The sun was a lazy smear behind a sky the color of old pewter, doing little to dispel the damp chill that clung to the Duskvein. Fenrick woke up to the sound of someone yelling. Or maybe it was a gull. Or Ariya. Or a gull that sounded like Ariya. He wasn't sure. He merely grunted, a low, guttural sound that was half a complaint, half a pre-dawn stretch. He rolled out of his hammock with the grace of a wounded bear, shirtless, hair a wild, tangled mess, and one boot already missing. The other was being used as a pillow. He'd apparently lost an arm-wrestling match with himself sometime during the night, the bruises on his forearm a testament to his own reckless internal sparring. The bruises weren't important.
He stretched, a series of contortions that made his spine pop audibly, then yawned so hard his jaw cracked, letting out a groan of protest. Immediately, he stubbed his toe on a barrel of pickled limes, tucked inconveniently near his bunk.
"Day twenty," he muttered, kicking it for revenge, the wooden thud echoing faintly in the quiet cabin. "Kill me now. Seriously, the salt is getting to my soul."
"Oi, Scrap!" he yelled down, his voice carrying surprising volume despite the distance, echoing faintly across the quiet deck. "Still sleeping with your thumb in your mouth, or are you ready for the sunrise?"
A groggy groan floated up from Erin's cabin below. Fenrick snorted, then launched himself from the yardarm with a whoop, plummeting almost to the deck before catching a dangling rope, swinging himself over to the rail with practiced ease. He landed lightly, a faint shimmer of golden mana rippling around him for a split second before vanishing. It looked like a trick, but it was just him being himself. The boredom of the voyage, he'd found, turned him into a perpetual motion machine. He leaned out, a crow's keen eye scanning the horizon, then a wild grin pulled at his lips. There was nothing he hated more than boredom, and a long voyage had a way of turning him into a coiled spring of restless energy. He needed action, any action, even if it meant climbing to ridiculous heights just to feel alive. The ship was in full churn. Crew moving. Wind sharp. Salt thick in the air. The Duskvein didn't just sail — it pulsed. A beast with sails instead of wings, groaning with a life of its own beneath his bare feet.
"Morning, Fenrick," Ariya called out from her usual spot near the medical supplies, already sorting through dried herbs. Her voice, however, was laced with an almost suspicious cheeriness. "Up early for morning chores?"
"Morning, Sparkle," Fenrick replied, stretching luxuriously, spine popping. "Just enjoying the quiet before the rest of you grease goblins start clanking around."
Cidrin emerged from below deck, rubbing sleep from his goggles. "You realize those 'chores' are vital maintenance, not just an excuse for your acrobatic displays."
"Details, details," Fenrick waved a dismissive hand. "Speaking of details, is that the smell of burnt toast? Don't tell me someone let Erin near the galley again."
Ariya giggled. "No, that's just the usual aroma of anticipation for a long voyage. And your turn to scrub the bilge."
Fenrick froze. "The bilge? Are you serious? My delicate constitution can't handle such indignities."
"You were last on rota," Ariya said sweetly, holding up a small, empty bucket. "And Thalor insisted. Said something about 'even the most uncollared dogs needing a bath.'"
Fenrick's eye twitched. "That man has a personal vendetta against my happiness. Also, I resent being compared to a dog. I'm clearly a more majestic creature. A wolf-hawk hybrid, perhaps."
Just then, Erin stumbled onto the deck, looking like he'd fought a losing battle with his blankets, a faint bruise still blooming on his wrist from the Flux Harness. "What's all the shouting about?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
"Nothing, Scrap," Fenrick said, clapping a hand on Erin's shoulder. "Just Ariya attempting to ruin my entire day with manual labor. Anyway, how's the magic arm coming along? Still kicking you in the ribs?"
Erin grunted. "Still figuring out the rhythm. It's like trying to dance with a drunk octopus."
"Sounds about right," Fenrick chuckled. "Maybe you need more mana sensitivity training. You know, like running across a deck slick with fish guts while being chased by an angry chef."
Cidrin sighed, pushing his goggles higher. "Please don't give him ideas."
The morning unfolded with Fenrick performing his chore, albeit with theatrical groans and dramatic sighs that echoed through the lower decks. He somehow managed to turn scrubbing the bilge into a performance art, complete with exaggerated gagging sounds and muttered curses about the injustices of nautical life.
"Honestly," he complained to a bewildered broom, "you'd think a man of my talents would be above this. I save the world, I break bones, I charm entire taverns into giving me free drinks, and what do I get? Bilge water."
On the upper deck, Narza was perched high up near the rigging, not just standing still for once, but moving hand over hand along the rope lines, adjusting tension with that same brutal grace she brought to killing things. A glint of polished steel, a small dagger, was tucked expertly in her teeth, her autumn-colored hair whipping wild behind her like a battle standard. She didn't yell commands — she glared them into existence, her intensity enough to make the ropes themselves obey.
"Morning, sunshine," Fenrick called up, his voice carrying surprising volume as he made his way across the deck, snagging an apple from a nearby crate. He took a loud, crunching bite.
Narza didn't even look down, her movements fluid and efficient. "If you're not doing anything useful, go swab a deck." The words were clipped, sharp as the blade she held.
Fenrick gestured grandly with his half-eaten apple. "I'm morally opposed to swabbing. My artistic temperament simply won't allow it. Besides, where's the glory in a clean floor? No stories there."
"You're morally opposed to basic hygiene," Narza shot back, finally sparing him a fleeting, unamused glance. "And your glory typically involves breaking something."
He smirked, taking another bite of the apple. "You wound me, dearest Narza. Deeply. And accurately." He popped the last of the apple into his mouth, then flicked the core overboard with practiced aim, watching it vanish into the churning wake. He moved on, a restless energy buzzing around him.
Thalor stood at the main helm, but not just planted with arms crossed like usual — this time, he was crouched low, a wrench in one hand, tightening a belt of iron rivets around the console's base. One hand still on the wheel, balancing with an ease that said he'd done it in a storm before. His sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms etched with faded tattoos, one boot braced against the outer railing. He looked like a man engaged in a silent wrestling match with the very heart of the ship.
"Thought you'd sleep through half the day, Fenrick," Thalor said without looking, his voice a low rumble. "The quiet usually agrees with you."
"I considered it," Fenrick replied, stretching an arm over his head, spine popping. "But I figured the ship would fall apart without me. And then who'd blame it on Cidrin's shoddy craftsmanship?"
Thalor gave a short grunt — might've been a laugh. Or indigestion. Or simply a weary acknowledgment that Fenrick was, inevitably, Fenrick.
Fenrick made a slow circuit around the main deck, stretching each joint, bouncing on his toes, rotating his arms like he was warming up for a bar fight instead of breakfast. The sun glared down from a wide open sky — clear blue and so damn peaceful it annoyed him.
He hated peace. Peace was just boredom dressed up with manners. It meant waiting. And Fenrick was terrible at waiting.
He leaned over the port rail, watching the waves roll lazily under them, their endless, hypnotic rhythm doing nothing to quell his restlessness. The ocean had gone too quiet. Too still. Like it was waiting. And that, more than anything, set his teeth on edge.
He stood at the railing longer than he meant to, arms braced, hair tugged sideways by the wind. The waves shimmered a little too evenly for his liking. The kind of stillness that begged to be shattered.
They'd been sailing through pirate waters for days now.
Past the edge of the trade-ring, beyond the reach of the coastal patrols. The maps called this stretch the Nethervane Straits — a no-man's sea tangled between the forgotten Outer Reaches and the jagged rim of the Inner Crescent. Twenty days from Brackton Cay, and there hadn't been an island in sight for five. Just blue on blue, horizon swallowing sky. It was the kind of ocean where ships vanished and were never spoken of again.
Peace was creepy.
He cracked his neck, turned, and wandered toward the rear deck with the air of a man on a holy quest for absolutely nothing. He ducked into the corridor, opened a cabinet just to see what was inside (nothing useful), did two quick push-ups in the galley for no reason, then tried to sneak into the storage room to steal dried mango without Ariya catching him.
She did.
He escaped with a slap on the wrist and a single piece clutched in victory between his teeth.
"Scrap!" he called down again. "If I die of boredom, I want my body mounted on the mast as a warning to future generations!"
No answer.
He sighed. "Fine. Guess I'll have to find my own fun."
At some point he found a half-full bucket of tar and briefly entertained the idea of painting racing stripes on the deck before Narza reappeared like a ghost, dagger in hand, and simply raised one brow.
He abandoned the bucket.
Eventually, after several laps of the deck, a half-serious attempt at fishing using only a spoon, and one very aggressive staring contest with a seagull, something finally caught his eye.
On the horizon — just a smudge.
A speck.
Then movement.
"Thalor," he called out, but the Captain was already there, the wind tugging at his coat.
"Single raft," Thalor said. "One figure."
Fenrick squinted. Sure enough — bobbing amidst the waves was a crude raft, lashed together from driftwood and desperation. A lone figure slumped atop it, unmoving.
"We're in the Straits," Narza said, voice flat as ever. "That's not a rescue. That's bait."
"I'm with Narza on this one." Ariya said, stepping beside him.
"Don't ruin the mystery," Fenrick called back. "Maybe it's a cursed princess. Or a lost sailor with a secret map tattooed to her ass."
Cidrin squinted through a scope, adjusting a dial with a mechanical flick. "I'm not getting a strong pulse," he said. "But there's mana. Dormant, but there. Whoever it is, they're still breathing."
Erin appeared beside him, blinking into the distance. "A castaway? Out here?"
"Better question," said Ariya, "Who survives long enough out here to drift alone?"
No one answered.
"Should we pull them in?" Erin asked, appearing behind them with the kind of cautious hope only someone who hadn't been betrayed by fate yet could have.
"I vote yes," Fenrick said, already reaching for a rope. "Either it's a trap, and we get to fight — or it's a rescue, and we get to feel good about ourselves. Win-win."
Narza didn't look convinced. "Win-win usually ends in blood."
"I like those odds."
They turned slightly into the drift. The Duskvein cut toward the raft like a shadow with teeth. The figure on it came into focus — a woman, early twenties maybe, face sunburned, lips cracked. She was curled up under a shredded cloak, arms limply wrapped around herself, one hand twitching now and then. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth moved as if praying. Or cursing.
Fenrick narrowed his eyes. "She's either very lucky… or very full of shit."
"I can hear you," the woman croaked, voice rough as gravel but still carrying just enough defiance to make Fenrick raise a brow. "Help me or leave me. I don't care."
Ariya was already kneeling at the edge of the Duskvein's side, rope in hand. "We've got you," she said. "Just don't move."
Fenrick tossed a rope down anyway. "She can move. Probably dances. Real sea-spirit energy."
"Don't be an ass," Erin muttered, joining him to help haul the castaway up.
It took effort — her weight was mostly dead, limbs weak and trembling — but together they pulled her onto the deck, where she collapsed in a wet heap. Her eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut.
The woman looked up, dazed. Her eyes flicked from Ariya to Fenrick, to Thalor, then narrowed with suspicion. ".water..Who're you?"
"Crew of the Duskvein," Thalor answered, stepping closer, his gaze unreadable. "You?"
She blinked. "Tyne. Just Tyne."
"How'd you end up all the way out here?" he asked.
Tyne coughed once — a dry, rasping sound that shook her whole body — then pushed herself into a sitting position. Her cloak was still dripping, dark with salt, and her wrists bore rope-burns, half-healed and fresh both. The way she looked at them wasn't gratitude.
It was calculation.
"They left me," she said, voice flat. "My crew. Bastards were supposed to be smugglers. Got in too deep with a pirate flotilla east of Grimveil. When I refused to help them sink a merchant ship with civilians aboard… they tied me up, dumped me off on driftwood, and left me to die."
Ariya's eyes flicked to the bruises on Tyne's forearm. She didn't speak — just offered the woman a flask of water.
Tyne snatched it, drank greedily, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Three days," she muttered. "Maybe four. Lost count."
"That's a long time to be alive with no shelter," Cidrin said slowly.
Fenrick crouched down in front of her, elbows on knees. "Let me guess — you were the only one with a conscience?"
"Didn't help much," she said. "I'm still here, aren't I?"
"Yeah," Fenrick said, tilting his head. "Conveniently."
Narza's hand rested near one of her blades, but she didn't draw. "How many were in your crew?"
"Eight, counting me." Tyne's tone didn't change. "Ship was called Bitterwing. They fly no flag. Ran under a false registry out of Sableton. You probably haven't heard of them."
"No," said Thalor, his voice quiet. "But I know the name Bitterwing."
That made her blink.
He nodded toward the helm. "Get her below. Watch her."
Ariya helped Tyne up with a surprising gentleness. The woman winced as she stood, legs shaking, but didn't resist. As she passed Fenrick, she muttered, "Thanks for the rope, wolf-boy."
Fenrick grinned. "Thanks for the dramatics, sea-princess."
Then she was gone, down the hatch with Ariya shadowing her like a hawk. Only when the door shut behind them did the mood on deck shift.
"I don't buy a word of that," Narza said immediately, voice low.
"She didn't flinch," Cidrin offered. "No mana spikes. Either she's telling the truth, or she's better at lying than any spy I've met."
"Or both," Thalor said.
Fenrick remained crouched a moment longer, staring at the hatch.
"I don't like rescues that show up with perfect timing," he muttered. "We've been quiet this whole stretch. And she just happens to float into our path?"
The ocean beyond shimmered, deceptively calm.
"Could be a trap," Narza said. "Could be a warning."
Fenrick stood, stretching his arms wide. "Well, either way, at least it's something. I haven't had any action since Slum City, I'm just itching for some drama."
Erin gave him a look. "That's not exactly… normal behavior."
"No," Fenrick said brightly. "It's fun behavior."
Thalor narrowed his eyes toward the horizon. "Double watch shifts. No one alone on deck."
"Should I rig the flare mortar?" Cidrin asked.
Thalor shook his head. "Not yet. Let's see who's watching us first."
And so they waited.
And the sea, quiet and wide, offered no answers.
But Fenrick could feel it — the tension hanging between waves, taut and humming like a string waiting to snap.
Whatever was coming… it wasn't far now.
The deck had been quiet for a while.
Too quiet.
The usual symphony of the Duskvein's timbers groaning a low, familiar song, the rhythmic slap of waves curling against her hull, even the distant cry of gulls – all seemed to have muted themselves into a suffocating hush, swallowed by an unnatural stillness.
A profound, heavy foreboding had fallen over the ship, a silence that felt less like peace and more like a held breath, stretching taut with anticipation.
Ariya, ever the compassionate one, hadn't returned from below with their rescued castaway, and a knot of unease tightened in Fenrick's gut. He was just about to voice his growing suspicion, to break the stifling silence—
Then, footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Each clink of metal on damp wood resonated through the deck, a chilling counterpoint to the silent ship. Not the hurried, unsteady gait of a recovering castaway, but something measured, inevitable, heavy with a purpose that rooted itself deep in the core of the ship.
Tyne emerged from belowdecks.
Alone.
Her cloak was gone, vanished like a forgotten dream. In its place, she wore a dark, angular naval coat – frayed at the cuffs, yes, but pulled taut and crisp over a lean, worn frame that now seemed carved from unforgiving stone.
Her boots, though soaked with brine, moved with an unshakeable, silent purpose, leaving faint, evaporating prints on the damp planks.
Her hair, still wild with the ocean's salt, had been swept back with a severe, almost militaristic precision, exposing the sharp, unyielding angles of her face.
She didn't merely walk; she moved with the predatory grace of something that had never known weakness, a coiled spring of dormant power.
Fenrick instinctively straightened, his hand twitching toward the familiar hilt of his dadao.
"Figures," he muttered, the bravado a thin veil over genuine disappointment. "So it was a trap. And here I thought we were getting some actual drama, not just cheap theatrics."
Cidrin, who had been meticulously polishing a stray lens, froze, the glass clattering against the brass.
Erin, a shadow against Thalor's broader form, felt an instinctive tug to step closer to the Captain, his breath catching in his throat, his gaze wide with a burgeoning, primal apprehension.
Narza's hand, a blur of motion, drifted toward the paired shortblades she favored at her hip.
But Tyne wasn't holding a weapon.
She didn't have to.
The very air on the deck thickened as she stepped into full view—not in temperature, but in palpable pressure.
It was as if the Duskvein itself held its breath, timbers groaning not from the sway of the sea, but from an unseen, immense weight.
A subtle shimmer, like heat rippling off sun-baked stone, or gravity in defiance of natural law, bent the light around her frame.
It didn't roar. It didn't scream.
It simply pressed.
This was the crushing aura of a queen on her throne, a sovereign presence that demanded absolute deference.
The crew – Fenrick, Cidrin, Erin, Narza – found their individual wills momentarily overridden, their muscles stiffening, their limbs locking.
An invisible hand seemed to squeeze their lungs, stealing their breath.
A chilling, instinctual paralysis seized them, rooting them to the spot, their eyes wide and fixed on her.
Only Thalor remained unaffected, his posture unwavering, a lone island in a sea of frozen figures.
The worn deck boards beneath her didn't creak beneath her steps; they seemed to obey, absorbing her tread without a sound, as if they knew her authority.
This wasn't magic, Erin realized with a jolt; this was something colder, older, more fundamental.
This was Prana – raw life force, used physically, unconsciously, with predatory control.
"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," she said, her voice a low, steady current.
It was calm. Almost tired, as if the sheer weight of their situation, or perhaps her own existence, bore down on her.
"But it's better to be honest with you now, since we're past pretending."
Cidrin, battling the invisible pressure, managed to rasp out, his voice strained,
"Where's Ariya? What have you done with her?"
Tyne paused, her gaze flicking to him, sharp as a whetted blade.
"Your healer is quite safe. And quite unharmed. She's merely... resting. Below decks."
Her tone left no room for doubt or argument, yet it was dismissive, as if the question itself was beneath her.
She stopped at the absolute center of the deck, claiming it with an almost regal authority.
Her gaze, cool and unblinking, swept across each paralyzed face of the crew, like a seasoned predator assessing its prey, her eyes lingering for a fraction too long on each, as if placing them on an unseen chessboard.
Then, they settled with an unnerving intensity on Thalor.
"I'm Tyne Veyr Dravenholt," she continued. "First Captain of the Gutterwake. Flame-Eyed Daughter of the Scourwake. And you—" she stepped forward, each word sharper than steel, "—are trespassers."
A hush followed. But it was not the silence of confusion.
It was the moment realization takes root.
Tyne gestured around them, lazily. "This is Scourwake territory. You've crossed into waters you don't understand. I tried to make it simple. You took me aboard. That was kind. Admirable, even."
Her gaze swept them again, slow as a guillotine blade.
"And for that… I'm offering you a choice."
She let it breathe. One heartbeat. Two.
"Your ship, or your lives."
Narza, finally breaking free of the invisible grip, coiled like a viper.
In a blur of motion, she launched herself forward, a streak of red scarf and gleaming steel.
Her shortblade, already half-drawn, sought Tyne's throat in a blinding speed blitz, a desperate, instinctive strike honed by a thousand street fights.
But Tyne didn't move.
Not in the way a normal person would.
Narza's assault, though blindingly fast, had been caught by Tyne.
Her blade, meant to carve through flesh, shuddered against the unseen force, its momentum dying in an instant.
Tyne's hand, impossibly quick and yet moving with unhurried grace, merely brushed Narza's wrist, not blocking, but subtly redirecting the entire weight and force of the strike.
The heavy shortblade in Narza's hand seemed to lose all purpose, its trajectory shattered, and it hit the damp deck with a dull, echoing clatter that reverberated through the sudden silence.
Narza reeled back, not quite thrown, but utterly off-balance, her feet skidding dangerously on the wet planks.
She caught herself with a low, frustrated growl, blinking, her face a mask of shock and disbelief.
Her hand, which typically moved with ruthless precision, trembled almost imperceptibly, a stark admission of Tyne's overwhelming power.
"Such a quick blade, So much fury. So little bite, like a stray pup" Tyne said, her voice a low, almost bored murmur.
Her eyes, usually the color of storm-tossed seas, deepened to a piercing, dark shade of purple, their light chilling and utterly devoid of mercy.
"Do yourself a favor, little stray. Next time someone like me lets you swing… fall on your own blade. It'll hurt less than the embarrassment."
Narza stared up, her chest heaving, trembling despite herself.
Erin's breath caught, a sharp intake of air.
His fingers subtly crackled with a faint, violet plasma, an instinctive, defensive surge of his own mana against the oppressive weight in the air.
His eyes, wide with a mix of primal awe and escalating terror, locked onto Tyne.
He understood, with a chilling clarity, that this was not like the chaos of the gang fights, or even the wild magic of Torren Sol.
This was something fundamentally different.
Her presence alone could force grown warriors to kneel.
It wasn't just that she was fast.
It was that her presence hurt.
The air around her shimmered like heat off sun-baked stone, not just visually, but a visceral pressure that pressed in on him.
He could feel it, like standing in the eye of a storm that hadn't arrived yet – an immense, silent weight behind a chilling calm.
His pulse hammered in his ears, not purely from fear, but from raw instinct.
Predator.
He opened his mouth, the words escaping him, louder than he meant to, a desperate warning:
"Narza, don't. You feel it, right? She's not bluffing."
Tyne's eyes flicked toward him.
Just a glance. A fleeting, imperceptible shift of focus, colder and sharper than any blade.
But that glance was enough.
The invisible pressure intensified, honing in on him.
Erin gasped, the air ripping from his lungs.
A sharp pain lanced through his temples as if an invisible fist had slammed into his mind, then pressed down on his skull.
His knees buckled, and he dropped heavily to the damp deck, his vision went white at the edges, fighting to remain conscious against the overwhelming psychic assault.
His plasma dimmed, a faint, visible ripple around his hands, battling against the unseen force, but it was like a candle against a hurricane.
He couldn't stand.
Thalor stepped forward.
It was not a loud movement.
It did not announce itself.
There was no theatricality, no warning.
Just a single, deliberate step, yet the deck groaned beneath him, accepting his weight, amplifying his presence.
And yet the deck changed again.
Cold. Sharp. Silent as a blade drawn from its sheath, reflecting a moon that wasn't there.
The air crackled with a static charge, tiny motes of dust dancing in unseen currents. Metal groaned ominously, ropes tightened, and the Duskvein itself shivered, timbers protesting the dual, immense pressures. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, twisting around the two figures, as if trying to flee the impending collision.
Erin, from his knees, saw the planks around them visibly dip, then subtly warp.
Faint, spiderweb cracks appeared in the wood beneath Tyne's boots, and then, a small, audible snap of a rivet in the nearby railing.
He swore he saw faint, almost imperceptible arcs of pure energy, like distant lightning, crackle and dissipate between Tyne and Thalor, a silent, invisible battle echoing across the deck.
The pressure intensified, a tangible wave that rippled outward, forcing the air from the crew's lungs, threatening to shatter the very stability of the ship.
Two forces met — not in physical contact, but in the crushing pressure of their opposing wills.
Tyne's subtle, pervasive dominance, a quiet, almost casual power, cracked, just slightly, against Thalor's quiet, immovable weight.
The atmosphere distorted again, shimmering with unseen force, warping the air as if viewed through heat haze.
Tiny things rattled in their stanchions, a low, ominous hum vibrating through the ship, a sound of pure, unadulterated Prana.
The mainmast creaked, not from the wind, but from the unbearable tension caught between these two immense figures, like a taut bowstring ready to snap.
Fenrick, his eyes wide and tracking every minute shift, swore he saw a faint flicker in Tyne's steady posture, a subtle clenching of her jaw, indicating a momentary strain as she pushed against Thalor's unyielding counter-pressure.
They didn't speak.
They didn't have to.
The air thrummed with their silent communication, a contest of wills that dwarfed any spoken words.
A moment passed.
Then another.
The only sound was the distant groan of the ship's timbers, a faint protest against the unnatural stillness that had swallowed the sea.
Thalor didn't break the stare.
His eyes, calm and unwavering, held Tyne's with an ancient patience, like mountains facing a storm, completely immune to her oppressive aura.
And slowly — barely, a subtle tremor — Tyne blinked.
Her posture didn't change, but something shifted in her gaze.
A flicker of recognition. Not submission. Not fear.
Just the stark, unblinking acknowledgment of another predator, equally formidable, equally dangerous, capable of holding their own in this unspoken dance of power.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk, sharp and fleeting, curled at the edge of her lips.
Tyne exhaled slowly, pushing her hair back with one gloved hand. Her voice came quiet, but clipped — stripped of any lingering amusement.
"Let's try this again," she said, stepping forward so the deck creaked beneath her boots. "You give me the ship. Or you die. I'm being generous, and I hate repeating myself."
Fenrick stepped forward, shaking his head.
"You really think you can take all of us on? You expect us to just hand over our supplies, give you our ship, and let you walk away after what you did to Ariya?"
His voice was laced with a desperate defiance, a challenge born of shock and stubborn pride.
Tyne's purple eyes flicked back to him, cold and assessing.
"Alone? No. I would lose. I know this crew. I know him," she said, her gaze briefly touching Thalor before returning to Fenrick.
"You are not insignificant. But I am not alone either. I sent a signal the moment I was pulled aboard. And while I may be generous, my crew is not. They are not as... merciful."
She turned her gaze to Thalor, her voice dropping to a low, knowing tone.
"Besides, Captain Thalor Aemryn. I know your game. You don't bow easily. And you're worth more than the rest of this scrap heap combined. Word in the secret Tideguard files is you're merely a 'Captain of Interest' , but those who know, call you the 'Ghost Current', or even 'The Man Who Sank the Moon'."
Her eyes gleamed.
"They say you walk like a man, fight like a god, and command loyalty in ways no speech ever could. A weathered man, early sixties, who's not rally involved in the world anymore, in search of something."
"Tell me, Thalor — what's the secret to that quiet strength, that way you see through every lie?"
Thalor's jaw remained set, his eyes unreadable, but a flicker of grim acknowledgment passed through them.
Then, his voice a low rumble, finally spoke.
"The Scourwake Fleet is under 'Tempestheart' Roric, if I recall correctly. Last I heard, he preferred to destroy his opponents with force, not simply collect tribute."
Tyne's smirk widened, a flicker of genuine amusement in her eyes.
"He's... quite set in his ways. Even now."
Erin's mind reeled.
"Tempestheart?" he breathed, the name sparking a memory from an old, dusty tale.
"One of the Horizon Breakers? The legendary pirate crew?"
Thalor's jaw remained still, but his brow lifted — ever so slightly. He let the silence stretch for a beat too long, long enough for everyone on deck to start shifting, glancing, unsure if it was tension or stillness before the storm.
Then he exhaled through his nose — short, dry.
"Roric teaching his pets to talk big now?" he said, voice low and even, like a knife dragged across stone. "Figures. Tempestheart always did love the sound of his own myth."
Tyne's expression didn't shift, but the air around her seemed to tense.
"You're playing at legacy," Thalor continued, stepping closer now, slow and deliberate. "Trying to inherit a name that's already rotting. I knew Roric when the ocean still feared him. That was forty years ago. He's old now. Slower. Breathing too shallow. Dying, probably."
Tyne's fingers twitched near her saber hilt.
"And if this—" Thalor nodded toward the fleet darkening the horizon— "is the best he can send? Then it tells me something clear."
He lifted his chin slightly, like a declaration across the sea.
"That your fleet is dying right alongside him. And if you really want to test the weight of your legacy—" He held out a hand behind him, and Fenrick stepped forward without needing to be called. Narza moved too, silent and steady, blades gleaming.
"—then come take us. I'll show you what it means to lose everything and still not flinch."
That struck. Not deeply — not enough to shake her — but enough to flare something behind her eyes. A twitch. A slow blink. The kind of offense that burns under the ribs, not above them.
Tyne's jaw tightened, and her head tilted ever so slightly. No words — not yet. But her hands tightened around the pommel of one saber.
She stepped closer. "Careful, Tideguard."
Behind them, the humming from below the waves intensified, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the deck beneath their feet, a sound like a distant, massive engine. The light reflecting off the water around the Duskvein began to shimmer, subtly at first, then more visibly, as if something immense was rising from the depths, or cutting through the water at impossible speed.
Then, a new shadow began to coalesce on the horizon. Not just the sleek form of the Gutterwake, but an couple of other vessels too, larger, darker, trailing behind like hounds unleashed. Their sails, taut and black, bore the distinct mark of the Scourwake — a jagged, stylized wave crushing a skull. They cut through the water with terrifying efficiency, flank speed, dwarfing the Duskvein with their sheer number and predatory lines.
"...No way," Fenrick muttered, stepping forward. "That's her ship?"
The lead vessel — the Gutterwake itself — was a behemoth compared to the Duskvein. A galleon of impossible size, three masts tall as towers, every inch lacquered in that same void-like black. Arcane sigils were etched along its sides, pulsing with a low burn, and faint blue lights flickered beneath the surface of its hull — suggesting power not fueled by wind or current alone
Erin stared, his throat dry.
On the foredeck of the Gutterwake, he could see them. Silhouettes.
Figures stood with military stillness, shoulder to shoulder, watching in silence. Their coats — cut high, angular and severe — mirrored Tyne's, but more embellished. Silver thread glinted at their cuffs and lapels. Their collars rose high, masking their necks like armor, and the weapons they bore — polearms, sabers, greathooks — shimmered in the ambient glow.
But what struck Erin most was how still they were.
Not shifting. Not bracing against the wind. Just waiting.
The Duskvein's deck was deathly quiet.
Even the sea seemed to pause.
Then, with a sudden streak of motion, A figure leapt from the top rail, sprinting full speed down the length of the bowsprit — and vaulted.
He soared over the void between ships like a thrown spear, twisting midair, and landed in a crouch on the Duskvein's deck with a thud and a flash of pressure. Not Prana — not quite — but something close. His boots skidded slightly as he rose, eyes gleaming with energy, his frame small but coiled with intent. Compact frame. Dark coat flaring. Sharp eyes immediately locking onto Fenrick.
"Finally," the boy said, cracking his neck. "I was starting to think this day'd be boring."
He was young — Erin's age, maybe even the exact same — wiry and lean with sharp, ocean-colored eyes. His long black coat swayed behind him, stitched in blue and silver along the seams. A staff hilt protruded over his shoulder, mismatched gloves tightening around his fingers as he turned a slow circle across the deck.
He looked delighted.
"Is this it? You all looked taller from back there." he said, gesturing to the Duskvein's crew with exaggerated disappointment. "Seriously? This is what Tyne pulled us in for? This sorry ass crew?"
He squinted across them like he was trying to find the joke. Then he pointed lazily at Cidrin.
"You," he said, eyes narrowing. "You look like the guy who sits in a corner with charts and broken junk, pretending he's saving the world one gear at a time. What do you do, build teapots and cry when the sails rip?"
Cidrin stiffened, but the boy kept going.
"Let me guess — engineer, right? Ship tech? We've got one of those. Real vital stuff, except anyone with half a brain and a hammer could probably replace you. You probably give speeches about how your gadgets will totally work next time, right? Like—'Don't worry, it just needs another adjustment!' Meanwhile the crew's out here risking their lives and you're rubbing wires together like a baby with a fork."
He made a mock explosion noise with his hands, then gave a pitying shrug.
"Honestly? You're just the nerd they keep around to feel smarter than. I bet the crew's faster without you slowing 'em down, you weak little bookmark. Less deadweight. No offense. Wait—" He smirked. "Nah, all the offense."
Cidrin's jaw twitched, but he didn't move. The boy didn't give him time. Narza took a single step forward, but the boy turned before Cidrin could fire back.
He pointed straight at her, eyes lighting up.
"Oho, and look at this one — I've seen this before. All broody, all edgy, got some tragic backstory where someone important died and now you're angry at the world, right?"
Narza's expression darkened.
"You wake up every morning, stare into a cracked mirror, and think, 'If I just look intense enough, maybe they won't see how insecure I am. Whole lotta staring at knives and thinking they understand you?'"
He mimed her expression — exaggerated frown, furrowed brow, eyes narrowed — and drew imaginary blades from his sides with mocking flair.
"'Don't talk to me,'" he said in a dramatic voice. "'My trauma makes me strong.'"
He snorted. "You're not a fighter — you're a walking tantrum with knives."
He made a little swirl with his finger, mocking her scarf and hair. Narza's jaw clenched. Her hand went to her hilt. Then the boy turned to Fenrick.
His smile twisted into something sharper.
"And this one, oh gods — this is too easy."
He eyed him up and down, waving a hand at the faint aura of beast magic still clinging to Fenrick's skin.
"You're obviously the mascot. Beast mage. Big muscles, small brain. You're the crew's hammer, yeah? Point and smash? No offense, but you've got that look. The 'what's two plus two?' and you answer with a punch. I bet you can't count to ten without using your fingers!"
He tilted his head, laughing histerically. "Tell me something, retard — you ever solved any problem that didn't involve growling at it?"
Fenrick's brow twitched.
"Do you even have thoughts, or is your head just one long scream of rage and meat cravings?"
Fenrick took a step forward. His aura stirred.
"I'll kill you."
"Oh no," the boy said, mimicking fear, hands up in fake surrender. "Big man growled at me. Look out, everyone, here comes Captain Brainrot. Hope you studied your multiplication tables before this—oh wait, never mind."
The boy spun, ready to move again—
Crack.
Erin's fist slammed into his jaw with a clean, satisfying impact, snapping his head to the side and sending him stumbling a few steps back.
Everyone froze.
Narza blinked. Cidrin's eyes widened slightly.
Fenrick stared for a beat — then broke into a grin.
"There he is," he muttered. "That's what I'm talkin' about."
The boy straightened slowly, wiping a smear of blood from his lip with the back of his glove.
He looked at Erin now — really looked.
Erin didn't back down.
"You don't get to talk about them like that," he said, voice firm. "You don't know them. So keep your mouth shut."
The boy stared at him for a beat.
Then he laughed.
Low and quick at first — then brighter, sharper. A delighted cackle that rang across the deck like flint on steel.
"Oh, I like you," he said, grin widening.
He took a step forward, drawing something from his belt — not a blade, but a long, thin instrument of polished metal, like a pole, that began to crackle faintly with static.
"I really do. Got some fire in you. What's your name, pretty boy?"
Erin stared right back.
"Erin Salore."
The boy's grin faltered.
For the briefest second — barely a flicker — something shifted behind his eyes.
"...Huh."
He tilted his head, like he was looking at a puzzle piece that suddenly fit.
"You're Salore? Of the… Voyager line?"
Erin said nothing.
"Tell me you're lying. Tell me this is some elaborate long-con. Because if you're not…" He looked him over again. "You might be the biggest disappointment in history."
He paused.
"…Or maybe the most interesting."
That grin returned — sharper this time.
"Now I definitely can't let that punch slide. I wanna see what you're made of Salore!"
He took a step forward, drawing something from his belt — not a blade, but a long, thin instrument of polished metal, like a pole, that began to crackle faintly with static. Then he crouched, one foot slipping back into a fighting stance—
WHACK.
A blur crashed down from above.
It hit him like a falling star.
The boy yelped — not out of pain, but surprise — as a fist slammed into the top of his head with pinpoint force, flattening him halfway to the deck.
"ZEO, YOU ABSOLUTE STORM-DRUNK DUMBASS!"
The figure landed with feline grace atop his back, long legs tucked beneath a sweeping indigo coat laced in gold thread and glass buttons that caught the light. She rode him to the floor like a collapsing scaffold before hopping off with a theatrical spin, the tails of her coat swirling in the air like ribbons.
Tall. Lithe. A wicked gleam in her golden eyes. Her dark-brown skin shimmered in the sun, and her braided hair was pinned up under a cockeyed tricorn hat with glittering pins and foxglass charms. A single glass monocle sat over one eye, glinting with shifting color.
"You just had to leap in early," she muttered, dragging Zeo up by the collar as he groaned.
"I had it!" Zeo protested, voice muffled. "He hit me!"
"Because you earned it!" she snapped, shaking him once like a wet rag. Then she looked at Erin and gave a dazzling, sarcastic smile.
"Sorry about him. We keep him around for situations where we need to annoy barnacles off the hull."
"Hey—!" Zeo started, only to get shoved aside.
She dusted her gloves, then turned and raised a single hand to the sky.
A whistle. A single note, clean and rising.
Across the gap, shapes stirred.
Figures vaulted the railings of the Gutterwake in quick succession — three, four, five — and landed on the Duskvein like coals spilling from a fire.
One hit the bowsprit with a thump and a sharp click of metal boots. Another twirled a staff with one hand as he descended, landing light as mist. A broad-shouldered woman in a sleeveless crimson vest landed with a heavy stomp, cracking the wood under her boots. The others fanned out naturally, no formation needed — they simply moved like they'd done this a hundred times before.
Erin's breath caught in his chest. These weren't just pirates.
They were a crew.
And they moved like a pack of apex predators who already knew which parts of the Duskvein would break first.
The girl — now clearly in command — gave a half bow to the stunned deck.
"Apologies," she said lightly. "Didn't mean for the introduction to get so loud. Name's Foxglass. You've already met our little mascot." She jerked a thumb at Zeo, who was rubbing his head. "He's recovering."
Tyne stood flanked by her crew like a dark crown of blades. Her dark purple eyes swept across Erin and the others — not mocking anymore, not theatrical. Just calculating. She moved with calm precision,
Foxglass and the others stepped aside without cue. Zeo muttered something under his breath and tried to look casual, but even he didn't speak.
Tyne stopped five paces from Thalor, and her voice carried with effortless command.
"This is your last chance."
She didn't shout. She didn't need to.
"Abandon the Duskvein. Leave your cargo, your ship, your pride. You walk away with your lives. You'll never be welcome in Scourwake waters again, but you'll still have breath in your lungs. That's more than most get."
Silence.
Then—
"No."
Fenrick stepped forward. Shoulders wide. Teeth bared. Beast magic already beginning to stir at his skin.
"You think we'll let you take the Duskvein? Over our dead fucking bodies."
Narza moved beside him, unsheathing her blades in a whisper of steel. Her eyes were locked on the opposing crew, unflinching.
Then, one by one, the rest stepped forward.
The first to step forward was a mountain of a woman — broad-shouldered, scarred, and sun-darkened, with massive arms that looked like they'd been chiseled from dockside iron. Tolla. She wore a sleeveless crimson vest over bare arms corded with muscle, a brutal spiked chain coiled lazily at her hip. Her hair was half-shaved, the other side braided into rings of dark gold and copper. She rolled her neck with a satisfying crack, casting a long shadow across the deck.
Next came Grin.
He didn't walk so much as lope forward, like a beast pretending to be civil. His arms hung a little too low, knuckles scarred and wrapped in brass-etched knuckle guards that gleamed in the sun. His grin was constant — wide, cracked, jagged — and his eyes were dull, like the light inside him had gone out long ago but the furnace kept burning anyway. His coat was stitched in patchwork leather and mismatched buttons, and he had the smug confidence of someone who liked the anticipation more than the act. He gave Fenrick a lazy wink, like they were old friends about to share a drink.
Both he and Tolla were behemoths, standing at least around 10 feet to 12 feet tall
And then Skitch.
All nerves and angles. A child, maybe thirteen, with two fingers missing on the left hand and short-cut copper hair fraying at the edges. Her coat was tattered, but her movements were fast, twitchy, birdlike — fingers dancing near the hilts of countless small blades woven into every seam and strap of his outfit. Her eyes flicked from Narza to Erin to Thalor to Tyne and back again in rapid succession. She looked like she'd already fought this battle a hundred times in her head and was waiting for reality to catch up.
The Duskvein crew stiffened, tension crackling through the air like a drawn storm.
Narza stepped forward first, slow and deliberate, her scarf trailing behind her like a red flame. Smoke unfurled at her shoulders, curling around her arms as she moved to stand between Skitch and Foxglass.
Skitch immediately perked up, tapping the hilt of a blade on her thigh. She clicked and nodded at Foxglass, like she was communicating in a language only she could understand.
Foxglass didn't answer. Her eyes were already fixed on Narza's stance — and the smoke.
Fenrick followed a heartbeat later, boots thudding, aura already pulsing faintly as he positioned himself squarely between Tolla and Grin. His teeth bared slightly. The air around him shimmered faintly with bestial heat.
Tolla smirked. "Big boy wants a real fight."
Grin just kept smiling.
Zeo, of course, was already grinning across from Erin — hands light, stance low, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Don't worry," he called, spinning the metal rod between his fingers like a baton. "I'll keep it interesting."
Erin didn't reply. His fists were clenched at his sides. Steady. Focused.
Tyne watched all of it in silence.
Then she stepped forward again, toward Thalor, her long coat stirring behind her like a banner caught in rising wind.
"You could still walk away," she said. "Even now. You, the boy, maybe even the engineer. I could let it go."
"You speaking that way tells me you just don't know who we are" Thalor said calmly.
Tyne tilted her head, violet eyes narrowed.
"You're not as unreadable as you think," Thalor added, voice low. "You didn't bring your full fleet here to bargain. You came to dominate. But something in you still wants this to end without the bloodshed."
"Still so calm," she said. "Even with a fleet bearing down on you. Even with your crew about to be buried in the sea they bled to cross."
Thalor didn't flinch. "You're still trying to bluff me."
Her eyes narrowed, those violet irises gleaming.
"Bluff?" she repeated. "You think that's what this is?"
"You haven't struck yet."
"Neither have you."
A beat passed. The air between them thickened, pulling taut like a drawn bowstring.
"You keep them on short leashes," Tyne said, glancing at his crew. "But they want to fight. I see it. Even your boy."
Thalor looked back briefly. Erin. Narza. Fenrick. All braced.
When he returned his eyes to Tyne, his voice was quieter. "They're not leashed. They're just waiting for the right moment."
She looked at them — Erin standing firm, Narza ready to draw, Fenrick already vibrating with tension.
"You trust them?" she asked.
"I do."
"And when they die?"
"They won't."
Tyne gave a faint exhale of something that might have been amusement.
"And this is the moment, then?"
Foxglass stepped to the left. Skitch mirrored her to the right. Tolla cracked her neck again and squared her feet. Grin twitched his fingers. Zeo flicked the rod once and it split open with a hiss of steam, revealing crackling coils and buzzing plates.
Narza stepped directly in front of Skitch and Foxglass, blades half-drawn, a thin plume of smoke rising from her shoulders.
Fenrick shifted with her, aura flaring, claws sliding out, standing opposite Tolla and Grin.
Zeo cracked his neck and faced Erin again with a childlike glint in his eye.
Thalor simply raised one hand.
And pointed.
"Cidrin."
Cidrin blinked. "Y-yeah?"
"Go."
He hesitated.
"Get Ariya," Thalor said. "Now."
"Right." Cidrin turned and bolted belowdeck, disappearing into shadow.
Above, the wind whipped louder. Ropes pulled taut. Sails flared. The ocean seemed to churn in slow motion beneath them, reflecting the storm waiting to break on deck.
Each side squared off.
A pause.
No words.
No breath.