The cell was damp and stinking of old sea rot, the walls lined with salt-streaked wood that creaked every time the waves shifted under the half-ruined hull. Rian sat slumped against the far wall, legs drawn in, head tipped back against the beam behind him. His shirt was torn from the storm and the fight, caked with dried blood at the shoulder where a splinter had jabbed deep during the chaos. His wrists were bruised from the manacles, and every breath felt like his ribs protested it.
But none of that hurt as much as the silence.
He hadn't heard anything since Val and Yara tumbled off the deck in a mess of limbs. He hadn't seen them surface.
He didn't know if they were alive.
Beside him, nestled in the soft padding of torn cloth and a makeshift cradle of sail canvas, the egg pulsed faintly—soft blue light glowing like a heartbeat.
Rian kept it close, his side pressed against it protectively.
