The sea was calm, an endless plain of open water rolling in gentle swells beneath a steady breeze. Far ahead, the sun Quintra rose just above the horizon, low and bright, spilling warmth across the waves until the surface glittered with flakes of gold. Along the ship’s side, careful white letters caught that newborn light: KESTREL, painted neatly as if the name itself could keep her honest.

She was not a passenger ship. The Kestrel carried goods between the Xaverion islands.

High above the deck, where the air was sharper and the wind tugged at everything, an Oakhai woman clung to the rigging as though she belonged there. She moved along a beam with practised ease, one hand braced while the other worked needle and line through the heavy sailcloth. A loose braid swung down her back with every shift of her weight, white as fresh snow with pale-blue tips. Her icy-blue eyes were focused and bright, unbothered by either the height or the ship’s sway. White fox ears, tipped in the same soft blue, twitched and angled with every change in the wind, betraying her attention even when the rest of her remained perfectly still. Her full arctic-fox tail—white with a sharply blue tip—balanced her without effort as she stitched the torn seam back into the canvas.

Below, the deck was already awake with motion. Sailors moved between coils of rope and stacked cargo, calling to one another as they checked lines and adjusted knots. Among them, a massive elf stood out without trying. The Ee’dornil was too large to vanish into any crowd. Quintra’s light warmed his bark-brown skin, while his moss-green hair was left wild to the wind as though he had never once bothered to tame it. His eyes held a faint light-green glow whenever he turned his head. It was subtle in daylight, but still made more than one sailor glance twice before deciding to look elsewhere.

Thorn was not crew, but he might as well have been. He moved with purpose, stepping in whenever the work turned heavy. When two sailors struggled with a crate that had shifted with the ship’s roll, he was already there, bending to take most of the weight without a word. When a line snagged and the pull became uneven, he braced himself, hauled once, and freed it. His manner was naturally authoritative without being overbearing, respectful without being soft. He listened, responded and did what needed doing.

Below deck, a halfling ruled the cramped galley as though it were his kingdom. A battered stepping stool stood beside the preparation table, scuffed from years of use. Tiny Tim needed it not only for the higher shelves, but to reach the work surface itself.

“Kestler,” the halfling declared whenever he spoke of the ship, with such certainty that the extra syllable seemed almost official.

A human woman sat on a second stool near the table. Bright-red curls were already escaping the ribbon she had used to tame them, framing a pale face scattered with freckles. Her bright-blue eyes remained fixed on the task Tim had given her.

Suraia worked steadily, holding the knife properly, gathering peelings neatly to one side and lining up the ingredients with careful precision. The galley smelled of onions, fresh bread and the savoury stew simmering in a pot that had seen too many storms and too few proper scrubbings.

Several days had passed since they sailed from Meriquy. Life aboard the Kestrel had settled into a rhythm of work and wind, shouted instructions above and the quieter hush of the cargo holds below. The redheaded woman did not understand ships, but she understood routine. Routine was something she could hold onto.

Tim gave the stew an aggressive stir, glanced at her and clicked his tongue. “You’re getting pale, Red. Not the charming, fair-as-moonlight sort of pale either. More like you’re about to wobble into my soup.”

Suraia paused halfway through slicing a carrot. She did not argue. The events before they boarded had left their mark, and the truth was visible to anyone with eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” she said softly. “Let me finish this. After the meal is served, I… I’ll rest.”

“Aye.” Tim pointed his spoon at the stool. “Stay there. You help, we accommodate. Simple. If you fall and crack your skull, I’m not scraping you off the floorboards. Makes a mess.”

“Thank you,” the human woman said.

Tim slapped dough onto a board and began kneading it with the force of a man personally offended by hunger. “The Kestler’s galley has rules. Rule one: eat. Rule two: don’t die in my galley. Rule three: if you’re going to ignore rule two, do it somewhere else.”

Suraia’s mouth twitched. “Yes, Tim.”

“Chef Tim,” he corrected, then spoiled the effect by grinning. “Now ring that bell. Let’s feed them.”

The bell’s bright note cut through the morning noise. Footsteps answered almost immediately; meal calls were treated like law. Sailors in salt-stiff clothing formed a line outside the galley, their faces weathered by wind and sun. Tim stationed himself beside the bread while the healer stayed perched near the pot, close enough to serve without standing.

The captain appeared in the doorway, weather-lined and broad-shouldered, her dark hair bound tightly against the wind. She swept one glance over the galley before turning toward the stairs.

“Mess line. Quick,” she called. “We have cargo to mind. Eat and move.”

Then she was gone, her boots thudding away.

Tim snorted. “The captain pretending she runs my galley. Ring it again.”

The curly redhead obeyed, cheeks warming as hungry sailors moved faster. Bowl after bowl passed through her hands while Tim thrust bread into waiting palms and barked at anyone who lingered.

“Don’t stare at it,” he told one sailor. “It won’t grow bigger.”

A few laughs moved through the line before the rhythm resumed. When the last sailor shuffled away, Tim exhaled like a man who had survived a battle.

“See? Feeding them is easy. Listening to them is what kills you.” He filled two bowls, pushed one towards Suraia and pointed at her with his spoon. “Eat.”

The human woman accepted it in both hands. “Thank you.”

The halfling grunted as though the words inconvenienced him, then followed her gaze towards a small cauldron in the corner. Its rim was dented and its sides blackened.

“That?” Tim nudged it with his foot. “I’m replacing it. New pot. Shiny. Doesn’t smell faintly of regret.”

The healer hesitated. “Are you throwing it away?”

“Aye,” he said.

The curly redhead did not ask directly. She only looked at it.

Tim narrowed his eyes, then made a dismissive sound. “Take it. You’ve been a great help, and I don’t want anything in return. If you leave it here, it’ll only be thrown out.”

Suraia blinked. “I… thank you.”

“Aye, aye.” Tim waved his spoon towards the door. “Now go sit with your enormous tree, and try not to spill your soup.”

Suraia tucked the cauldron beneath one arm and cradled the bowl in the other. The crew’s mess held little more than benches and tables bolted down against rough seas. The elf with bark-brown skin sat at one end, his shoulders making the space seem smaller. When she approached, he simply shifted and made room.

Across from them, Vasha had already claimed her place and was eating with the appetite of someone who had spent the morning in the wind. Her icy-blue eyes flicked towards the cauldron, and a grin appeared.

“Look at you,” she said. “Collecting treasure.”

“It’s… useful,” Suraia replied, as though usefulness excused wanting it.

“It is,” Thorn said quietly.

Somehow that made her cheeks warm more than the soup.

Around them, sailors spoke loudly of currents, port prices and rumours. Inevitably, the conversation turned towards the sea.

“Not long until Tanea,” a sailor at the next table said. “Thank Myalanna for calm water and a strong wind. Not every crossing ends without problems.”

“There was always danger,” another continued. “But it wasn’t like this before Serinhal went under overnight eight years ago. The sea belongs to Ghor for sure.”

“And the sirens,” someone else spat. “We thought they were a myth. Clearly, we were wrong.”

The laughter that followed held little humour. One sailor glanced towards the large elf, who ate calmly, apparently unfazed. “What about you, lad? Ever meet anything out there? The sort of wrong that makes the depths its home?”

The Ee’dornil did not answer immediately. His gaze moved to the human woman beside him.

The Oakhai leaned forward. “Do tell.”

Thorn exhaled once. “We were crossing,” he said. “The water beneath us moved. A shadow. A shifting mass, closing in fast.”

The noise in the mess hall dipped.

“It rose from the deep,” Thorn continued. “Tentacles large as trees.”

Suraia’s spoon stilled, and she went a shade paler in seconds.

“I injured it,” Thorn said. “Black blood leaked from it.”

“Black blood,” someone muttered. “Corruption.”

“Ghor,” another whispered.

Suraia’s fingers tightened around the bowl. She felt her pulse in her throat, the fear still scraping at her chest.

Thorn’s voice stayed even. “I struck again and again until it finally gave up and vanished into the deep.”

Respect settled over the tables without anyone needing to announce it. A sailor lifted his mug in a silent salute. Others followed.

The ebony-skinned woman looked pleased with herself for drawing out the tale until she saw Suraia’s face.

The redheaded woman’s appetite had vanished. She stared into her soup, watching the surface ripple with the ship’s motion.

The large elf placed a hand gently on her shoulder. Suraia looked up and offered him a hesitant, unconvincing smile, but some of the tension still eased beneath his touch.

“Try to eat a little more, Silverbell,” he said.

She nodded and lifted her spoon.

Later, the healer slipped into Erica’s small cabin and knelt beside the ship doctor’s chest. The scent of herbs and clean linen rose when she opened it. She squared the bandages, aligned the salves and checked each bottle for leaks.

At the bottom, she found a sack of empty vials. Some were chipped, some clouded, and several held residue that would need careful cleaning.

“Throwaways,” Erica said from the doorway.

The human woman turned, blushing as though she had been caught doing something she should not. “You’re going to throw them away?”

“As soon as we reach port,” The ships doctor said: “Take the sound ones if you want them, but don’t cut yourself cleaning them.”

Suraia’s shoulders loosened. “Thank you. I… I’ll be careful.”

Night fell in slow layers. Quintra’s light thinned in the east, and the blue moon Denday rose above the western water. Suraia spent the evening boiling bandages, until Erica noticed the pallor of her face.

“You’re paler than Mireflower,” the doctor said flatly. “Go below. Rest.”

Suraia didn’t argue. “I will. Good night.”

Their sleeping place was wedged between crates in the hold and softened by large sacks stuffed with scraps of cloth and pelt. It was not comfortable, but the crew had made sure they would not sleep on bare boards.

The redheaded woman set down the cauldron, lit a small lantern and, despite being told to rest, filled the pot with water and began scraping at its blackened interior. Then she opened the sack of vials and cleaned what she could, setting the chipped ones aside.

Footsteps arrived late. Vasha entered first, followed by the Ee’dornil. Both smelled faintly of wind and work.

The Oakhai stopped when she saw the human woman still scrubbing. “Suraia.”

“I’m almost done,” the curly redhead said.

“No,” The Oakhai said and took the cloth from her hands. “You can do this tomorrow. You were supposed to rest.”

The healer opened her mouth, then closed it. She no longer had the energy to disagree.

The large elf let out a quiet sigh, more fond than annoyed. He settled onto one of the sacks and held out his hand, palm upward.

“Come,” he simply said.

Suraia didn’t hesitate. Thorn guided her down beside him and lifted the black cloak, which they used as a blanket so she could settle against his chest. His arm came lightly around her waist, protective and as natural as breathing.

The ebony-skinned Oakhai pinched out the lantern and muttered something about stubborn healers.

The ship rocked them with a gentle, patient rhythm, and the Kestrel sailed onward through the dark.