Velbraith, the Ash-Tide Port
“Skald and the City of Fortune”
As told beside the galley fire of the Whale’s Road Widow.
“Now listen close, lads and lasses… for this tale isn’t about war or monsters or the sea that tries to eat you in your sleep. This one’s about a city. A city that doesn’t need to bite you to devour you whole.”
I’ve sailed half the world and spat in the eye of storms that could drown gods, but Velbraith… aye, Velbraith’s a storm of another sort. You see it first from the sea — a blaze of gold and fire on the cliffs, all lanterns and marble terraces. The vampires inland pretend they don’t care for it, but I tell you, every one of their pale hearts beats a little faster when they think of that glow.
The harbor’s big enough to swallow a fleet — merchant ships from Nezb, Chen warjunks, raiders from Greyholt, even Hunt warships anchored side by side. You can smell every nation in the world in that harbor — spice and salt, smoke and sin.
We rowed ashore at dawn. The sun was a red coin, and Velbraith caught it like a gambler catching luck. The streets were already alive — music, laughter, the kind of smell that makes you remember why you keep breathing. And everywhere, wagers.
Men flipping dice in gutters, nobles betting on duels, pirates wagering their ships for another bottle. The city doesn’t forbid anything — it just watches, smiling, while you hang yourself with your own luck.
We walked the Crimson Mile, the heart of it all. A river of noise and color winding uphill to the Arena of Fortune and the Gilded Maw behind it. The Mile never sleeps. You could spend a lifetime in one night there — and many have. Taverns five stories high, balconies full of fire dancers, dreamsmoke rolling down the street like fog. There’s laughter and screams and music, and you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Then there’s the Arena. By all the drowned gods, lads, it’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen that wasn’t the sea. Stone and steel and magic singing together. The crowd is one living beast, roaring for blood and glory. You feel it in your ribs like a second heartbeat. We sat high in the stands, beside nobles and beggars alike — all shouting, all betting. And when the gates opened, and the fighters came out, it was like watching storms fight to see which would break first.
They say the Arena is the heart of Velbraith. I think they’re wrong. The heart’s lower, darker.
When night fell, I found my way — gods help me — to the Pits of Ash. The streets there don’t shine. They burn. The air tastes of iron and sweat. That’s where the real fights happen — no rules, no glory, just survival. I saw men wager years of their lives on a single strike. That’s where Kaelen Tharros came from, they say — fought his way out of the pits with blood up to his knees until Draemont himself pulled him from the sand and gave him a crown of iron and chain.
And then, when I thought I’d seen every sin the city had to offer, I saw the House of Dawn and Dusk. I can’t rightly describe it. It’s like walking into a dream where everything’s beautiful, and you know it’s wrong, but you don’t want to wake up. Pools of gold, wine fountains, laughter that feels like sunlight and sorrow at the same time. They say a man can lose himself there and come out smiling — or never come out at all.
By morning, I climbed the Hanging Gardens to watch the sunrise. The flowers opened with the light, the air smelled clean again, and for a moment, it felt like the city itself took a breath. You can see everything from up there — the harbor, the Arena, even the shadow of Setovia across the water. It’s beautiful, aye. But it’s a dangerous kind of beauty.
Because Velbraith isn’t evil, no. Evil has rules. Velbraith doesn’t care what you are — only what you’re willing to wager. And sooner or later, everyone wagers something they can’t afford to lose.
“So if you go there,” Skald said, leaning on his cup, eyes distant as the tide, “remember this: Fortune smiles in Velbraith… but she always, always counts the cost.”
As told beside the galley fire of the Whale’s Road Widow.
“Now listen close, lads and lasses… for this tale isn’t about war or monsters or the sea that tries to eat you in your sleep. This one’s about a city. A city that doesn’t need to bite you to devour you whole.”
I’ve sailed half the world and spat in the eye of storms that could drown gods, but Velbraith… aye, Velbraith’s a storm of another sort. You see it first from the sea — a blaze of gold and fire on the cliffs, all lanterns and marble terraces. The vampires inland pretend they don’t care for it, but I tell you, every one of their pale hearts beats a little faster when they think of that glow.
The harbor’s big enough to swallow a fleet — merchant ships from Nezb, Chen warjunks, raiders from Greyholt, even Hunt warships anchored side by side. You can smell every nation in the world in that harbor — spice and salt, smoke and sin.
We rowed ashore at dawn. The sun was a red coin, and Velbraith caught it like a gambler catching luck. The streets were already alive — music, laughter, the kind of smell that makes you remember why you keep breathing. And everywhere, wagers.
Men flipping dice in gutters, nobles betting on duels, pirates wagering their ships for another bottle. The city doesn’t forbid anything — it just watches, smiling, while you hang yourself with your own luck.
We walked the Crimson Mile, the heart of it all. A river of noise and color winding uphill to the Arena of Fortune and the Gilded Maw behind it. The Mile never sleeps. You could spend a lifetime in one night there — and many have. Taverns five stories high, balconies full of fire dancers, dreamsmoke rolling down the street like fog. There’s laughter and screams and music, and you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Then there’s the Arena. By all the drowned gods, lads, it’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen that wasn’t the sea. Stone and steel and magic singing together. The crowd is one living beast, roaring for blood and glory. You feel it in your ribs like a second heartbeat. We sat high in the stands, beside nobles and beggars alike — all shouting, all betting. And when the gates opened, and the fighters came out, it was like watching storms fight to see which would break first.
They say the Arena is the heart of Velbraith. I think they’re wrong. The heart’s lower, darker.
When night fell, I found my way — gods help me — to the Pits of Ash. The streets there don’t shine. They burn. The air tastes of iron and sweat. That’s where the real fights happen — no rules, no glory, just survival. I saw men wager years of their lives on a single strike. That’s where Kaelen Tharros came from, they say — fought his way out of the pits with blood up to his knees until Draemont himself pulled him from the sand and gave him a crown of iron and chain.
And then, when I thought I’d seen every sin the city had to offer, I saw the House of Dawn and Dusk. I can’t rightly describe it. It’s like walking into a dream where everything’s beautiful, and you know it’s wrong, but you don’t want to wake up. Pools of gold, wine fountains, laughter that feels like sunlight and sorrow at the same time. They say a man can lose himself there and come out smiling — or never come out at all.
By morning, I climbed the Hanging Gardens to watch the sunrise. The flowers opened with the light, the air smelled clean again, and for a moment, it felt like the city itself took a breath. You can see everything from up there — the harbor, the Arena, even the shadow of Setovia across the water. It’s beautiful, aye. But it’s a dangerous kind of beauty.
Because Velbraith isn’t evil, no. Evil has rules. Velbraith doesn’t care what you are — only what you’re willing to wager. And sooner or later, everyone wagers something they can’t afford to lose.
“So if you go there,” Skald said, leaning on his cup, eyes distant as the tide, “remember this: Fortune smiles in Velbraith… but she always, always counts the cost.”
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