Alpheo stood at the prow, the sharp wind whipping his hair back, carrying with it the briny tang of the open sea.
The bow cut through the swells with steady rhythm, each crash of the waves sending a cool spray of odors to his nostrils. The scent of salt and pitch was heavy in the air.
Gods, how much he loved that....
They were moving fast. For the better part of a week, the winds had favored them, filling their sails and driving the fleet onward like an unseen hand urging them toward their prey. It was almost tempting to believe that nature itself had chosen to see him triumph.
He knew it was nothing more than wishful thinking… but still, he let the thought linger, as it was a pleasant one to have.
If the wind held, the admiral claimed, they would make landfall in four days. Four days until they reached the chosen shore. Four days until the real gamble began.
