The morning mist in Lithrys did not taste of the open sea. It was a cloying, heavy thing, thick with the scent of damp stone and the suffocating perfume of the roses that climbed every white-marble archway of the city. To a man who lived by the clean bite of the wind, the air here felt like a curated lie, designed to mask the slow, briny rot of the harbor mud beneath the elegance of the spires.

Talathis Dawntreader stood in the cramped confines of his berth, the cold light of the morning bleeding through the small porthole to catch the edge of his shaving blade. He moved the steel with practiced precision, scraping away the "softness" of the land that had begun to itch at his jaw during their three-day stay.

He was twenty-six years old, a seasoned navigator, and currently a man without a rank that mattered. Sailing Master, his father had said, stripping away the title of First Mate after the disaster in Averos. He was the man who kept them off the rocks, the man who knew the "voice" of the ship better than the man who owned her—and yet he was once again the bastard shadow, hidden while Cedrik played the part of the privateer lord in the light.

He wiped the last of the soap from his face, the skin of his jaw stinging in the damp air. He leaned closer to the small, pitted mirror, noting the lines around his eyes that had not been there a year ago. I am a memory of a memory, a legacy of a love that could not be named. The words of the old verse floated unbidden into his mind. He did not know where he had first heard them; perhaps he had overheard them whispered in the dark corners of a tavern, or perhaps his mother had murmured them as a lullaby when he was a babe in the attic loft. They were words that felt dangerous here, smelling of the kind of heresy the priests of the city would burn a man for knowing.

But they fit. He was not a soul lost in revelation; he was a man who needed to get his ship out of this perfume shop.

The air in the berth changed as he opened the porthole. The cloying floral scent of the city rushed in, but beneath it, the Sea Wolf spoke her own truth. Because of the specialized ammunition they carried in the magazine, the ship's interior smelled of seared air and vinegar—a sharp, electric tang that scoured the lungs and marked the vessel as a predator among the bobbing, white-winged ships of the Vesprian fleet.

He stepped out of his cabin, his boots finding the rhythmic thud of a ship preparing for the tide. The crew was silent, moving with a disciplined urgency. Talathis walked the perimeter of the masts, his eyes scanning the standing rigging. On a standard ship, these lines would be hemp or tarred canvas. Here, they were wire-strung cables, wound tight and tuned to the specific frequency of the hull.

"Check the mutes," Talathis ordered, his voice low.

The crew moved with the practiced silence of men who knew their lives depended on discretion. Talathis watched them inspect the heavy leather dampenings lashed around the cables. In port, the ship had to be silenced. The Vesprians did not tolerate the "singing" of the wires in their sacred harbor. To let the rigging vibrate here would be an act of war. So the Sea Wolf sat in silence, muzzled and leashed, a predator holding its breath.

He continued his inspection, moving to the gunwale. The iron cannons—forged from rare mountain alloys—were retracted behind ornate carvings of sea serpents. He checked the grease on the tracks, ensuring the mechanisms would slide freely when the order came. Nearby, Ghal'kor examined the shot for each of the ship’s hidden guns. The stone-skinned master gunner was polishing a heavy sphere, his lavender-grey, crystalline skin catching the morning light as he ignored the Vesprian guards patrolling the white quays nearby.

"Am I hiding the weapons," Talathis thought, the bitterness rising in his throat, "or am I just hiding myself?"

He was the Sailing Master now, but old habits died hard. He checked the cargo manifest, inspected the stores, and verified the fresh water. Cedrik did not trust anyone else with the coin. So Talathis did the work, ensuring the Sea Wolf did not drift while his father played the diplomat in the city.

He looked out at Lithrys. It was a bottleneck of white stone and arrogance, carved into the throat of the river itself. A light spring rain began to fall—the northern damp at work. Talathis wiped the fresh moisture from his clean-shaven beard, feeling the weight of the ship settle as the tide began to turn against the massive outflow of the river.

"And what fare may I expect on this voyage?"

Talathis suppressed a sigh and turned. Standing by the forward hatch was the Factor—a stocky, soft-handed man. He was dressed in a velvet doublet that was already wilting in the damp, and he looked at the Sea Wolf’s deck with the skepticism of a man used to plush carpets.

"I arrived on an ambassador’s ship," the Factor continued, patting his round stomach. "The hold had livestock. We ate fresh meat every day at sea. I assume a Duke's vessel offers similar comforts?"

Talathis forced a polite smile. "The Sea Wolf is a working ship, sir. We are not a luxury packet." He gestured to the iron-banded crates being lowered into the hold—shot and alloy, not grain. "Most of our crew are marines. We tend to carry extra ammunition instead of livestock."

The Factor frowned. "No livestock?"

"We might have some fresh meat during the first week," Talathis said, keeping his voice even. "But it will not be long before the fare becomes hardtack and salted pork. Wolves do not sleep on featherbeds, sir."

The Factor grumbled something about "civilized travel" and peered into the small passenger cabin.

"Sea travel is always the worst part of the job," he muttered. He looked at Talathis again. "Yes, I did hear something about that. Your ship carries the heavy guns. I understand Therysia has more such ships?"

"The Sea Wolf was one of the first," Talathis said, his voice dropping. "She carries the specialized iron guns managed by our mountain gunners. She has teeth, Master Factor. You would do well to remember that if the winds turn foul."

The Factor took the hint, offering a curt nod before retreating into his cabin to mourn the loss of his fresh veal.

Talathis turned away, leaning against the mizzenmast. He watched the deckhands secure the last of the wine and water ballast. He was the man who ensured the beast could hunt. And yet, he was chained to it.

The memory of his mother hit him then, unbidden. This memory was not of the fire—it was from Vagnithane, a decade ago. He had been sixteen, and he had been given a choice: stay on land or sign the ship's articles.

He could still see her standing in the doorway of the small attic loft above the inn where she worked. It was a cramped space, smelling of stale ale from the floor below and the dry woodsmoke of the hearth. She had not spoken—she could not. Instead, her hands had moved in a blur of frantic shapes, the silent language she had taught him since birth.

He leaves us, Tally, she had signed, her knuckles white with the force of the words. He goes back to his highborn wife and his stone tower. We stay here.

Talathis remembered how she had grabbed his shoulders, her eyes begging him to understand what her voice could not say. She had tried to anchor him to the land, to save him from the father who only wanted a legacy, not a son. She had pulled her hands away to sign the final, crushing truth.

If you go with him, you will just be another part of his ship. You will never be whole.

Talathis pushed off the mast, his jaw tight. She had been right. He was twenty-six winters old. He had seen more of the Five Seas than most lords at court. But to his father, he was still just a useful instrument. A secret to be kept offshore.

Night claimed the harbor. The purple of the twilight faded into a deep, bruised dark as the rain thickened, turning the deck slick. Talathis was conferring with the harbor pilot, a woman named Elara, when the watchman signaled.

"Captain's returning!"

Talathis moved to the gangplank. He saw his father emerging from the mist, his heavy wool coat dark with moisture. Cedrik walked with the rolling gait of a man who found land to be an unstable surface.

"More visitors?" Talathis asked as Cedrik stepped onto the deck, the mask of command sliding over his face.

Cedrik paused, his eyes holding the weight of a hundred storms. He turned back to the quay and only nodded.

"Lady Krysaalis and the Sentinel Malyndriel," Cedrik called out, his voice a practiced boom of hospitality. "Welcome aboard the Sea Wolf."

Talathis looked down the plank. Behind his father stood two figures in the rain. One was a tall, armored presence draped in the navy and silver of the Vesprian Guard. The helm obscured her face, leaving her a faceless sentinel of metal and shadow.

"Son," Cedrik’s voice cracked like a whip close to his ear, dropping the volume. "Go help the ladies aboard. Get them settled. We leave on the turning tide. And don't get charming."

Talathis moved to the gangplank. He recognized the armored sentinel instantly. He did not need to see the face; he knew the gait as she made her way onto the ship. Once she stepped onto the deck, her center of gravity low and fluid, she reached up and unlatched the heavy helm.

"Liryn," Talathis said, his voice carrying a thread of genuine warmth.

Lirynel pulled back the helm to reveal the sharp, flint-eyed features of the woman who had taught him how to survive a sparring ring. She did not smile, but her shoulders dropped an inch.

"And I see you're still guarding the gangplank, Talathis," she replied, her Therysian sharp and fluent. She reached out, gripping his forearm—a warrior’s check, testing the arm beneath.

"Good to see you, Liryn," Talathis said, returning the grip.

But his eyes gazed past her. The woman beside her stole the breath from his lungs.

She was petite, wrapped in a heavy traveling cloak. As she stepped into the orange glow of the ship’s lamps, she looked up at the rigging. Her cowl fell back, revealing hair the color of rosemilk—a soft, pale strawberry-blonde that spilled out like spun copper in the light.

Talathis had spent his life around the sea, but he had never perceived a shandaryn like this. He steered by ear; he possessed what the sailors called "Dead Listening." Most people were just noise—static in the background. But this woman... she was a clear, resonant pressure. A heaviness in the air that made his teeth ache and his pulse steady.

"Talathis," Lirynel’s voice cut through his trance. She offered a playful wink, her eyes bright with the familiar mischief of a mentor who knew her student's weaknesses. "Attend to my companion. And try not to stare. It’s rude."

Talathis snapped out of it, his face flushing hot. He had been caught ogling like a green deckhand. He swallowed hard, smoothed his expression, and hurried down the slick plank to offer his hand.

"I trust you have met my father, Cedrik Dawntreader," Talathis began, his voice sounding raspier than he intended.

He took her hand. It felt like a warm blanket, lacking the cool clamminess of the fog.

"I am Talathis Dawntreader," he said, guiding her up the ramp. "Your belongings were taken aboard earlier."

She smiled. It was radiant—a sudden sunrise in the middle of a rainy night. He stared, his mouth slightly open, the cold drizzle forgotten.

"I trust the accommodations are ready," Lirynel said sharply as they reached the deck. She sidestepped in front of her companion, a fluid motion that placed her between Talathis and the radiant woman. It was a warrior’s check—a silent warning.

Talathis stopped, holding his palms open to show he carried no steel. He met Liryn’s gaze, recognizing the hardness there.

"Oh, Liryn, do not frighten those who will have care of our person," a voice said. It was sweet, melodic, like honey-wine poured over crystal.

The radiant woman stepped around her guardian. She looked at Talathis, and her blue eyes seemed to pierce through his wet wool coat.

"Your quarters are prepared," Talathis said, recovering his composure. "The forward berth. It’s the quietest spot on the ship. Welcome aboard the Sea Wolf."

"I am Krysaalis a’Ciermanuinn," she said. "It is an honor to meet you." She looked past him, to where his father stood in the shadows. "And to perceive you again, Captain."

Perceive? It was the language of the golden age, spoken now only by scholars and exiles. Talathis felt a strange sensation, like a vibration at the base of his skull.

"Titles are fluid things on the water," she replied, a faint smile touching her lips. She glanced at the wire-strung rigging, heavily wrapped in leather. "Your ship... she is holding her breath."

Talathis blinked. Most passengers saw ropes and wood. She saw the tension. "We keep her silenced in port. The Vesprians don't like the noise."

Krysaalis paused, her blue eyes widening. "You chose the quiet berth for the silence?"

"Liryn mentioned you... appreciate clarity," Talathis lied smoothly. "And once we clear the wall, this ship doesn't stay quiet."

"I do not well know what Krysaalis is speaking," Lirynel said with a dry smirk, gripping Krysaalis’s elbow. “The Vesprians don't like anything they cannot control. Come. The damp is setting in."

Talathis chuckled, the tension breaking. "We intend to push away in the next couple of hours to catch the tide," he called out.

Krysaalis turned back at the threshold. The orange lamp-light caught her hair, turning it into a halo of fire and gold.

"You are most gracious," she said.

Talathis bowed clumsily. As the hatch closed, he felt the familiar weight of the ship settle back onto his shoulders.

"Don't get ideas, son."

Cedrik stood in the shadow of the mainmast. "Those ladies are guests of the council. They are as far beyond you as the stars are from the bilge. Get the gangplank secured. Then get the leather mutes off the main-lines. The river is fighting the tide. We need to thread the needle."

Talathis frowned. "Mutes off? Inside the threshold? The Port Authority will fine us."

"Let them fine us," Cedrik said, his eyes hard. "The wind is shifting. The water is going to be hell tonight. We’ll need the lift, or the pressure might put too much strain on the hull."

Talathis looked at the dark water of the harbor mouth. He understood. It was a calculated risk—break the law or break the ship.

"Aye, Captain," he said, pulling his knife. "I'll strip the lines."

Talathis climbed the quarterdeck ladder, the soles of his boots finding purchase on the wet wood by memory alone. The rain had thickened. The lights of Lithrys were no longer distinct spires; they were smeared ghosts of orange and violet.

"Anchor's aweigh!" the watchman cried.

The command rippled through the ship. The crew of the Sea Wolf moved with a silent efficiency. Talathis took the helm. The wheel was cold and slick, a familiar weight. He rested his palms against the spokes, waiting for the ship to speak to him.

Beside him stood Elara, the harbor pilot. She watched the dark water with a critical eye.

"The outflow is heavy tonight, Master Dawntreader," she said. "The river is draining hard. The collision of waters will be violent."

"We call it the mouth-shear," Talathis said.

"Call it what you like," the pilot replied. "The river is fresh and fast; the bay is salt and heavy. When they meet, the water does not know which way to flow. Keep her center, or the weight will snap your rudder."

The Sea Wolf was towed through the harbor's gate—the narrow gap in the massive seawall. As they passed under the shadow of the guard towers, Talathis felt the oppressive weight of the Vesprian wards pressing down.

Then, they cleared the wall.

"Cast off the tow!" Talathis ordered.

The longboats fell back. The Sea Wolf drifted into the channel, naked and heavy.

"Full press!" Talathis shouted. "Strip the lines!"

The crew scrambled aloft, pulling the heavy leather mutes from the rigging. As the leather fell away, exposing the wire cables to the wind, the ship began to wake up.

It started as a buzz—a low-frequency itch in Talathis's teeth. The wind caught the canvas. The wires began to vibrate. The buzz deepened into a steady, resonant thrum that traveled down the mast and into the soles of Talathis’s boots.

The ship did not just accelerate; it lifted. Talathis felt the deck lighten beneath his feet as the vibration reduced the drag on the hull. The heavy galleon transformed into something lighter, sharper.

"Turbulence ahead!" the lookout shouted.

Talathis saw it—a line of chaotic, white-capped chop where the black river water slammed into the grey bay tide.

The Sea Wolf hit the boundary line.

The hull groaned—a sickening sound of wood under weight. The conflicting waters grabbed the keel. The salt water gripped the rudder, while the fresh water pushed the hull. The ship shuddered violently, trying to shear sideways toward the rocks.

"Hard to port!" Elara barked. "Correct the drift!"

"No," Talathis whispered. "If I turn, she breaks."

He could feel it. Beneath the thrum, a new sound was rising—a deep, grinding noise. The tension on the hull was too high. If he fought the current with the rudder, the force would shatter the keel. He did not need to turn. He needed to Lean.

"Prepare to lean!" Talathis shouted, closing his eyes. He tuned out the wind and the pilot's protest. He engaged his "Dead Listening," focusing entirely on the vibration in the wheel.

He spun the wheel hard to starboard—into the current.

"You'll ground us!" the pilot shouted, reaching for the spokes. "You're turning into the fight!"

"Let her sing!" Talathis snapped, blocking her with his shoulder.

He held the turn. The wind caught the sails at a sharp angle. The Sea Wolf heeled over, dipping her rail dangerously close to the foaming water. The wire rigging screamed—a high, piercing whistle that rattled the binnacle glass.

The ship, balanced precariously on the edge of her hull, projected her weight against the river's outflow. The drag vanished.

The Sea Wolf stopped plowing and started planing. Like a stone skipped across a pond, the hull skimmed over the turbulent mixing zone. She was not moving forward so much as she was moving sideways—her bow pointed at the river bank, but her momentum carrying her safely down the center of the channel in a surreal, drifting grace.

For thirty seconds, the world was nothing but spray and the scream of the rigging. Then, the chop smoothed out. The water turned the deep, uniform black of the true ocean. The grinding noise faded, replaced by the steady thrum of a ship running free.

Talathis opened his eyes. They were past the hazard. The lights of Lithrys were gone. He exhaled, his hands trembling slightly on the wheel.

The pilot stared at him, her face pale. She smoothed her coat, regaining her composure with difficulty. "That," she said, "was reckless, Master Dawntreader. Efficient. But reckless."

"It is how she likes to run," Talathis said, patting the wheel.

He looked over the side. The harbor pilot’s boat was bobbing in the dark water, its crew struggling to keep pace.

"Your crew is ready for you," Talathis said, gesturing to the rope ladder. "Best hurry. The Wolf has no intention of slowing down."

The pilot gave him a final, assessing look. She nodded once, then headed for the descent. Talathis watched her go, then looked down at the main deck. Through the grate, he could see the faint luminescence of Ghal'kor's stone-skin as the master gunner secured the heavy iron guns.

Talathis looked at the binnacle, correcting the heading by a fraction of a degree—enough to catch the stronger winds of the outer channel.

I am a memory of a memory, he thought, the salt spray cooling his face. But tonight, the ship speaks a language my father cannot hear.

He turned his eyes to the invisible horizon. He longed for the dawn, but as the Sea Wolf charged into the black, Talathis embraced the twilight.