Chap­ter XV begins with a con­fes­sion that strips away pride and pre­tense, as the pro­tag­o­nist recounts the entire­ty of his jour­ney to a woman whose hard­ened exte­ri­or con­ceals a warm heart. His tale of oth­er­world­ly arrival, unspo­ken devo­tion, and the haz­ards faced along­side Heru is received not with skep­ti­cism but with com­pas­sion. Her expres­sion soft­ens, her emo­tions break­ing through the sur­face as she pledges her sup­port with con­vic­tion that stuns him. This act of trust and kind­ness, giv­en so freely, rekin­dles hope in a man who had near­ly sur­ren­dered to despair. For once, assis­tance does not come with conditions—it comes from shared human­i­ty and the inex­plic­a­ble mag­ic of love’s urgency. Her sug­ges­tion to seek the help of her hus­band, a man with influ­ence among fer­ry­men, becomes more than advice; it becomes a life­line. The pro­tag­o­nist, moved and deter­mined, pre­pares him­self to seize this nar­row win­dow of oppor­tu­ni­ty.

The prepa­ra­tion is swift but not care­less. A mod­est meal is shared, offer­ing a moment of peace before plung­ing back into uncer­tain­ty. Though the plan is hasty, it feels des­tined, as if every event from the past days led to this point. The pro­tag­o­nist lis­tens care­ful­ly to strate­gies and warn­ings, inter­nal­iz­ing every detail that may aid his jour­ney into Ar-hap’s strong­hold. The night is qui­et but heavy with mean­ing as he fol­lows the fish­er­man through nar­row paths toward the river­side. There, a stout boat waits like a silent ally, ready to drift through the estuary’s dark waters toward per­il and hope alike. He boards with qui­et resolve, bol­stered not just by pur­pose but by the unex­pect­ed human­i­ty found in strangers will­ing to risk for love. The boat push­es off, and with it, a new chap­ter begins, one defined not by chance but by cho­sen courage.

As the oars glide through the black water, each stroke pulls him clos­er to what may be a con­fronta­tion or a negotiation—but in any case, a reck­on­ing. The riv­er reflects the stars, a silent reminder of the vast unknown from which he came and the uncer­tain future that lies ahead. Reflec­tion is impos­si­ble to avoid in such soli­tude; the still­ness forces him to face his own fears and ques­tion the mea­sure of his own resolve. But the image of Heru—her voice, her grace, her unjust captivity—chases away hes­i­ta­tion. For her, there can be no retreat. He has become more than a vis­i­tor to Mars. He has become part of its des­tiny, woven into its fate through ties of affec­tion and dar­ing.

Though doubt still lingers at the edges of his mind, it no longer holds him pris­on­er. The kind­ness received from the fisherman’s wife and the risk her hus­band takes for a stranger prove that even in a world so alien, trust and loy­al­ty endure. It’s not grand armies or leg­endary swords that move the world forward—it’s these small acts of belief, mul­ti­plied by those brave enough to act. These peo­ple had no oblig­a­tion to him, yet they offered a chance, how­ev­er slim, because they saw some­thing in him worth back­ing. That kind of faith cre­ates its own grav­i­ty. And as the boat dis­ap­pears into the shad­ows upriv­er, he knows that the jour­ney ahead will test him more than ever before.

At the heart of the com­ing chal­lenge lies not just a bat­tle for Heru’s free­dom, but for his own place in this strange world. Every cul­ture has its gate­keep­ers, and Ar-hap is one cloaked in both bar­barism and con­tra­dic­tion. Yet even the fiercest rulers have blind spots—honor, van­i­ty, or the fear of los­ing face. These must be found and used if diplo­ma­cy is to have any hope of suc­cess. Oth­er­wise, force or flight may be the only options left. Still, even now, the pro­tag­o­nist doesn’t pic­ture him­self a hero. He’s sim­ply a man who refus­es to let love be decid­ed by fate alone. And for that alone, he rows forward—not as a con­queror, but as some­one who dares to believe he can make a dif­fer­ence.