just like that?" Justin asked, wonder creeping into his voice.

"Just like that," Bjorn confirmed. "The Western Isles have forests. This island doesn't. Supply and demand. The oldest law in trade."

They watched two more trades that afternoon. Bjorn bought smoked fish—twenty crates at four silver each, the crates smelling of salt and smoke and the sea. He bought pottery—a merchant's entire inventory for thirty silver, delicate bowls and plates wrapped in straw. Robin kept mental notes, watching how Bjorn negotiated, how he inspected goods with quick hands, how he knew exactly what to pay without hesitation.

It was real. The business was completely, absolutely real.

That evening, as the crew gathered in the village hall for dinner, Robin found himself sitting near Lara. She'd pulled back her hood to eat, and in the firelight, her sharp eyes seemed to watch everything.

"You're interested in trading," she said quietly. Not a question. An observation.

"We're trying to understand how it works," Robin replied.

"And?"

"It seems... straightforward," Robin said, feeling a bit bold after a warm meal. "Buy low, sell high. Move goods from where they're common to where they're rare."

"It is straightforward," Lara agreed. "But straightforward doesn't mean easy. And it doesn't always mean safe."

Something in her tone made Robin's chest tighten. "What do you mean?"

He opened his mouth to ask her about Bjorn’s Northern fur pitch, but before he could, Bjorn's voice boomed across the hall about sailing the next day. Lara pulled her hood back up. The moment was gone, slipped through his fingers like water.

Later that night, back on deck, Robin couldn't sleep. He and Justin were whispering about the ten silver investment.

"Ten silver is safe," Justin was saying. "If it works, great."

Robin looked over. Lara was sitting alone near the mast, sharpening a small knife. The moonlight hit the Skyfire Crystal at her throat. She wasn't part of the crew's laughter below deck; she was just... waiting.

"We should ask her," Robin whispered to Justin. "Right now. We should ask her what she meant about it not being 'safe.'"

Justin looked at Lara, then back at Robin. "And say what? That we're scared? Robin, we just watched him make forty silver profit on timber. If we go over there and ask her to hold our hands, she’s going to think we’re jokes. Bjorn might even hear about it and think we don't trust him."

Robin looked at Lara again. She caught his gaze—a long, steady look that seemed to say, I am right here. The door is open.

Robin's heart hammered. He felt the weight of the silver in his pouch. He wanted to go. He really did. But the fear of looking "unprofessional" or "fearful" held him back. He wanted to be a "real trader" like the men on the ship.

"You're right," Robin whispered, settling back down. "We'll talk to her in the morning if she's still around."

But when the sun rose, the door was shut.

Robin woke to the sound of gulls and scanned the deck. The spot by the mast was empty.

"Where's Lara?" Robin asked Sigrid.

"Ashore at first light," Sigrid grunted. "Scouting mission. Won't be back for days."

Robin’s stomach dropped. She was right there, he thought. We had the chance, and we chose to let it slip. We’d wanted to be men and make our own decisions, but in our pride, we’d forgotten to be wise.

"Okay," Robin said to Justin, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest. "Ten silver. Just to learn."

Robin and Justin stood on the dock, watching the crew prepare to depart. The ship was loaded with the goods Bjorn had bought: fish, pottery, some local herbs the village was known for that smelled of mint and something sweeter.

They spent the afternoon exploring the island. It was beautiful—rolling hills covered in grass that bent in waves with the wind, small farms with neat stone walls, stone houses with smoke curling from chimneys like grey ribbons. Peaceful. Safe.

To reach the far side where the farms were, they had to cross a bridge.

It was an old structure, stone and timber, arching over a ravine that cut through the island. Not a sky-bridge between islands, just a normal bridge over a normal gorge where water rushed far below. Two guards stood at the near end, looking bored in their leather armor.

Robin and Justin started across.

"You there!" one guard shouted. "Stop!"

Robin's heart jumped into his throat. They stopped. The guard approached, hand on his sword hilt, his face suddenly alert. His partner followed, boots heavy on the stone.

"Papers," the guard demanded.

Robin's brain stuttered. "Papers? What papers?"

"Passage documents. Proof of citizenship or travel permits."

Robin's stomach dropped like a stone. "We... we don't have those. We're just travelers. We're with the Stormbreaker—"

The guard's eyes narrowed. He pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and unrolled it with a practiced snap. Robin caught a glimpse of sketches—crude drawings that could be anyone. Could be them.

The guard looked at the parchment. Looked at Robin. Looked at Justin.

Robin's heart hammered against his ribs. This couldn't be happening. They hadn't done anything wrong. They'd been chased by a hunter, yeah, but that wasn't illegal. Was it?

"You," the guard said slowly, his voice cold, "match the description of two fugitives wanted for escaping Lord Malthus's hunter in the Sanctuary Gate region."

"That wasn't—" Robin started, his voice coming out too high. "We didn't do anything wrong! We were just—"

"Tell it to the magistrate." The guard grabbed Robin's arm. His grip was iron, fingers digging into muscle. "You're both under arrest."

"Wait!" Justin said. "We have passage! We're with Captain Bjorn! He can vouch for us!"

The guard hesitated. "Bjorn of the Stormbreaker?"

"Yes!"

The guards exchanged looks—something unspoken passing between them. "Wait here," one said. He jogged back toward the village, armor clinking.

They waited. Robin's heart hammered. His mind raced in circles. Could they run? Should they run? But the remaining guard's hand never left his sword, and his eyes never left them, hard and watchful.

Twenty minutes felt like hours.

Then Bjorn appeared with Finn behind him, walking casually with the guard, looking utterly unconcerned.

"There a problem?" Bjorn asked.

"These two match a fugitive description," the guard said. "Wanted for fleeing Lord Malthus's hunter."

Bjorn looked at Robin and Justin as if seeing them for the first time. Then he laughed—a big, genuine sound that echoed off the ravine walls. "These two? Dangerous fugitives? Look at them! They can barely walk without tripping over their own feet."

The guard didn't smile. "The description—"

"Is probably half the travelers in these islands," Bjorn interrupted. His voice dropped, became almost conspiratorial. "Besides, you know how Malthus's hunters are. They chase everyone. These two probably ran from some shakedown on the Western Isle. Wouldn't you?"

The guard's expression didn't change, but Robin saw recognition there. A shared understanding between people who lived in these islands, who knew how the system worked, who'd probably paid their own bribes.

Bjorn lowered his voice further. "How much?"

The guard's expression didn't change. "Release fee is ten silver. Each."

"Highway robbery," Bjorn muttered. But he counted out twenty silver coins and handed them over, the coins clinking. "There. They're harmless. I'll keep them on my ship until we leave tomorrow."

The guard pocketed the coins and stepped back. "See that you do."

Bjorn grabbed Robin and Justin by their collars and marched them back toward the village. When they were out of earshot, he released them.

"Thank you," Robin breathed, relief flooding through him like cool water. "Thank you so much—"

"Twenty silver," Bjorn said flatly. "That's coming out of whatever you earn with me. Understood?"

Robin's gratitude cooled. "Of course. We'll pay you back."

"See that you do." But Bjorn smiled slightly. "Though I'll admit, that was more excitement than I expected from you two. Lord Malthus's hunter, eh? You're braver than you look."

Or stupider, Robin thought but didn't say.

They walked in silence for a moment, the village sounds fading behind them.

That night, back on deck, Robin couldn't sleep.

The stars wheeled overhead, cold and distant. The ship creaked gently with the river current. Somewhere an owl called, lonely in the darkness.

A principle Sophia had taught him floated through his mind: The Thirteen Steps to Success. One of them was about specialized knowledge—about finding people who knew more than you and learning from them.

We should have asked Lara, Robin realized suddenly, the thought hitting him like cold water. About Bjorn. About whether this is safe.

He replayed the conversations in his mind, watching them like scenes from a play.

He'd started to ask her in the village hall.

She'd been cryptic. Mysterious. Dropping hints but not giving straight answers.

Why? Robin wondered, staring at the mast rising into the night. Why not just tell us if there's danger?

Unless... unless that was the point. Unless she was waiting for them to push harder. To insist on answers instead of passively accepting her walking away. To show they valued knowledge enough to pursue it even when it wasn't freely offered. "Not everything that looks like opportunity actually is" she had said..."

But they didn't want to look weak. Wow that was stupid.

A hollow ache settled in Robin's chest. They'd had access to someone with knowledge, and they'd let her walk away. Twice. They'd been so caught up in excitement, so eager not to seem weak or scared, that they hadn't pushed for the wisdom they needed.

Asking once wasn't enough. Not when your life might depend on the answer.

He should have followed her. Should have said, "No, wait—I need to know what you meant. What are you warning us about? Tell me plainly." Should have been persistent instead of polite.

Specialized knowledge, Sophia had taught. But it hadn't said knowledge would be handed to you.

Sometimes you had to pursue it. Insist on it. Refuse to let the person with answers walk away.

Robin stared at the stars through the rigging.

Tomorrow they'd sail with Bjorn. Make trades. Invest their silver.

And Lara wouldn't be there to warn them if they were making a mistake.

Because they hadn't fought hard enough to earn her guidance.

The same mistake he'd made back home. Forty times.

Buying programs without asking ANY questions. Just assuming they'd be great. Getting excited about the promises. Handing over money.

Jennifer had been vague. "This opportunity is amazing!" And Robin had never pushed. Never asked, "How exactly does this work? Who's made money? Can I talk to them? Show me the proof." He'd just... believed. Because he wanted it to be real.

It took years—and forty failures—before he learned to ask those questions. Before he understood that legitimate opportunities welcome scrutiny. That real mentors want you to do due diligence. That anyone who gets defensive about questions is hiding something.

But by then, he'd already lost ten thousand dollars learning what he should have asked up front.

But the same pattern.

The same excitement drowning out questions.

The same small win hooking him for the bigger loss.

So many times.

How many more would it take before he learned?

"You awake?" Justin whispered from the darkness.

"Yeah."

"I've been thinking. About what Bjorn said. About trading."

Robin waited.

"He makes it sound simple," Justin continued, his voice quiet in the night. "Buy low, sell high. And we saw it work. Real merchants, real goods, real profits. This isn't some digital product or course. This is actual business."

"I know."

"What if..." Justin hesitated. "What if we invested? Not much. Just a little. To see if it works for us too?"

Robin's stomach tightened. "How much?"

"Ten silver? We each have thirty. Ten silver is safe. If it works, great. If not, we still have twenty left."

Robin thought about Sophia's warning. About Lara's cryptic words. About asking for specialized knowledge and not giving up until you got real answers.

God, is this right? he prayed silently. We should have asked Lara. But she's gone. Please... if this is wrong, show us. Please.

But Lara was gone.

And Bjorn's trades had been real. They'd watched them happen. Seen the merchants. Counted the coins.

"Okay," Robin said quietly. "Ten silver. Just to learn."

The next morning, Bjorn announced they'd be sailing east in two days.

"One more trade here," he said, "then we load up and go."

Robin found him after breakfast, his heart beating faster than it should. "Captain? Could we... could Justin and I invest in one of your trades? Something small. To learn how it works."

Bjorn looked at him with those calculating eyes. His eyes flicked to their coin pouches, then back up. Robin saw him calculating something behind that friendly expression.

"Invest?"

"Ten silver. Each. We want to understand the business."

For a moment, Bjorn was silent. Then he smiled—warm and encouraging. "I like initiative. This is exactly how successful traders start—testing the waters, learning the business. Give me your silver, and I'll put it toward the fish purchase. We're buying twenty crates at four silver each. I'll allocate two and a half crates to your investment. When we sell in the Eastern Market, you'll get your share of the profit."

Robin handed over ten silver coins. They felt heavy leaving his hand, each one clinking into Bjorn's palm.

Justin did the same, counting them out one by one with his good hand.

Bjorn pocketed them smoothly. "Smart choice. You'll see how real trading works. And who knows? Maybe you'll make enough to invest more."

Robin felt a flutter of excitement in his chest. This was it. Real business. Real opportunity. Finally.

But we should have asked Lara, a small voice whispered in his mind.

He ignored it.

Two days had passed in a blur of trading and preparation. Now, with the cargo hold full and Bjorn's business complete, it was time to leave.

"All aboard!" Bjorn called from the stern. "Last call!"

The crew scrambled aboard. Ropes were coiled with practiced efficiency. The mooring lines were released, dropping into the water with soft splashes.

"Oars!" Bjorn shouted.

The crew took their positions at the rowing benches, the wood worn smooth by years of hands. Robin grabbed an oar, the wood solid under his palms. Justin moved to a bench but hesitated—rowing required both arms.

"I can't—" Justin started.

"Starboard side!" Sigrid called. "Keep the rhythm, call cadence!"

Justin moved to the right side of the ship where he could at least call out timing for the rowers, his voice joining Bjorn's commands in a rhythm that sounded almost like music.

"PULL!"

The oars struck water as one. The ship leaped forward, carried by muscle and current as the river narrowed and picked up speed.

Ahead, Robin heard the now-familiar roar.

The waterfall.

"Hold on!" Sigrid called cheerfully. "Same as before!"

The current grabbed them like a giant hand. The ship tilted forward. Robin wrapped his arm in rigging, hemp rough against his skin. Beside him, Justin did the same with his good arm, bracing his injured arm against his body as best he could. His grip looked precarious—one-handed hold on life.

They watched as the edge approached—that impossible edge where water became air, where the river simply ended and fell into clouds.

The ship pitched over.

For one frozen heartbeat, they balanced on nothing.

Then they fell.

Justin screamed.

Robin screamed.

Olaf laughed.

"STILL NOT FUNNY!" Justin shouted over the wind.

Robin's stomach lurched into his throat. The wind screamed past, tearing at his clothes. Water turned to mist that soaked everything. The world disappeared into white and blue and the terrible sensation of dropping through infinite space—

CRACK!

The sail exploded open, catching wind like a parachute. The ship's fall became a glide. They were flying.

Robin laughed despite himself, despite the fear still hammering in his chest. The terror transformed into exhilaration. They were sailing through the sky on a Viking longship, and somehow, impossibly, it was real.

"Never gets old!" Olaf shouted, grinning despite his usual suspicious nature.

The ship soared between islands. Some were massive—miles across, with cities and forests visible on their surfaces, roads like spider webs connecting settlements. Others were tiny, just chunks of rock with a single tree or house perched on top, lonely in the sky. Stone bridges connected some islands, looking impossibly fragile against the open sky, arching through clouds.

And everywhere, other ships. Vessels of all sizes and designs, sailing the wind between the floating lands like birds.

The trade routes.

Bjorn stood at the stern, watching the sail with an eagle's eye, his hand on the tiller but barely moving it. His hand gestured sharply—left.

"Port! Two points port!" he barked.

Crew members scrambled to adjust the sail's angle, pulling ropes to shift the massive canvas. The ship tilted slightly, catching a different current of wind, changing course between two floating islands.

Bjorn's expression was pure satisfaction. Up here, he didn't steer with an oar—he steered with wind and sail and years of reading the invisible currents that flowed between the floating lands.

This was his domain. These were his roads.

Robin watched him and felt something shift inside his chest. Maybe Bjorn was the mentor they'd been looking for. Someone with real skills, real success, who was willing to teach them. Not through courses or programs, but through actual partnership.

Maybe this time, it would be different.

They sailed for three days.

Robin and Justin worked alongside the crew—coiling ropes, adjusting the sail, learning the rhythm of the wind. The ship touched down at four different islands, each time repeating the miracle of the waterfall launch.

At each island, Bjorn traded.

He sold the pottery for sixty silver—double what he'd paid. He sold the herbs for forty silver. And at the Eastern Isles—a massive landmass covered in forests that stretched to the horizon like a green ocean—he sold the twenty crates of fish.

Robin watched as the merchant examined the salted cod, nodded once, and counted out coins. Four silver per crate going in. Nine silver per crate coming out.

One hundred eighty silver total.

Bjorn's profit was one hundred silver.

And Robin and Justin's two and a half crates...

Bjorn found them that evening as the ship anchored in the Eastern Isle's harbor. He handed Robin a small pouch. It clinked with the weight of coins.

"Your share," Bjorn said. "The fish sold well. Two and a half crates at your investment level—twenty-two and a half silver. One hundred twenty-five percent return! You more than doubled your money!"

Robin's eyes widened. His heart jumped. More than doubled?

"Course, there's the handling fee—one silver for managing the investment, standard. And the guard payment—ten silver each, remember? That comes out first." Bjorn was already moving, gesturing as he talked, his voice smooth and quick. "So twenty-two and a half, minus the fee, minus what you owed for the guards, leaves you eleven and a half silver each."

He handed an identical pouch to Justin, who took it with his good hand. Opening it one-handed took a moment—fumbling with the drawstring, finally using his teeth to hold one side while his hand pulled the other.

Robin opened his pouch. Eleven silver coins and one half-coin piece gleamed in the lantern light.

"Not bad for your first trade, eh?" Bjorn grinned. "Most people don't see returns like this for months. And there's more where that came from. Big opportunity tomorrow—I'll tell you about it then."

He walked away, leaving them holding their pouches.

Robin looked at Justin, excitement bubbling up in his chest. "We made money!"

But Justin was staring at the coins in his hand, his brow furrowed, his expression thoughtful. "Wait. Let me work this out." He counted on his fingers slowly. "We put in ten silver. We got back eleven and a half."

"Right!" Robin said. "One and a half silver profit!"

"Yeah, but..." Justin frowned, his analytical mind clicking through the numbers. "Bjorn said one hundred twenty-five percent return. That means the trade itself made twenty-two and a half silver from our ten. That part's real—the fish actually sold for that much."

"Okay..."

"But then he took the handling fee and the guard debt out of our trading profit. So we made twelve and a half silver from trading—"

"That's amazing!" Robin interrupted.

"—but then we owed him eleven silver. So our actual take-home is only one and a half." Justin looked up, his eyes meeting Robin's. "That's fifteen percent. Not one hundred twenty-five."

Robin's excitement deflated like a punctured bladder. "Oh."

They sat in silence for a moment, the coins heavy in Robin's hand.

"But," Justin said slowly, working through it out loud, "the trade itself was profitable. We saw it happen. The fish sold for what he said they would. The math on the trading part is real."

"Right!" Robin felt the excitement returning, warm in his chest. "And if we hadn't owed him for the guards, we'd have kept all twelve and a half silver profit."

"Exactly." Justin stared at his pouch. "So the business is legitimate. We just... had expenses this time."

"Next time we won't have a guard debt hanging over us," Robin said.

"And maybe we can negotiate the handling fee," Justin added. "Or just factor it into the calculations."

They looked at each other.

"It worked," Justin said, and Robin heard the wonder in his voice, the barely-contained excitement. "We actually made money trading. Real business. Real profit."

"We did," Robin agreed.

For the first time since arriving in this land, he felt like maybe—just maybe—they were on the right path.

We should have asked Lara, that small voice whispered again.

But Robin silenced it. This wasn't a scam. The trading was real. They'd seen it. They'd watched the merchants count the coins. They'd done the math themselves.

This time was different.

Wasn't it?

Robin stared at the coins in his pouch. It had worked. The investment had actually worked.

So why did something cold settle in his chest?

He couldn't name it. Couldn't explain it. But it was there—a weight that had nothing to do with the silver in his hand.

Across the deck, Finn was talking quietly with Bjorn near the stern.

Nothing unusual about that—crew members talked to the captain all the

time.

But something about Finn's posture caught Robin's attention. The way

he stood, slightly angled. The way his eyes flicked toward where Robin

and Justin sat without looking directly at them.

Probably just reporting on the day's work, Robin told himself. You're

being paranoid.

Finn pulled something from his pocket—small, wooden, carved with some

kind of mark—and showed it to Bjorn.

Bjorn examined it by the lamplight, turning it over in his thick fingers,

then nodded with satisfaction. "They came through, then?"

"Like always," Finn said, his voice low but clear enough for Robin to catch.

Bjorn nodded, said something Robin couldn't hear, and both men moved apart.

The cold in Robin's chest deepened slightly.

He thought about Lara's warning. Be vigilant. Not everything that looks

like opportunity actually is.

But this HAD worked. The timber trade. Real profit. Real silver in his hand.

Maybe I'm just tired, Robin thought. Suspicious of everything because

of all the warnings.

He pushed the unease down. Bjorn had been good to them. Paid their fine.

Taught them real trade. Given them a chance to invest and profit.

You're overthinking this, Robin told himself firmly. The trade worked.

the Seeing Stone hanging around his neck. The black, smooth surface felt

warm against his fingers.

He'd almost forgotten he had it.

Maybe I should try using it, Robin thought. Ask the Watchers if—

He hesitated, holding the stone, feeling its weight.

But how?

Sophia had given it to him with brief instructions—something about holding it with intention and...he couldn't remember the rest. On top of that he'd never actually... practiced. Never asked how to use it properly. Always too busy or distracted.

on whatever business had called her away. And he'd let

those moments slip away back at the island, too tired, too distracted to

ask the questions that mattered.

"Robin!" Sigrid's voice called across the deck. "Got a minute? Need help

moving this shipment real quick!"

Robin's hand stilled on the stone.

He could try. Right now. Hold it and... what? Think hard? Ask a question?

Would it glow? Would voices speak? Would images appear?

He didn't know.

And Sigrid was waiting.

"Coming!" he called back.

He let the Seeing Stone drop back against his chest, untouched, and

headed toward where Sigrid waited by the cargo.

I'll figure it out later, he told himself. When I have time.

Behind him, Justin watched with his broken arm in its sling, something

unreadable crossing his face.

The ship rocked gently beneath them. The stars wheeled overhead.

**THE MOST EXPENSIVE WORDS: "THIS TIME IT'S DIFFERENT"**

Robin made money. Fifteen percent return in one week. Real silver in his hand. Real trades he watched happen.

So why did it feel wrong?

Because scams don't fail on the first transaction. They succeed. That's how they work.

**THE VAMPIRE FEE PRINCIPLE**

Bjorn is willing to give Robin 1.5 silver today to get 30 silver tomorrow.

That's the long game predators play. Hook you with a small win. Get you excited. Build trust. Then suggest the "big opportunity" that requires everything you have.

Never judge an opportunity by the first check.

Think about it: If Robin lost money immediately, he'd never invest more. But if he makes a small profit? Now he's hooked. Now he believes. Now he's ready to invest everything.

This is the pattern Robin fell for forty times back home:

1. Small success (make a few sales, get some commissions)

2. Testimonials from others (Bjorn's crew, real merchants, actual trades)

3. Confusing math (125% return? Wait, that's only 15%? Too excited to think clearly)

4. Next opportunity coming ("There's a big one tomorrow...")

5. Fear of missing out (What if I don't invest more?)

**THE MATH OF MANIPULATION**

Let's break down what actually happened:

BJORN'S CLAIM: "125% return! You more than doubled your money!"

THE REALITY:

- Invested: 10 silver

- Gross profit: 22.5 silver (trade actually made this)

- Handling fee: -1 silver (wasn't mentioned upfront)

- Guard debt: -10 silver (came from Bjorn "rescuing" them)

- Net profit: 1.5 silver

**Actual return: 15%**

The trade WAS profitable. The fish DID sell well. Bjorn told the truth about the gross numbers.

But he buried the fees in the excitement and took the guard debt from their profits—even though HE paid the guards, not them.

And Robin and Justin rationalized it:

- "The trade itself was real"

- "Next time we won't have guard debt"

- "We just need to factor in the handling fee"

That's how sophisticated scams work. They use TRUE FACTS to hide PREDATORY FEES.

**ARBITRAGE IS NEUTRAL**

Here's what Robin should understand: Just because arbitrage is a real economic principle doesn't mean the person doing it is honest.

Buying low and selling high is legitimate business. Moving goods from where they're common to where they're rare creates real value.

But a legitimate product can be wrapped in a fraudulent system.

Bjorn's trading is real. His routes are real. His profits are real.

But if he's charging hidden fees, creating debt traps, and manipulating the math—the SYSTEM is corrupt even if the PRODUCT is legitimate.

Don't mistake a real business model for an honest business partner.

**THE HIGH COST OF SILENCE**

Robin had THREE chances to get wisdom from Lara:

**Chance 1:** In the village hall

- Lara: "Straightforward doesn't mean easy. And it doesn't always mean safe."

- Robin: Opens his mouth to ask about Bjorn's offer

- Bjorn interrupts, moment lost

**Chance 2:** On deck at night

- Robin to Justin: "We should ask her right now. We should ask her what she meant."

- Justin: "She'll think we're scared. Bjorn might think we don't trust him."

- Robin: Agrees. Stays quiet. Wants to appear professional.

**Chance 3:** The next morning

- Lara: Gone. "Scouting mission. Won't be back for days."

Robin lost his chance for wisdom because he was afraid to look "fearful."

But here's the truth: In business, there are no stupid questions—only expensive silences.

Every time Robin stayed quiet to avoid looking unprofessional, he paid for it:

- Jennifer's program: $997 gone. Never asked for proof.

- The crypto course: $1,500. Never asked to see results.

- The dropshipping system: $2,200. Never asked about refund policy.

Forty times. Always the same pattern: Excitement > Questions.

And now, in the Sky Islands, he's doing it again.

**WHAT ROBIN SHOULD HAVE DONE:**

When Lara said "not always safe":

- "Stop. What exactly do you mean? What danger are you warning me about?"

- "Is there something specific about Bjorn I should know?"

- "What have you seen? Give me details, not hints."

When she walked away:

- Follow her. Insist on answers.

- "I know you're trying to protect something by being cryptic, but I need plain truth. What am I walking into?"

When Justin said it would look unprofessional:

- "I'd rather look paranoid and keep my silver than look professional and lose everything."

Asking ONCE isn't enough. Not when your future depends on the answer.

Legitimate mentors WELCOME hard questions.

Predators deflect, rush, and make you feel stupid for asking.

**THE JENNIFER PATTERN REPEATS**

Back home, Jennifer had been vague. "This opportunity is amazing!" And Robin had never pushed. Never asked:

- "How exactly does this work?"

- "Who's made money? Can I talk to them?"

- "Show me the proof."

He'd just... believed. Because he wanted it to be real.

And now, here he was. Different world. Different opportunity. Different person offering it.

But the same pattern.

The same excitement drowning out questions.

The same small win hooking him for the bigger loss.

Forty-one times.

How many more would it take before he learned?

**THE WARNING SIGNS ROBIN IGNORED:**

Here's what Robin SAW but rationalized away:

1. **Bjorn's eyes on the money**: "His eyes lingered on their coin pouches, calculating."

→ Robin noticed. Then ignored it.

2. **The guard arrest timing**: Perfect timing. Bjorn appeared immediately. Had exact silver ready.

→ Robin wondered if it was staged. Then pushed the thought away.

3. **Finn's watching**: Pulled something from pocket. Showed Bjorn. Both glanced at Robin.

→ Robin felt uneasy. Then told himself he was paranoid.

4. **Lara's warning**: "Be vigilant. Not everything that looks like opportunity actually is."

→ Robin heard it. Then chose not to push for specifics.

5. **The cold feeling**: Made money but felt wrong.

→ Robin acknowledged it. Then decided to ignore it.

EVERY WARNING SIGN WAS THERE.

He chose excitement over caution.

He chose profit over wisdom.

He chose "this time it's different" over "I've seen this before."

**THE ALBIE CHECKPOINT:**

Did you make 125% or did you make 15%?

If you can't explain where every cent of the difference went, you aren't an investor—you're a mark.

Ask these questions BEFORE investing:

- What are ALL the fees? (Not just "handling." ALL of them.)

- When do they come out? (Before profit? After? From gross or net?)

- Who decides the accounting? (If they control the books, you can't verify anything.)

- Can I see documentation? (Receipts, contracts, agreements in writing.)

- What's the worst case scenario? (If it fails, what happens to my money?)

If someone gets defensive, evasive, or rushes you—WALK AWAY.

If someone makes you feel stupid for asking questions—RUN.

If someone promises big returns without addressing risks—it's a trap.

**Legitimate opportunities welcome scrutiny.**

**Predators exploit silence.**

Demand the receipts or keep your pouch closed.

The most expensive words in business aren't "I failed."

They're "This time it's different."

CHAPTER 11: THE FIRST TRADE

Robin woke to shouting.

His eyes snapped open. Every muscle in his body screamed protest as he tried to sit up in the hammock. Around him, crew members were already moving—rolling out of their own hammocks, grabbing gear, heading for the door.

"UP!" Sigrid's voice cut through the morning air like a whip. "We need all hands! NOW!"

Robin nearly fell getting out of the hammock. Justin was struggling even more—trying to extract himself one-handed while his broken arm just seemed useless. His hair stuck up at odd angles, eyes barely open.

"What's happening?" Justin mumbled.

"No idea. But it sounds urgent."

They stumbled after the crew, out of the warm hall into the cool morning air. The village was just waking—smoke curling from chimneys, a few villagers emerging to see what the commotion was about.

Robin jogged across the uneven ground—trampled grass and muddy earth near the riverbank. His legs felt like wood. His hands throbbed with every step.

The Stormbreaker sat grounded in the shallows where they'd landed her yesterday, dragon prow pointing at the sky. The crew was already gathering around her, and Bjorn stood on the bank with his hands on his hips, looking at something Robin couldn't yet see.

"What's going on?" Robin asked breathlessly as they reached the ship.

Sigrid pointed to the hull. "Storm damage inspection. We need to beach her properly, check for cracks. Can't risk sailing if she's taking on water."

Robin looked at the massive ship. Then at the riverbank. Then back at Sigrid.

"You mean we have to—"

"Pull her out of the water," Bjorn finished, grinning. "Aye. And you two are going to help."

What followed was two hours of the hardest physical labor Robin had done since arriving in this land.

First, they had to lay out the log rollers on the riverbank—thick, heavy logs that took two men to carry. Robin paired with Olaf, gripping the rough bark with his burned hands, screaming in protest. Justin stood to the side, jaw tight with frustration—he couldn't help carry the heavy logs with only one arm.

"Guide them into position," Sigrid told Justin. "Tell us where they need to go."

Justin nodded, directing the placement, but Robin could see the irritation in his eyes. Watching instead of helping.

Then came the ropes. Thick hemp lines attached to the ship's hull, everyone positioned in teams along the bank.

"We pull her up onto the beach," Bjorn explained. "Then we can inspect the hull properly, make repairs if needed. POSITIONS!"

On Bjorn's count, they pulled.

The ship barely moved—the current fought them, the weight seemed impossible.

"HEAVE!" Bjorn roared.

Robin's raw hands screamed. His shoulders burned. Beside him, Justin pulled with his good arm, the rope wrapped awkwardly around his right shoulder since he couldn't grip with both hands. His face was red with effort, straining twice as hard to compensate.

The ship moved. Six inches against the current.

"AGAIN!"

They pulled. And pulled. Slowly, impossibly, the vessel began to slide up the muddy bank. As the front rollers came free, crew members grabbed them and ran them forward, building the path as they went.

"This is insane," Justin panted beside him.

"This is insane," Justin panted beside him, his good arm shaking with strain. Sweat poured down his face.

"This is sailing," Sigrid said, not even breathing hard. "The ship takes care of us. We take care of the ship." She glanced at Justin's wrapped arm. "You're doing well with one arm. Most wouldn't even try."

Justin didn't respond, just kept pulling.

Robin's world narrowed to the rope in his hands, the burning in his muscles, the rhythm of the count. Pull. Reset. Pull. Reset.

Just one more pull, he thought, remembering the storm. Just hold on. One more.

An hour later, the ship rested on the beach, water draining from the hull, fully exposed for inspection.

The crew immediately began examining the planks, looking for cracks, testing joints.

Robin collapsed on the grass, chest heaving. Justin lay beside him, staring at the sky.

"I can't feel my hand," Justin said, flexing the fingers of his right hand.

"I can feel both of mine," Robin replied. "I wish I couldn't."

Justin's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Bjorn's shadow fell over them. "Well done, landlubbers. You earned your breakfast. And—" he grinned, "—you're starting to look like sailors."

From anyone else, it might have sounded like mockery. From Bjorn, it was respect.

After the hull inspection showed no serious damage—just minor scrapes that Olaf patched with tar—they pushed the ship back into the water. That took another thirty minutes of coordinated effort, but going downhill was easier than the climb up had been.

Breakfast was thick porridge with honey, dried fish, and fresh bread from the village. Robin had never tasted anything better. Justin ate more slowly, tearing bread with his teeth, scooping porridge awkwardly with one hand. Every simple task took twice as long. He didn't complain, but Robin noticed the tight set of his mouth, the careful way he moved

They ate on the deck while the ship floated peacefully in the river, anchored near the village dock.

"We'll trade here for two days," Bjorn announced to the crew. "Unload the Western Isle timber. Pick up local goods for the Eastern Market. Olaf, Finn—you're with me. The rest of you, shore leave this afternoon. Be back before sunset or we leave without you."

Robin watched as crew members began unloading cargo. Timber—rough-cut planks still smelling of sap and forest. They'd been stacked in the ship's hold, and now they were being carried to the village market where merchants waited.

"Can we watch?" Robin asked Bjorn.

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Watch?"

"The trading. We've never seen... I mean, we don't know how this works."

Bjorn's expression shifted to something calculating, but his smile seemed genuine. "Of course. Come. You'll learn something."

They followed him to the village market—a collection of wooden stalls arranged in a square near the river. Merchants called out their wares: smoked fish, pottery, woven baskets, leather goods, vegetables from underground gardens. And in the center, a timber merchant stood beside an empty cart.

"Bjorn!" the man called. He was stocky, with a thick beard and shrewd eyes. "You're late this season."

"Storm delayed us," Bjorn replied easily. "But I've got quality timber. Western Isle, fresh cut."

The merchant ran his hand over one of the planks the crew had brought. "Not bad. How much?"

"Forty planks. Three silver per plank."

The merchant laughed. "Three? I'll give you one and a half."

"Two and a half," Bjorn countered. "And you know that's fair."

Robin watched, fascinated, as they haggled. Back and forth, neither giving much ground. Finally, they settled at two silver per plank.

"Eighty silver," the merchant said, counting out coins from a leather pouch.

Bjorn counted them again, nodded, and pocketed the coins. "Pleasure doing business."

As they walked away, Bjorn glanced at Robin. "Simple as that. I paid one silver per plank at the Western Isle. Sold for two here. Forty planks, forty silver profit."

"Just like that?" Justin asked.

"Just like that," Bjorn confirmed. "The Western Isles have forests. This island doesn't. Supply and demand. The oldest law in trade."

They watched two more trades that afternoon. Bjorn bought smoked fish—twenty crates at four silver each. He bought pottery—a merchant's entire inventory for thirty silver. Robin kept mental notes, watching how Bjorn negotiated, how he inspected goods, how he knew exactly what to pay.

It was real. The business was completely, absolutely real.

That evening, as the crew gathered in the village hall for dinner, Robin found himself sitting near Lara. She'd pulled back her hood to eat, and in the firelight, her sharp eyes seemed to watch everything.

"You're interested in trading," she said quietly. Not a question.

"We're trying to understand how it works," Robin replied.

"And?"

"It seems... straightforward. Buy low, sell high. Move goods from where they're common to where they're rare."

"It is straightforward," Lyra agreed. "But straightforward doesn't mean easy. And it doesn't always mean safe."

Something in her tone made Robin pause. "What do you mean?"

But before she could answer, Bjorn's voice boomed across the hall. "Tomorrow, we sail to the Eastern Isles! Three days there, three days back. Anyone who wants to stay behind, speak now!"

No one spoke.

Robin wanted to ask Lara more, but she'd already turned away, pulling her hood back up. The moment was gone.

The next morning, Robin and Justin stood on the dock, watching the crew prepare to depart. The ship was loaded with the goods Bjorn had bought: fish, pottery, some local herbs the village was known for.

Lara approached them."Captain's given me leave," she said casually. "Business on the other side of the island. I'll be gone a week, maybe more."

"Oh," Robin said, surprised. "Will you be back before we—"

"Maybe. Maybe not." She looked at them both, her eyes searching. "You're going to make decisions this week. Important ones."

Robin waited for her to continue. To tell them what decisions. To warn them about something specific.

But she just nodded and walked away.

Justin frowned. "That was weird."

"Yeah," Robin agreed, watching her disappear into the village. Something nagged at him, but he couldn't name it.

They spent the afternoon exploring the island. It was beautiful—rolling hills covered in grass, small farms, stone houses with smoke curling from chimneys. Peaceful. Safe.

To reach the far side where the farms were, they had to cross a bridge.

It was an old structure, stone and timber, arching over a ravine that cut through the island. Not a sky-bridge between islands, just a normal bridge over a normal gorge. Two guards stood at the near end, looking bored.

Robin and Justin started across.

"You there!" one guard shouted. "Stop!"

They stopped. The guard approached, hand on his sword hilt. His partner followed, suddenly alert.

"Papers," the guard demanded.

"Papers?" Robin repeated. "We're just—"

"Passage documents. Proof of citizenship or travel permits."

Robin's stomach dropped. "We... we don't have those. We're travelers. We're with the Stormbreaker, the ship at the dock—"

The guard's eyes narrowed. He pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and unrolled it. Robin caught a glimpse of sketches—crude drawings of faces.

The guard looked at the parchment. Looked at Robin. Looked at Justin.

"You," he said slowly, "match the description of two fugitives wanted for escaping Lord Malthus's hunter on the Western Isles. Leo the tracker had you cornered. You fled."

Robin's blood turned to ice. "That wasn't—we didn't do anything wrong—"

"Tell it to the magistrate." The guard grabbed Robin's arm. "You're both under arrest."

"Wait!" Justin said. "We have passage! We're with Captain Bjorn! He can vouch for us!"

The guard hesitated. "Bjorn of the Stormbreaker?"

"Yes!"

The guards exchanged looks. "Wait here," one said. He jogged back toward the village.

They waited. Robin's heart hammered. His mind raced. Could they run? Should they run? But the remaining guard's hand never left his sword, and his eyes never left them.

Twenty minutes later, Bjorn appeared, walking casually with the guard.

"There a problem?" Bjorn asked.

"These two match a fugitive description," the guard said. "Wanted for fleeing Lord Malthus's hunter."

Bjorn looked at Robin and Justin as if seeing them for the first time. Then he laughed—a big, genuine sound. "These two? Dangerous fugitives? Look at them! They can barely walk without tripping over their own feet."

The guard didn't smile. "The description—"

"Is probably half the travelers in these islands," Bjorn interrupted. "Young men, traveling together, looking confused. That describes everyone seeking the Land of Time Freedom." He lowered his voice. "How much?"

The guard's expression didn't change. "Release fee is ten silver. Each."

"Highway robbery," Bjorn muttered. But he counted out twenty silver coins and handed them over. "There. They're harmless. I'll keep them on my ship until we leave tomorrow."

The guard pocketed the coins and stepped back. "See that you do."

Bjorn grabbed Robin and Justin by their collars and marched them back toward the village. When they were out of earshot, he released them.

"Thank you," Robin breathed. "Thank you so much—"

"Twenty silver," Bjorn said flatly. "That's coming out of whatever you earn with me. Understood?"

Robin's gratitude cooled. "Of course. We'll pay you back."

"See that you do." But Bjorn smiled slightly. "Though I'll admit, that was more excitement than I expected from you two. Lord Malthus's hunter, eh? You're braver than you look."

Or stupider, Robin thought but didn't say.

That night, back on deck, Robin couldn't sleep.

A page from the Magic Book floated through his mind: The Thirteen Steps to Success. One of them was about specialized knowledge—about finding people who knew more than you and learning from them.

We should have asked Lyra, Robin realized suddenly. About Bjorn. About whether this is safe.

But had they? He replayed the conversations in his mind.

He'd started to ask her in the village hall. "What do you mean?" he'd said when she warned them.

But Bjorn had interrupted, and the moment was lost.

And at the dock... he'd tried to ask if she'd be back. But she'd cut him off and walked away.

She'd been cryptic. Mysterious. Dropping hints but not giving straight answers.

Why? Robin wondered. Why not just tell us if there's danger?

Unless... unless that was the point. Unless she was waiting for them to push harder. To insist on answers instead of passively accepting her walking away. To show they valued knowledge enough to pursue it even when it wasn't freely offered.

Robin felt a hollow ache in his chest. They'd had access to someone with knowledge, and they'd let her walk away. Twice. They'd been so caught up in excitement, so eager not to seem weak or scared, that they hadn't pushed for the wisdom they needed.

Asking once wasn't enough. Not when your life might depend on the answer.

He should have followed her. Should have said, "No, wait—I need to know what you meant. What are you warning us about?" Should have been persistent instead of polite.

Specialized knowledge, the Magic Book had taught. But it hadn't said knowledge would be handed to you. Sometimes you had to pursue it. Insist on it. Refuse to let the person with answers walk away.

Robin stared at the stars through the rigging.

Tomorrow they'd sail with Bjorn. Make trades. Invest their silver.

And Lara wouldn't be there to warn them if they were making a mistake.

The same mistake he'd made back home. Forty times.

Buying programs without asking people who'd actually succeeded. Jumping into opportunities without due diligence. Letting excitement override wisdom.

I'm doing it again, Robin thought. Even here. Even after everything I've learned.

"You awake?" Justin whispered.

"Yeah."

"I've been thinking. About what Bjorn said. About trading."

Robin waited.

"He makes it sound simple," Justin continued. "Buy low, sell high. And we saw it work. Real merchants, real goods, real profits. This isn't some digital product or course. This is actual business."

"I know."

"What if..." Justin hesitated. "What if we invested? Not much. Just a little. To see if it works for us too?"

Robin's stomach tightened. "How much?"

"Ten silver? We each have thirty. Ten silver is safe. If it works, great. If not, we still have twenty left."

Robin thought about Sophia's warning. About asking for specialized knowledge.

But Lara was gone.

And Bjorn's trades had been real. They'd watched them happen.

"Okay," Robin said quietly. "Ten silver. Just to learn."

The next morning, Bjorn announced they'd be sailing east in two days.

"One more trade here," he said, "then we load up and go."

Robin found him after breakfast. "Captain? Could we... could Justin and I invest in one of your trades? Something small. To learn how it works."

Bjorn looked at him with those calculating eyes. "Invest?"

"Ten silver. Each. We want to understand the business."

For a moment, Bjorn was silent. Then he smiled. "I like initiative. Yes. Give me your silver, and I'll put it toward the fish purchase. We're buying twenty crates at four silver each. I'll allocate two and a half crates to your investment. When we sell in the Eastern Market, you'll get your share of the profit."

Robin handed over ten silver coins. They felt heavy leaving his hand.

Justin did the same.

Bjorn pocketed them. "Smart choice. You'll see how real trading works. And who knows? Maybe you'll make enough to invest more."

Robin felt a flutter of excitement. This was it. Real business. Real opportunity.

But we should have asked Lyra, a small voice whispered in his mind.

He ignored it.

Two days had passed in a blur of trading and preparation. Now, with the cargo hold full and Bjorn's business complete, it was time to leave.

"All aboard!" Bjorn called from the stern. "Last call!"

The crew scrambled aboard. Ropes were coiled. The mooring lines were released.

"Oars!" Bjorn shouted.

The crew took their positions at the rowing benches. Robin grabbed an oar. Justin moved to a bench but hesitated—rowing required both arms.

"I can't—" Justin started.

"Starboard side!" Sigrid called. "Keep the rhythm, call cadence!"

Justin moved to the right side of the ship where he could at least call out timing for the rowers, his voice joining Bjorn's commands.

"PULL!"

The oars struck water as one. The ship leaped forward, carried by muscle and current as the river narrowed and picked up speed.

Ahead, Robin heard the now-familiar roar.

The waterfall.

"Hold on!" Sigrid called cheerfully. "Same as before!"

The current grabbed them. The ship tilted forward. Robin wrapped his arm in rigging. Beside him, Justin did the same with his good arm, bracing his broken arm against his body as best he could. His grip looked precarious—one-handed hold on life. They watched as the edge approached—that impossible edge where water became air, where the river simply ended and fell into clouds.

The ship pitched over.

For one frozen heartbeat, they balanced on nothing.

Then they fell.

Robin's stomach lurched into his throat. The wind screamed past. Water turned to mist. The world disappeared into white and blue and the terrible sensation of dropping through infinite space—

CRACK!

The sail exploded open, catching wind like a parachute. The ship's fall became a glide. They were flying.

Robin laughed despite himself. The terror transformed into exhilaration. They were sailing through the sky on a Viking longship, and somehow, impossibly, it was real.

"Never gets old!" Olaf shouted, grinning despite his usual suspicious nature.

The ship soared between islands. Some were massive—miles across, with cities and forests visible on their surfaces. Others were tiny, just chunks of rock with a single tree or house perched on top. Stone bridges connected some islands, looking impossibly fragile against the open sky.

And everywhere, other ships. Vessels of all sizes and designs, sailing the wind between the floating lands.

The trade routes.

Bjorn stood at the stern, watching the sail with an eagle's eye. His hand gestured sharply—left.

"Port! Two points port!" he barked.

Crew members scrambled to adjust the sail's angle, pulling ropes to shift the massive canvas. The ship tilted slightly, catching a different current of wind, changing course between two floating islands.

Bjorn's expression was pure satisfaction. Up here, he didn't steer with an oar—he steered with wind and sail and years of reading the invisible currents that flowed between the floating lands.

This was his domain. These were his roads.

Robin watched him and felt something shift inside. Maybe Bjorn was the mentor they'd been looking for. Someone with real skills, real success, who was willing to teach them. Not through courses or programs, but through actual partnership.

Maybe this time, it would be different.

They sailed for three days.

Robin and Justin worked alongside the crew—coiling ropes, adjusting the sail, learning the rhythm of the wind. The ship touched down at four different islands, each time repeating the miracle of the waterfall launch.

At each island, Bjorn traded.

He sold the pottery for sixty silver—double what he'd paid. He sold the herbs for forty silver. And at the Eastern Isles—a massive landmass covered in forests that stretched to the horizon—he sold the twenty crates of fish.

Robin watched as the merchant examined the salted cod, nodded, and counted out coins. Four silver per crate going in. Nine silver per crate coming out.

One hundred eighty silver total.

Bjorn's profit was one hundred silver.

And Robin and Justin's two and a half crates...

Bjorn found them that evening as the ship anchored in the Eastern Isle's harbor. He handed Robin a small pouch. It clinked with the weight of coins.

"Your share," Bjorn said. "Twenty-two and a half silver. Minus one silver for my handling fee. And minus the ten I paid the guards for your release. Leaves you with eleven and a half silver."

Robin opened the pouch. Sure enough, eleven silver coins and one half-coin piece gleamed in the lantern light.

Bjorn handed an identical pouch to Justin, who took it with his good hand. Opening it one-handed took a moment longer, fumbling with the drawstring, but he managed.

"Ten silver in," Bjorn said, "twenty-three out. Split between you. That's a one hundred fifteen percent return in one week. Not bad for your first trade."

Robin stared at the coins. It had worked. The investment had actually worked.

"How..." Justin started. "How is this possible?"

"Knowledge," Bjorn said simply. "I know which islands need what. I know which merchants pay fair prices. I know the routes. Most people don't. That knowledge is worth more than any cargo." He leaned against the rail, casual but focused. "Imagine if you'd invested more. Fifty silver instead of ten. You'd have made over a hundred silver profit."

The math clicked in Robin's head. One hundred fifteen percent return. If they'd invested all thirty silver instead of ten...

"But you were smart," Bjorn continued. "Testing with a small amount first. That's wise. Now you know it's real. Now you can make informed decisions." He paused. "Speaking of which, there's an opportunity coming up. A big one. I'll be presenting it to the crew tomorrow. If you're interested, we can talk then."

He walked away, leaving Robin and Justin holding their pouches.

They looked at each other.

"It worked," Justin said, his voice filled with wonder.

"It did," Robin agreed.

For the first time since arriving in this land, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he was on the right path.

We should have asked Lyra, that small voice whispered again.

But Robin silenced it. This wasn't a scam. This was real business. They'd seen the trades. They'd watched their silver turn into more silver.

This time was different.

Wasn't it?

Somewhere in the shadows of the Eastern Isle's harbor, a figure watched the Stormbreaker with interest.

Finn, the quiet crew member with watchful eyes, stood on the dock. He drew a black stone from his pouch—the same kind of Seeing Stone the Watchers used, but this one had been... altered. Corrupted. The swirling patterns inside moved wrong, counter-clockwise when they should flow naturally, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm.

Captured. Turned. Made to serve a different master.

Finn held it against his chest and whispered something into it.

Miles away, in a tower of twisted spires, another stone would glow. Another servant would receive the message.

Finn pocketed the stone and melted into the crowd, just another sailor among dozens.

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