Chapter 4 Delay
I apologize
Dear readers,
Due to the realities of being a one-person publishing house, I owe you an apology.
White Harvest Media is in the final formatting push for Jessica Hopson’s upcoming novel, Tristan’s Reckoning. To ensure both projects receive the attention they deserve, the fourth installment of NONE will be released on July 3, 2026, rather than today.
I apologize for the delay and appreciate your patience as I work to maintain the quality you expect from White Harvest Media.
Thank you for your understanding,
Jessica Hopson
P.S. If you’re looking for something to read in the meantime, enjoy these arc- connected, deleted scenes from Tristan’s Reckoning.
Tristan was determined to treat the journey to Doreth like an adventure. His father’s elite band of Kingdom Guard traveled with him to the High Keep.
The first night they camped under the stars, field tents and game from the woods. Tristan sat by the fire and listened to the men banter. The embers turned orange. The shadows grew. The talk became story.
“The battle at S’lmancha,” Dolfo said, slapping Toval on the back. “Now that was fight, Se?”
Tristan leaned forward as Toval raised his drinking tin. “Se, though as I recall, you hid under a rock while I took out that lead archer with my own bow.”
The prince blinked, watching Dolfo’s face closely, waiting for the bigger man to react.
The circle around him however burst into laughter, and the captain of his father’s guard, Fernan raised his own tin. “Next you’ll be telling how you took out an entire mounted archery unit with that bow of yours.”
Toval’s eyes twinkled. “Se, the story gets better when I tell it.”
Dolfo huffed, but his lips twisted into a wry grin.
The boy sat back, watching the ease and camaraderie.
They are like brothers. He thought. I want that.
He was startled by the idea. He was a prince, not a warrior, but still, something in the easy way these men carried themselves, despite their capacity for violence, called to something in the boy.
Father is a warrior, but not like this. Tristan thought of the kings in Yah-Roi’s Book. They had been warriors too.
I will be a warrior, and I will be a king. And I will be good at both. He decided.
~
Morning sunlight danced across the harbor as Tristan stepped onto the deck of the Serona. The ship hummed with activity. Lines were coiled. Decks scrubbed. Supplies inventoried.
The familiar rhythm settled easily around him. Five years of war had transformed the Serona. Not merely the timber and rigging.
The men. The crew moved with practiced confidence. Orders required fewer repetitions. Corrections came before mistakes grew costly. The ship functioned as though each man understood his place within something larger than himself.
Kolon hurried past carrying an armful of reports.
“Captain.”
He nearly collided with a sailor.
“Watch yourself,” the sailor barked.
“Se.”
Kolon adjusted the papers.
“Sorry.”
“You’ve been apologizing for five years ensign,” Olan observed from nearby.
Kolon scowled.
“You’ve been grumbling for at least twice that..”
“I’ve earned it.”
The young man opened his mouth. Then thought better of it.
Tristan hid a smile.
“You’ll hurt his feelings,” he said.
Olan glanced toward him.
“I have feelings?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The older sailor returned to inspecting the morning reports. The exchange drew quiet laughter from several nearby crewmen.
The Serona ran smoothly. Not perfectly. No ship ever did. But smoothly enough that Tristan found himself enjoying the inspection rather than enduring it.
“You look entirely too pleased with yourself.”
Pater’s voice carried easily across the deck.
Tristan turned.
“Good morning to you as well.”
Pater folded his arms.
“I’ve decided.”
“Dangerous.”
“We haven’t crossed swords in months.”
Several sailors immediately slowed their work. The wiser among them drifted closer.
“I have responsibilities,” Tristan replied.
“You inspect ropes.”
“I command a flotilla.”
“You inspect ropes importantly.”
Laughter spread through the deck.
Tristan sighed.
“You realize you’re insufferable.”
“You’ve said that since you were thirteen.”
“You’ve earned it.”
Pater grinned.
“I challenge you.”
The crew responded immediately. Coins exchanged hands. Someone began taking wagers.
Olan glanced up from his reports.
“Five silver on Pater.”
Tristan looked offended.
“You’ve served under me for years.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Pater barked a laugh.
The sailors cleared a space on the dock. Wooden practice swords appeared from somewhere.
Tristan narrowed his eyes.
“You prepared for this.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You brought practice weapons.”
Pater shrugged.
“Coincidence.”
Tristan accepted the offered sword.
“You cheat.”
“You say that every time.”
They circled. Neither rushed. Years of familiarity settled naturally into movement.
Tristan knew Pater favored his left. Pater knew Tristan over-committed when frustrated.
The first exchange ended in a crack of wood. The second nearly caught Tristan’s shoulder. He pivoted away, but Pater anticipated it. Their swords met again. And again.
Neither man struck to maim, but no opening went unmarked. A slash that would have taken Tristan’s knee became a brutal strike against his thigh. He answered with the flat of his blade across Pater’s wrist, hard enough to numb the fingers. Pater hissed and tightened his grip.
They knew each other too well for mercy. Mercy in the yard became death on the field.
Pater drove forward. Tristan gave ground, turned the next blow aside, and came in low. Pater pressed forward. Tristan yielded ground.
Someone shouted encouragement. Kolon lifted the new cabin boy onto a barrel for a better view. Olan accepted another handful of coins.
Traitor.
The realization came with surprising force. Tristan was happy. Not triumphant. Not celebrated. Simply happy. The smell of salt. The laughter of sailors. The familiar weight of a practice sword. Pater’s grin. War had taken much. It had not taken this.
Pater feinted high. Tristan reacted. Too late. The soldier swept his legs cleanly from beneath him. Tristan landed hard in the dirt.
The dock erupted. Laughter rolled across the harbor.
Pater extended a hand downward.
“You’ve grown soft among books.”
Tristan accepted the offered hand.
“You cheat.”
Pater hauled him upright.
“You say that every time.”
The sailors cheered. Olan collected his winnings with irritating satisfaction. And standing upon the dock beside the men he loved most, Tristan discovered that even after war, Yah still gave ordinary mercies to those willing to receive them.
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Thanks again for reading.
Tristan’s story will be available to the public on June 30, 2026.