The candle guttered in its clay holder, its flame trembling as though weary from fighting the darkness. Zyren sat beside Kaelith on the narrow cot, listening to her slow, even breaths. For the first time in days, her face was unknotted—no pain, no fever-tight muscles—just quiet rest.

  Relief loosened something deep inside him. His shoulders sagged. His throat softened. His fingers unclenched without him noticing.

  Outside the shuttered window, water whispered through the hidden channel—a steady, flowing murmur that rose and fell in easy rhythm with Kaelith’s breathing. The sound lulled the room into a gentle hush.

  For a fleeting moment, warmth wrapped around him: the blanket, the lantern’s faint glow, the unmoving floor beneath his boots. Solid ground. Still air.

  No screaming wind.

  No cracking timbers.

  No blades, no fire, no chase.

  No arrows.

  Shooting—

  “Parvani.”

  Her name struck him like a thrown stone. Her smile rose in his mind at once—bright, round, almost mischievous, cheeks bunching until her eyes squinted shut. He saw her again, pressing a steaming bowl into his hands on his first night aboard the Kelpie, fussing over him with motherly authority, warmth radiating from every gesture.

  He bowed his head. The grief pressed low and heavy, as though his ribs were bending inward.

  He should have saved her. He should have been faster, stronger—something else, anything else—

  A soft knock tugged him back.

  “Is she sleeping?” Urdan’s voice came through the cracked door, low and steady.

  “Yes,” Zyren answered, barely above a whisper.

  “Come.”

  Urdan eased the door wider, his shoulder nudging it open with practiced gentleness. Zyren rose carefully, stepping around the boards he knew wouldn’t creak. He glanced once more at Kaelith—her breath still soft, her brow smooth—then followed Urdan into the hall.

  “Thank you for watching her,” Urdan murmured, a hand briefly settling on Zyren’s shoulder. Not praise—acknowledgment.

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  The warmth of the fire met him as soon as he stepped into the cramped main room. A long, scarred table took up most of the space, crowded by benches and the crew squeezed shoulder to shoulder. Steam curled from the enormous grilled fish laid out in the center, its silver skin crisped and glistening. Coarse bread sat beside it, and a clay jug of strong wine made slow rounds between calloused hands.

  It was their second night on the island. The lines of exhaustion etched into their faces had eased. Boots dried by the hearth. Damp clothes hung in rough rows. The room smelled of woodsmoke, salt, cooked fish—and faintly of the herbs Kael used in his workshop.

  Urdan gestured toward the far end of the table. “You all know Tasya joined us for a reason,” he said, voice slipping back into command as naturally as drawing breath. He nodded for her to continue.

  Tasya straightened. Even seated, she held herself like someone reporting to a hall of generals.

  “The Empire is developing a weapon,” she said plainly. No theatrics. No softening. “A hidden island base. Recently confirmed.”

  Her gaze swept the room—measured, sharp.

  “It’s fortified. Army, navy, Guard. No large ship could get within a league without being spotted. A small one might slip close—but only with a crew that knows how to vanish.”

  Silence settled over the table. The fire snapped once, filling the gap.

  “We had a route planned,” Tasya continued, fingers tapping the stem of her cup. “But the patrol forced a change. So we need a new entry point.”

  She took a small sip of wine, then passed the lead back to Urdan with a slight tilt of her head.

  “Brumel,” Urdan said, tearing a piece of bread. “Neutral ground. Every nation uses it—traders, sailors, mercenaries. Which means it’s crawling with eyes. People who know everything and claim to know nothing.”

  He pointed his fork at Hisoka. “You’re going with Tasya and Zyren.”

  Then he clamped a hand on Kael’s shoulder. The shipwright looked up from his bread, expression unreadable, eyes half-focused on something else entirely.

  “Kael will guide you.”

  Kael made a short sound—approval, agreement, or just breath—but didn’t elaborate. Zyren couldn’t tell whether the man was calm or simply thinking about something else entirely. Urdan didn’t seem bothered. He’d clearly seen this many times before.

  Then Urdan rose, lifting his glass.

  “To the resistance,” he said, voice low but full. “For Parvani.”

  The echo around the table was rough, uneven, but sincere.

  Zyren drank slowly. His stomach tightened. Leaving so soon—splitting the crew—stepping into a city filled with spies—while Kaelith still fought fever in the next room…

  It twisted inside him like a knot of rope pulled too tight.

  A heavy arm slid around his shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, friend,” Bruln rumbled. He didn’t need to read Zyren’s thoughts. They were written plainly enough. “You watched over her. I’ll do the same.”

  His massive hand squeezed gently—a promise, not reassurance.

  Zyren felt something uncoil inside him.

  They ate until nothing but bones remained on the platter. Bread vanished, wine thinned, conversation softened into tired murmurs. A rare warmth settled in the cramped room: safety for a night, grief shared, strength returning.

  As soon as she set down her empty cup—her only one—Tasya stood. In a blink, she was all soldier again.

  “Rest,” she said, gaze fixed on Zyren and Hisoka. “We leave at dawn.”

  The fire cracked. A draft touched the shutter.

  Zyren felt the weight settle over him—the mission ahead, the danger waiting, the fragile quiet behind him.

  And through it all, Kaelith breathed softly in the next room.

  The illusion of peace thinned, then gently dissolved into the reality of what waited with the sunrise.

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