Name: Thalia Ilyth Callow

Age: 22 old enough to understand the cost of her role.

Title: Princess of the Tidebound Isles

Often referred to (by sailors, whether reverently or mockingly) as:

“The Sea-Blessed Princess” or “The Lucky One” Titles she never asked for.

More about her:

She looks nothing like the painted portraits that hang in salt-worn halls back home.

Those portraits always softened her—rounded her features, brightened her eyes, smoothed the sun and wind from her skin until she looked like a girl who had never tasted brine or known the ache of standing on stone docks waiting for ships to return. In truth, the sea has shaped her just as much as her bloodline has.

She is on the shorter side, her height unremarkable until paired with the way she carries herself—upright, steady, as if she learned early that balance matters more than grace. Her body is slim, but not fragile; there is strength in her calves from climbing cliffs and crossing narrow planks, in her shoulders from years of leaning into coastal winds. She does not look like someone made for courtrooms or velvet cushions. She looks like someone born where land and water are constantly negotiating who gets to stay.

Her skin bears the unmistakable mark of island life. It is warm-toned and weathered, kissed darker along her arms, shoulders, and collarbones where the sun has claimed her over the years. There are faint freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, the kind that appear only after long days outdoors. Salt has roughened her hands just enough that anyone expecting softness is surprised when they touch her; they are the hands of someone who has tied knots, held ropes, and braced herself against rocking decks, even if she was never meant to.

Her hair is long and thick, a color that seems to shift depending on the light—sometimes dark and glossy like wet sand, sometimes lighter where the sun has caught it over the years. It carries a natural wave from constant sea air, rarely lying flat even when brushed smooth. She often keeps it braided or loosely tied back, not out of vanity but necessity, though when it comes loose it frames her face in a way that draws the eye without asking for it. Strands escape no matter how carefully she binds them, brushing her cheeks or curling at the nape of her neck, as untamable as the life she was born into.

Her face is quietly striking rather than overtly beautiful. There is a softness to her mouth, often held in a thoughtful line, as though she is always weighing what she is allowed to say against what she wants to. Her nose is straight but not delicate, her jaw gently defined, her chin bearing the smallest dimple that only shows when she laughs—a rare, unguarded sound. It is her eyes that people remember most. Clear and pale, caught somewhere between blue and green, they hold the reflective quality of shallow coastal waters. Sailors swear they shift with the weather, though she insists that is nonsense. Still, there is something unmistakably sea-touched in them—alert, watchful, and deeper than they appear at first glance. She has spent her life being watched, measured, and whispered about. Every storm survived was attributed to her presence. Every safe return was laid at her feet. Praise and fear followed her in equal measure, and neither ever felt like love. As a result, she learned to become small without disappearing, polite without being empty, compliant without surrendering her thoughts. Silence, to her, is not weakness—it is a tool.

She is observant in ways that make others uneasy once they notice. She remembers names, habits, tones of voice. She notices who avoids eye contact, who flinches at sudden sounds, who pretends not to believe in luck but still touches wood before a storm. When she speaks, it is often with careful precision, choosing honesty in quiet doses rather than dramatic declarations. But when she is pushed—when someone treats her as an object or a charm—steel surfaces beneath the softness.

Despite everything, she is deeply empathetic. She listens without judgment, offers help without being asked, and carries guilt for suffering she had no hand in causing. She apologizes too easily. She assumes responsibility too quickly. There is a constant tension inside her between wanting to be useful and wanting to be free.

She has a dry, understated sense of humor that emerges only when she feels safe, often catching people off guard. Her laughter, when it comes, is unguarded and warm, and it startles even her. She is curious about everything she was never allowed to touch—navigation tools, weapons, dirty jokes, the lives of ordinary sailors. She asks questions not because she doubts herself, but because she wants to understand the world on its own terms.

The docks of the Tidebound Isles were never truly silent, but this morning they held their breath. The tide lay unusually still against the stone, lapping softly as though unwilling to disturb the moment. Gull cries came muted from farther down the coast, and the scent of salt hung thick in the air, mingled with pitch and old rope and the faint sweetness of flowering kelp drying in the sun. Ships creaked gently at their moorings, masts swaying like thin, patient sentinels beneath a sky that had begun the day pale and clear.

Thalia Ilyth Callow stood at the edge of the quay, her hands folded neatly before her, fingers laced together to keep them from trembling.

She was dressed for travel, not ceremony. The gown she wore was simple by royal standards—light fabric, sea-blue rather than white, sleeves that could be pinned back if needed. Still, it bore the unmistakable cut of island nobility, the kind designed to endure wind and salt rather than velvet halls. A thin cloak rested across her shoulders, clasped at the throat with a small, unadorned fastener. No crown. No sash. Only the quiet weight of expectation pressed invisibly against her spine.

Behind her, attendants murmured in low voices, careful not to draw attention. A handful of guards stood at measured distances, their posture respectful but alert. None of them met her eyes for long. They never did, not before a voyage. It was easier that way.

Thalia kept her gaze on the ship waiting for her—a modest vessel compared to the grand flagships that sometimes docked in the Isles, but well-kept, sturdy, its hull freshly sealed. Its sails were furled, canvas bound tight and waiting. She had memorized its lines the night before, committing every curve and knot to memory, as if knowing the ship might somehow anchor her to what was coming. This journey was not meant to be dangerous. That was what everyone kept saying. A passage between islands. A rite observed. A blessing given. Then home again.

She had heard those reassurances her entire life, spoken whenever she was sent across water. Each time, they carried the same unspoken truth beneath them: Nothing bad will happen, because you are here. The thought settled uneasily in her chest.

Thalia inhaled slowly, letting the salt sting her lungs. The sea was calm—too calm, if she were honest. She had learned long ago to read its moods, not through superstition, but observation. The water today looked like polished glass near the shore, reflecting the sky so cleanly it blurred where one ended and the other began.

It was beautiful.

It was wrong.

She reached up without thinking, fingers brushing the small token at her throat. The cord was worn soft with age, the piece itself smoothed by years of touch. She felt its familiar shape beneath her fingertips and forced her hand back down. Not for luck, she reminded herself. Just habit.

Her escort announced quietly that the tide was ready. That, more than anything, told her it was time.

Thalia turned at last, offering a composed nod to those gathered. There were no tearful goodbyes—those were reserved for private moments, behind stone walls. Here, on the docks, she was the Princess of the Tidebound Isles, and princesses did not hesitate.

She moved forward, steps measured, the hem of her gown brushing the worn planks as she crossed the gangway. The ship shifted slightly beneath her weight, responding as all vessels did to a new presence. She paused, hand resting briefly on the rail, feeling the subtle vibration of the hull beneath her palm.

A familiar sensation bloomed in her chest then—an odd mixture of anticipation and grief. Each departure carried it. The knowledge that the sea always took something, even when it gave safe passage in return.

Once aboard, she positioned herself near the stern, away from the bustle of preparation. Sailors moved efficiently around her, careful but not reverent. She preferred it that way. She watched them coil ropes, check lines, exchange quiet jokes. Their ease steadied her more than any prayer ever had.

The sky overhead remained bright, but not as it had been earlier. Thalia noticed the change gradually, the way she noticed most things. The blue had deepened, darkening by degrees she doubted anyone else would remark upon. Far out on the horizon, a thin line of cloud had begun to gather—high and pale, stretched like brushed silk across the distance.

Cirrus, she thought automatically.

High winds, later.

She frowned, just slightly.

The air had shifted too. Not colder, exactly—but heavier, as if it carried more moisture than it should. Her hair stirred against her cheek despite the sails still being tied fast, and she lifted her chin, eyes narrowing as she studied the sky with intent focus.

No one else seemed concerned.

That was always the way of it.

As the final lines were cast off and the ship began to drift from the dock, a murmur rippled through those left behind. Some bowed their heads. Others touched amulets or wood or iron. Thalia did not look back. She had learned early that if she did, they would see hope written into her expression and cling to it.

She would not lie to them with her face.

The Isles slowly receded, stone and greenery blurring together as distance widened. Thalia stood motionless, hands once more folded before her, posture calm and composed. Only her eyes betrayed her thoughts, tracking the horizon where the sky’s color subtly shifted again, where clouds thickened into something more defined.

Still high. Still far.

But growing.

A faint wind brushed across the deck now, lifting the edge of her cloak. She let it, fingers curling slightly as if to steady herself against something unseen. The ship responded, creaking as it caught the first true breath of movement, beginning its steady glide out toward open water.

Thalia closed her eyes for just a moment. Not to pray.

Just to feel.

The roll of the deck beneath her feet. The salt on her lips. The tension coiling quietly in her chest—not fear, not yet, but awareness. The sense that this voyage, like so many before it, would not unfold as neatly as promised.

When she opened her eyes again, the sky had darkened by another imperceptible shade, and the clouds on the horizon no longer looked quite so harmless. The sea remained calm. For now.