Chapter 20 - The Sunpiercer

The silence that followed the battle was unnatural.

Not the kind that soothed. Not the kind that brought calm. It was the silence of ruin. A hollow, aching stillness left behind after something violent has passed through and taken everything with it.

Erin stood in the wreckage of the tavern, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. The pain came all at once now that his adrenaline was draining—his arms heavy, his legs trembling, his left side throbbing with what felt like cracked ribs. Everything hurt. His hands twitched with fading plasma energy, violet-red sparks flickering out like dying stars.

The air smelled of scorched liquor and burned wood. Smoke curled from shattered beams above, mixing with the mist that poured through the broken ceiling. Rain pattered in through the holes, streaking soot-stained glass, falling in cold rivulets that hissed against charred floorboards.

Torren lay collapsed in the debris, half-buried in blackened timber, his body limp. His coat had caught fire at some point—now it was torn and smoking, one sleeve burned away to reveal a mangled, broken arm beneath. His once-gleaming grin was gone. His face was slack. Still breathing… barely.

Erin stared at him for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling with each shallow breath. Even now, Torren's presence felt dangerous, like he could spring up laughing and start the whole thing again. But the silence around him was final.

A soft sound behind him—something between a cough and a gasp.

Erin turned sharply, half-expecting another threat.

It was Narza.

She was slumped against a shattered support beam, her head low, one arm cradling her ribs, the other clinging weakly to a jagged piece of furniture for support. Her scarf was torn, darkened with soot and blood. Her normally sharp expression was blurred by exhaustion, pain dulling the fire in her amber eyes.

"Hey," Erin rasped, stumbling toward her.

She glanced up, her jaw clenched tight. "Still alive?"

"Barely." He knelt beside her. "You?"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

He almost smiled—almost. But it faded when he saw how bad her leg looked. Torn fabric, blood trailing in long lines down to her boot. She'd taken a hit somewhere in the chaos—probably more than one—and pushed through anyway.

"You can't walk on that," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Narza sucked in a breath through her teeth, her face pale beneath the soot. "No shit."

"I mean it," Erin said, his voice low but firm. "You need to sit down. That leg—"

"Don't waste time worrying about me."

"But I—"

"Find the boy," she said, cutting him off. "That's what we came here for right?"

Erin hesitated, jaw tight, frustration churning low in his chest. She wasn't wrong. But leaving her like this didn't sit right. Not after everything.

Still… every second ticked like a hammer in his head.

He let go of her slowly, helping ease her down against a beam, then rose and scanned the room.

The tavern was ruined—burned-out wood, smashed tables, crumbling supports. Pools of water darkened the floor where rain slipped through the holes in the ceiling. Smoke still drifted lazily, clinging to the corners like it didn't want to leave.

There was no clear direction. No trail. No sign.

"Where would they take him…" Erin muttered, pacing through the debris. "There's gotta be somewhere. A back room?"

He shoved aside broken planks, stepped over splintered beams. He ducked beneath the shattered remains of the bar counter, kicking through glass and ash.

Nothing.

His pulse ticked faster. He retraced his steps, scanning every corner, heart hammering louder with every passing moment.

"Come on. Come on…" he whispered.

He turned, stormed toward the other end of the tavern—and his boot caught hard against something that didn't give.

He stumbled, nearly fell. Caught himself on the edge of a table that hadn't completely collapsed.

Erin looked down.

His foot had struck a section of the floor that looked slightly… off. Warped. The wood was too even compared to the rest of the burned wreckage. He crouched, brushing away the soot.

A faint seam. Barely visible through the grime.

His fingers found a recessed edge.

A hatch.

Something shifted in his chest—hope and dread at once.

"...Narza."

Her head lifted slowly, eyes narrowing.

"I think I found something."

She didn't speak. Just nodded once, grim and sharp.

Erin dropped to his knees, hands sweeping soot and rubble aside until his fingers scraped against rusted iron. A hatch. Weathered. Hidden beneath shattered chairs and scorched flooring. He dug around the edges, breath catching in his throat, and yanked it open.

Cold, wet air rushed out. It smelled of mildew and rot.

He stared into the dark below—stone steps leading into shadow, barely visible, a chill crawling up his spine.

"Our way in," he muttered, more to himself than her. 

He didn't wait. Erin swung a leg over the hatch and dropped down the first few steps. The moment he descended, the air changed—thick, wet, and wrong. The stone under his boots was slick with mildew, and the walls of the passage were choked in creeping black mold. There was a heavy smell, like something long dead had soaked into the stone.

Each breath turned his stomach.

The stairs wound down farther than they had any right to, deeper than a place like this should go. The damp clung to his skin. His faint Solforge glow sparked to life in his palm, casting flickering blue-white light across the corridor ahead.

He heard Narza grunting behind him, descending slowly. When her boots landed on the steps, he looked back.

"You shouldn't be—"

"I'm not letting you go alone," she muttered, voice tight, face pale and drawn. She didn't meet his eyes, didn't need to.

He nodded, and they moved on.

The corridor tightened, the ceiling dropping low enough that Erin had to duck. The air grew colder, damper—alive with the stink of mold and seawater gone bad. Somewhere ahead, soft and irregular, came the slosh of something too thick to be called water, licking at the crumbling bones of the Cay's foundations. A slow, sucking noise, like the island itself was trying to drown.

But beneath that, there were other sounds.

Creaks. Scrapes. Shuffling.

The dull rattle of chains, the wet slap of bare skin against stone.

They reached a rusted gate. Narza shoved it open, the hinges shrieking like a dying thing.

The stench hit them like a wall. Erin gagged, staggering back a step. His gut churned under the weight of it—human rot, old blood, sour piss soaked so deep into the stone it oozed back out of the walls. The air stuck to him, seeped into his mouth and nose and eyes, oily and choking. It was like breathing the inside of a rotted corpse.

The chamber yawned before them, massive and low-slung, sprawling into the darkness. Hundreds of cages filled the space, packed wall to wall, stacked three, four high in some places. A twisted maze of rusted iron and warped wood, splintered and lashed together with rope, wire, and strips of leather.

And inside—

Children.

So many that for a moment, Erin's mind refused to process it.

They filled the cages like livestock penned for slaughter. Some huddled together in tight clumps, clinging to each other. Others lay slumped alone, motionless. In the nearest cages, the kids still had the shape of life—thin, battered, bleeding, but breathing. Their eyes tracked Erin's light with raw, desperate hope, hands reaching weakly through the bars.

But deeper in, the sight got worse.

It was obvious—blindingly, horrifyingly obvious—that some had been here longer than others.

Much longer.

There were children whose bodies were little more than skeletons stretched thin with graying skin. Kids who had been too small when they were thrown in and had never grown, their bodies stunted and twisted by starvation and sickness. Some wore the rags of clothes that had rotted straight into their flesh, stitched by mold and scabbed wounds. Their faces were hollow masks, lips cracked and bleeding, hair fallen out in patches.

One cage held a boy so thin his skin clung to his bones like paper. His teeth had fallen out. His wrists and ankles were raw, permanently bruised from being shackled too tightly for too long. When Erin's light passed over him, he didn't react. He just stared past them with milky, deadened eyes.

Another cage held two girls slumped together. One had deep black scars branded into her arms and thighs—old burns that spelled out something Erin didn't want to read. The other girl's mouth was sewn shut, jagged threads barely holding against the pus that oozed from the wounds.

In the back, crammed into the lowest cages, there were bodies that hadn't moved in a long time.

Some of them were barely recognizable as human anymore.

The newer captives—young, wide-eyed, faces still holding some trace of their old selves—were pressed closest to the edges. They still whimpered. Still begged.

"Please—I'll be good—I'll be good—"

"Don't take me—don't take me—"

"I can still work—please, don't throw me in—"

The others, the long-kept ones, didn't speak at all. They didn't even react. They just twitched occasionally, or rocked back and forth, or picked at their own skin until the bone showed through.

The sheer number of them made Erin dizzy. Hundreds. Maybe more. Packed so tight they had to lie on top of one another, limbs tangled like rats in a nest.

A boy near the front thumped his head against the bars in slow, rhythmic beats, smearing blood and hair down the rusted iron. A girl gnawed at her own arm, teeth clicking against bone. Another boy hunched in the corner of a cage, scratching endless spirals into the stone floor with a broken fingernail, blood trailing after each line.

Erin dropped to one knee, his stomach threatening to empty itself onto the ground. The light from his hand flickered wildly with the shaking.

Narza stood frozen beside him.

The veins in her neck bulged with the force of her clenching jaw. Her fists were trembling so violently that her gloves creaked at every joint. She looked like she couldn't decide whether to scream or tear the world apart with her bare hands.

"...Narza?" he rasped, throat raw.

She didn't look at him. Her eyes were locked on a small boy, maybe five or six, slumped against the bars, his ribs pressing out against broken skin, flies crawling lazily over the crusted blood on his chest.

Narza made a sound—a low, ugly thing, halfway between a growl and a sob. When she finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth so tight the words came out almost unintelligible.

"This is what they do?"

Her voice cracked, rage breaking it into pieces. She turned, taking in the ruined children, the cages, the filth, the endless, suffocating wrongness of the place.

Her breathing hitched. 

Then, through the suffocating mire of moans and broken pleas, a different sound cut through.

A voice.

Coarse. Angry. Alive.

From deep in the back, buried behind collapsed debris and sagging stacks of cages, Erin heard it—ragged yelling, words slurred by blood but clear enough to catch.

"Get your filthy hands off me, you fuckin' bastards—! You think you can keep me in here?! I'll rip your fucking eyes out—!"

Erin's heart jerked in his chest.

That voice—

It was a spark in a place that had long since gone cold.

He shoved past Narza, stumbling over the muck, dodging grasping hands reaching from the cages. The sounds grew louder as he pushed deeper into the belly of the chamber. A final pile of rusted crates and broken beams blocked the way—but beyond it, in a half-collapsed cage, something thrashed against the bars.

Erin raised his light—and there he was.

Silas.

Hunched. Wild-eyed. His face was a mask of bruises, one eye nearly swollen shut, his lip split and crusted with blood. His knuckles were raw, bleeding where he must have punched the cage itself. Fresh welts striped his arms, angry and red, some already beginning to purple. Scars, too—faded things across his ribs and shoulders, the kind that spoke of old fights, old survival.

But it wasn't the wounds that struck Erin hardest.

It was the fire.

Silas still fought.

Even here, even after whatever they'd done to him, he raged. He grabbed the bars with both hands and shook them until they screeched, snarling curses at the dark like he could tear the entire island down with sheer fury.

Erin took a step closer, his voice breaking on the boy's name.

"Silas," he said, low and careful.

Silas snapped his head toward the light, squinting through the swelling. His body hunched tighter, ready to lash out again if he had to. He didn't move toward Erin. He didn't call for help.

He just glared.

Mistrust oozed off him like blood from a wound.

For a long, brittle second, nothing moved except the flicker of Erin's light.

Behind them, the rest of the chamber breathed and whimpered and begged, a thousand tiny sounds worming their way into the silence.

Silas wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheek. His breathing was ragged. He looked exhausted, filthy, hurting—but he was still there, still pushing back against whatever had been done to him since they threw him in that cage.

Not because he was brave.

Not because he thought it would save him.

Just because he didn't know how to stop.

"It's me," Erin said, his voice low, shaking. He kept his hands where Silas could see them. "I—I came for you."

Silas squinted through the swelling, his whole body still tensed like he expected another blow. His voice, when it came, was a cracked whisper.

"You...?"

Erin nodded. He crouched down to the cage's edge, letting the faint Solforge glow spill between them. Up close, Silas looked even worse. Dirt caked his skin, his face was smeared with blood, and the bruises on his arms were fresh and ugly. It made Erin's stomach twist.

"You remember me, right?" he said. "From the fight. Last night."

For a moment, Silas just stared at him, breathing shallow through cracked lips. Then, slowly, he gave a small, wary nod.

"You didn't run," he said, voice raw.

Erin swallowed. His mouth felt dry. "I couldn't. Not after what they did. I—I should've done more. I should've stopped them."

Silas blinked at him, slow and suspicious. His face didn't soften. His fingers stayed curled around the bars, knuckles white.

And then—

His lips moved.

"…Why?" he rasped.

Just that. One word. But it hit harder than anything else in that whole gods-cursed room.

Erin opened his mouth—and nothing came out. His throat burned. It felt like something inside him had been hollowed out and left to rot.

"I don't know," he said finally, voice barely more than a whisper. "Maybe it's because I saw you. And I couldn't stop thinking about it. About what they were doing. I just—I couldn't walk away."

Silas stared at him for a long time.

So long Erin thought maybe he hadn't heard.

But then, something shifted. Subtle. Tiny.

The tightness in Silas's face cracked.

Confusion flickered there. Then something smaller. Sadder.

His eyes shimmered. He blinked fast, furious, like he was trying to force it down.

"You… came back," he said, so soft Erin almost missed it.

Then, without warning, the boy's face crumpled.

He pressed his filthy palms against his eyes, trying to smother the sound, but a choked, gasping sob tore loose anyway. His whole body shook, curled tighter into itself like he could make himself disappear.

Erin's hand found the bars. He gripped them hard enough to make his fingers ache.

"I'm getting you out," he said, his voice rough.

He pressed his hand to the lock. A sharp flash of searing white-blue light burst against the metal, burning it through with a hiss and a sharp pop. The lock cracked and fell away. Erin swung the cage door open, the hinges whining.

For a second, Silas didn't move.

He just looked at the open door like he didn't trust it.

Like it was a trick.

Like stepping out would only make it worse.

Erin extended his hand, open and shaking. He didn't say anything else. No promises. No reassurances. Just the offer.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—Silas reached back.

His fingers barely touched Erin's, then tightened all at once in a desperate grip.

Erin pulled him out, catching the boy against him.

Silas stiffened, body trembling like he expected pain—but when it didn't come, he sagged into the embrace. No words. No cries. Just the quiet, broken way a body gives up when it can't take any more.

Narza turned away.

Her face disappeared into shadow, but Erin caught the tremor in her shoulders before she hid it.

Neither of them spoke.

For a moment, the chamber held a silence so thick it felt wrong.

Then—

The sobbing rose again.

From the other cages.

Tiny hands reached through the bars. Tiny voices, hoarse and cracked, begging, pleading.

"Please—take me too—"

"Don't leave me—"

"I'll be good—please—please—"

Erin staggered to his feet. He met Narza's eyes.

"We're not leaving them," he said.

Narza exhaled sharply, a sound more pain than breath.

"Damn right we're not," she whispered.

One by one, they began working through the cages.

Some locks they could burn. Others Narza smashed open with a grunt and her blade hilt. The children inside clung to them, or to each other, too weak to speak. Too small to understand what was happening.

Not all the cages held survivors.

Not all the doors needed opening.

Erin's hands trembled as he passed one cage and quietly shut the door again. He didn't say a word. Didn't need to.

Eventually, they gathered the children—dozens of them—into a line near the hatch. Some had to be carried. Some limped, others clutched each other as they hobbled along.

Silas stayed at Erin's side, gripping his sleeve tightly.

Erin looked once more at the dark chamber behind them.

Then up at the faint circle of light from the hatch.

"We're getting out of here," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

The climb was slow. Painfully slow.

Erin went first, hauling himself up the crumbling steps back toward the hatch, Silas clinging to him with one arm. The boy was too light. A bundle of bones and tremors.

Narza followed, moving stiffly, her leg dragging, but she didn't complain. She didn't even grunt anymore. Her face was set—cold and focused.

One by one, the children were lifted through the hatch, blinking and flinching at the pale light filtering through the wrecked tavern roof. The rain had picked up again, dripping steadily through the beams, spattering onto the soaked wood.

The tavern looked even worse now. The fight, the fire, the collapse—it had all gutted the place. Smoke curled through the gaps. Everything smelled of wet ash and rot.

Erin helped the first of the children across the broken floor, guiding them toward the jagged doorway where the front wall had collapsed outward.

Narza stumbled once, caught herself, and gritted her teeth. She scooped up a tiny girl who couldn't walk and followed.

As they neared the threshold, Erin could hear the sounds outside—muffled at first, then clearer.

Shouting.

Voices.

A crowd.

He hesitated at the ruined entrance, peering out.

The rain came down in heavy sheets now, turning the ground into a muddy slurry. Figures stood gathered in the square outside—dozens of them. Sailors, townsfolk, merchants. Some clutched oilskin cloaks tight around their shoulders. Others stood bareheaded in the downpour, faces grim.

Word must've spread fast.

They saw him. Saw the first of the children behind him.

The crowd shifted, a low, uneasy murmur running through it like a ripple through dark water.

More people were coming—drawn by the noise, by the smoke, by something heavier in the air that words couldn't capture.

Erin stepped out into the rain.

The crowd outside grew restless at the sight of them.

Dozens of eyes bore down on Erin and Narza. Hard eyes. Skeptical. Suspicious. Whispers twisted through the air like smoke, too low to catch but heavy enough to feel.

Who are they? What are they doing with those kids?

Someone barked from the back, "Who the hell are you lot?!"

A man near the front narrowed his eyes, stepping forward, fists clenched at his sides. "You come outta there dragging kids through the mud? After the fire? After that fight?"

The tension thickened, a crackling kind of fear underneath it. More than a few reached for weapons—not drawn yet, but close. The kind of move desperate men made when they didn't understand what they were looking at.

Erin stood his ground, breathing hard. He felt Silas stiffen a few paces away, saw the boy's ragged shirt clinging to his skin.

Narza's hand hovered near her belt, close to one of her short swords.

Then—

A sharp cry.

From deeper in the crowd, a woman pushed her way forward, muddy skirts dragging behind her. She stumbled toward them, her eyes wide with horror—then hope.

"Jori?!" she gasped, voice breaking. She rushed past Erin and fell to her knees before one of the thin boys, wrapping her arms around him so tightly he yelped.

The crowd shifted.

Murmurs rose, louder now, splintered by sharp intakes of breath.

More parents. More faces recognizing what had been hidden from them.

Another man pushed through, staring at a girl so small and thin it was a wonder she could even stand. He collapsed into the mud in front of her, gathering her into his arms, his shoulders wracked with silent sobs.

Erin watched it happen—like a wave crashing through the crowd. Doubt cracked. Recognition spread. Horror turned to mourning.

And then—

A group of townsfolk, bolder than the rest, stormed into the wrecked tavern, weapons drawn.

Erin tensed, heart hammering—but they weren't coming for him.

Minutes passed, agonizingly slow.

The rain drummed against broken wood. Silas stared down at his feet, his fists clenched.

Then shouting echoed from inside the tavern—loud, victorious.

"The Ashen Tyrant's finished!"

"We found him—he's done for! Dead as stone!"

"The bastard's gone!"

The words spilled out like a dam breaking.

The men came pouring back out of the building, soaked to the bone, waving their arms.

"The Ashen Tyrant's reign is over!" one of them roared. "No more bloody underbelly! No more missing folk!"

At first, the crowd hesitated—too stunned to react. Then, slowly, cheers erupted.

A raw, ragged sound of celebration. Men whooped. Women wept into each other's arms. Someone laughed—wild, disbelieving.

They weren't just celebrating the end of Torren.

They were celebrating the end of a fear that had rotted the Cay from the inside for years.

A woman grabbed Erin's arm, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Thank you, stranger."

Others closed in—not with anger, but with desperate gratitude.

Narza stayed close, her hand still on her weapon, wary, but she allowed herself a grim, almost feral kind of smile.

Erin finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The noise of the crowd dulled around them—like the rain was swallowing it, pulling it far away.

Erin knelt again beside Silas, lowering his voice.

"You got anyone?" he asked. "Family? Friends? Someone we can bring you to?"

Silas hesitated.

For a second, he looked like he might lie. His jaw twitched. He ducked his head, letting rain run down his dirt-streaked face.

Finally, he muttered, "No one."

Erin's chest tightened.

"Where're you from?" he asked gently.

Silas's fingers picked at the hem of his tattered sleeve, his voice small.

"Veylspire. Inner Islands."

The name hit the air like a stone dropped into a pond.

Veylspire—one of the oldest islands in the Inner chain. Known for its mist-covered cliffs, sprawling vineyards, and the ancient spires that jutted from the sea like broken teeth. A place once beautiful... but caught between warring merchant houses and pirates after the eastern trade routes collapsed.

"My family had to run," Silas said, still not looking up. "Fighting broke out. Some lord tried to take the island. Ships came—burned whole villages. We got on a boat, but... something happened. A storm."

His voice thinned to a whisper.

"Got split up. I ended up on another ship. Didn't even know where it was going. It brought me here."

Brackton Cay.

A thousand miles from home.

A thousand miles from anyone who knew his name.

Erin set his elbows on his knees, steadying his voice.

"We're heading out soon," he said. "Voyage to the Outer Islands."

Silas glanced at him, uncertain.

"Veylspire's on the way. Not exactly close, but... close enough. If you want, we could bring you. Help you find your family."

For a second—just a second—hope flickered in Silas's eyes.

But just as quickly, he crushed it, squeezing his arms around his chest.

"They're gone," he said, voice rough. "They have to be. There's no way they went back to Veylspire, and I've been stuck here for two years."

Two years.

Erin swallowed against the knot in his throat.

"I waited," Silas said. "Every day, I waited by the docks, waiting to see if they'd come for me or forget about me. Saved up crowns when I could. But nobody from Veylspire ever came."

He clenched his fists.

"And when I ran out of waiting... I had to survive. Didn't have a choice."

He finally looked up, meeting Erin's eyes for the first time without flinching.

"That's how I ended up with them. The gangs. You do what they say, or you don't last long. You steal. You lie. You work the docks, you sneak into the merchant quarter, you run messages for scum who'd slit your throat for a silver crown. You do it, or you starve."

There was no self-pity in his voice. No dramatics.

Just facts.

Hard, splintered facts from a boy who had seen more ugliness than he should have.

"I don't want to leave," Silas said, squaring his shoulders. "Cay's all I got."

Erin didn't push.

Didn't argue.

He just nodded once, slow and deliberate.

"Alright," he said. "You're not alone. Not anymore. Not unless you want to be."

Silas blinked fast, rainwater—or maybe tears—slipping down his cheeks.

He wiped at his face again, roughly, like it offended him to be seen like that.

Erin straightened up, clapping a light hand on the boy's shoulder before stepping back.

Narza watched the whole exchange without a word, her eyes sharp under the dripping edge of her scarf.

"You sure about this?" she asked under her breath once Erin rejoined her side.

He didn't even have to think about it.

"Yeah," he said.

The storm broke around them, the cheers of the townsfolk still rolling through the muddy streets.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Brackton Cay—broken and bruised—began to breathe free for the first time in years.

The air changed.

It started in the way people looked at him.

A man limped forward, hat clutched to his chest. "You… you done something no one else had the spine for," he said, voice thick with awe.

A group of younger dockhands raised their fists. "Ain't never seen fire rain like that! You fried 'em, just fried 'em!"

"The Sunpiercer," someone whispered. "That's what they'll call him—the one who lit up the sky and burned the chains clean through."

An old woman pressed something into Erin's hand—a simple iron pendant on a fraying cord. "He'd want you to have it," she murmured, eyes glassy. "My son. He—he tried to stop them once. They took him. You brought him back."

Erin tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He felt Narza watching him from just behind his shoulder, silent and unreadable, arms crossed, soaked to the bone. But she didn't interrupt. She let them thank him. Let the people press closer, if only for a moment, drawn like moths to the flickering burn in his eyes.

"Not a guild badge in sight," someone muttered, half-laughing. "Not apart of the Tideguard. Just some white-haired nobody with a lightshow."

Erin didn't correct him.

Didn't need to.

He looked up—past the crowd, past the buildings sagging under years of silence, past the remnants of fire and ash—and saw the clouds beginning to break. Faint light edged the storm like a breath drawn in after a long-held scream.

The rain thinned to a mist.

The air, too, had changed. Not just in the cheers or the way people held their heads higher—but in the sky itself. That low, churning weight that had hung above Brackton like a curse was lifting. Sunlight, weak and pale, pushed through the clouds like a blade.

Erin turned slightly. Narza met his gaze.

"We've overstayed," she said simply.

"Yeah," Erin agreed, slipping the iron pendant into his pocket. "Time to go."

They didn't make a scene of it. No grand goodbyes. Just a quiet nod to the people, a final look at the square—and then they were gone. Back through the winding alleys and broken paths, retracing the way they'd come.

Brackton didn't chase them. But it didn't forget them, either.

The Cay watched them go like a city that had just been shaken awake.

The gangplank creaked under their boots as they stepped aboard the Duskvein.

No fanfare. No call ahead. Just Erin—mud-streaked, shirt torn at the sleeve and scorched at the hem—and Narza, limping heavily, one leg wrapped in a hasty bandage soaked through with blood.

The crew was scattered across the deck, doing early prep for departure. But all motion slowed, then stopped, like the world had taken a sharp breath.

Ariya was the first to move.

"Narza!" she gasped, dropping the canvas satchel she'd been rifling through. In an instant, she was at her side, hands already glowing faint with healing light.

Narza waved her off weakly. "It's not that bad."

"Shut up," Ariya snapped, eyes scanning the injury. "You're lucky you still have a leg."

She crouched beside her, pressing both palms over the wound. A hum of warm cyan light spilled out between her fingers.

Erin stood near the center of the deck, rain still clinging to his torn coat, streaks of ash and grime painting his face. The others had gathered—Thalor, arms crossed and silent; Cidrin, adjusting the lens on his goggles with a puzzled frown; Fenrick, tense and pacing nearby.

Cidrin was already approaching, brows raised. "Okay… two questions. One—what the hell happened to you? And two—was that you who turned Brackton Cay into a firework display earlier?"

Fenrick leaned against the mast behind him, arms crossed. "You smell like smoke and blood," he muttered.

Erin nodded slowly, then replied to Cidrin's question. "Yeah," he said. "It was."

Thalor took a step forward, his face unreadable. "Start talking."

Erin looked down at his hands. Then up again. "Alright. From the beginning."

"I left that night after dinner," He exhaled. "I told myself I was going for a walk, but I think I just… needed to breathe. That's when I met a kid—Silas. Scrawny, quiet. We didn't talk long. But before I could do anything, some men jumped him. Knocked him out and dragged him off like he was cargo."

He paused. "I couldn't stop them. I felt weak. Pathetic."

Erin turned slightly, looking at Ariya. "That's why I was acting different the next morning. Why I lashed out. I was ashamed. And I was angry at myself—so I pushed it on you." He lowered his head. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

Ariya looked like she wanted to say something—maybe to interrupt, maybe to forgive—but she stayed quiet, letting him finish.

"I left again. Told myself I wasn't coming back until I found him. I was reckless. No plan. Just guilt." He shook his head. "I ended up tailing a few thugs into a compound. That's when I realized I wasn't alone. Narza had followed me. I wouldn't have made it back without her."

Narza gave a noncommittal grunt from where she sat, leg wrapped in bandages, arms crossed.

"She handled most of them. I barely kept up. But then their boss showed up. A man with fire magic—it was crazy." Erin's voice darkened. "He was just… playing with us. Toying."

He clenched a fist. "The explosion you saw—that was our fight. We were lucky to survive. Barely did. But in that moment, something clicked. I was able to create a new spell—something I didn't even know would be so easy. And I used it to beat him."

He hesitated. "We thought that was it. But while searching the place for Silas, we found something worse. Dozens of cages. Dozens of kids."

Silence fell like a stone on the deck.

"We freed them. Got them out. Brought them home. That's when I found out who Torren really was—Brackton Cay's puppet master. The boss of bosses. And we killed him."

He looked back at the crew.

"They started calling me something after that. The people down there. Narza heard it first. 'The Sunpiercer'—the one who lit up the sky and burned the chains."

He didn't say it with pride. Just tired truth.

"I didn't do it for praise," he said. "I did it because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

He looked around the deck, then back to his crew. "I know I acted on my own. Left you all wondering. I don't expect forgiveness, and I'm not asking for anything. But I needed you to know the truth. That's all."

He stepped back, quiet.

Thalor stepped forward.

He didn't raise his voice.

"You've got power," he said. "And a good heart. But right now, both are wasted."

Erin blinked, caught off guard.

"You don't think before you move. You let emotion steer your ship—and it always sails into storms. You think that's strength? No. That's how people die."

Erin's jaw clenched, but he didn't speak.

Thalor took another step. "This world doesn't care how angry you are. It doesn't care what you regret. It only cares what you do next."

He pointed at Erin's chest, not hard, but firm. "You want to carry the weight of that boy? Fine. Then carry it right. Learn from it. Shape it. Let it teach you to be more than a firestarter with something to prove."

For a long moment, nothing stirred.

Then Thalor said, more softly, "You did good today, Erin. But if you want to keep doing good, you've got to grow up. And you've got to stop running from the people who'd help you do it."

Erin's throat tightened. He nodded.

"I understand."

Thalor gave him a final look—half stern, half something that might one day be pride. His eyes then tilted to the horizon where the clouds were pulling apart like old curtains. The waters ahead gleamed with the fading remnants of the storm, streaked in orange and indigo.

"We'll be departing soon," he said, calm and clear. "Wind's in our favor. Make ready before night settles in."

"About time," Cidrin muttered from the rail, tapping a spanner against his boot. "Ship's been grumbling to leave for hours."

Fenrick rolled his shoulder, still watching Erin with a curious squint. "And here I thought we were done picking up strays," he said with a half-smirk. "First Ariya, then Narza, and now this shiny new Sunpiercer title."

Erin tilted his head, smirking. "Jealous?"

Fenrick scoffed. "Please. I've had way cooler titles."

"Oh yeah?"

"Some call me the 'White-Mane Devil.' That one stuck for a while I was wanted in the Outer Islands"

Erin raised a brow.

"'Wyrm-Breaker' came from that thing with the sea serpent near Daggergut Reef. Don't ask. And Ash-Hound."

Erin gave a low whistle. "And your favorite?"

Fenrick's smile turned sly. "The Uncollared."

Erin laughed. "Fitting."

Fenrick shrugged. "You're not doing so bad yourself. Sunpiercer's got bite. Just don't let it get to your head You also dragged quite the mess with it too."

Ariya let out a snort as she rose from her crouch beside Narza. "Well, he didn't drag it alone."

She clapped her hands lightly, and a soft, silvery light faded from her fingertips. "There. That's the last of it. You're good as new," she said to Narza.

Narza flexed her leg, eyes narrowing in brief concentration—then stood smoothly, without even a wince. "Better than new. Didn't think you had it in you, sparkle."

Ariya scoffed. "Please. You think I wouldn't show off when someone's watching?"

Narza shook her head, but a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Erin stood quietly for a moment, taking them all in—Ariya wiping her hands on her coat, Fenrick hanging off the rigging, Narza crossing her arms but watching him from the corner of her eye, and Thalor looming still, like some great unmoved statue.

There was a tension still, even after the story. Not distrust—but weight. Something heavy and real that sat between them now. A knowledge they all shared, unspoken.

And still—they were here.

"We've got maybe an hour before the tide shifts," Thalor said, breaking the moment. "Let's not waste it."

Fenrick made his way towards the deck, stretching like he'd just woken from a nap.

Thalor, Cidrin, Ariya and Narza stayed behind with Erin for a few breaths longer.

"Hey," Ariya said softly, nudging his arm. "Next time you decide to go full dramatic and disappear without telling anyone, I'm tying a bell around your neck."

Erin gave her a sheepish look. "I deserved that."

"You deserved worse. But…" she gave him a look that was softer now, more honest. "I'm glad you came back."

Narza didn't say anything. Just met his gaze and gave a faint nod. That was enough.

Erin looked up again—at the open sky, at the thinning clouds, at the sea beyond the bow of the Duskvein.

"One more thing." Thalor said, stepping forward.

Erin met his gaze.

"You said you created a new spell." His voice wasn't doubtful—just deliberate. "Do you even realize what that means?"

Erin scratched the back of his head. "Well… It wasn't exactly a creation. More like a… mimic." He glanced toward Narza. "During Narza's fight, the Boss, Torren, used a Pyrelight technique. It was fast—controlled. Almost surgical. So I watched how he used it a couple of times"

He held his hand out, fingers open as if remembering the heat.

"I kept thinking—plasma and fire aren't that different. One dances. The other rages. But they're both energy given shape. So I figured... maybe if I forced plasma into the same pattern, it would work."

He hesitated.

"It didn't at first. It fought me. My magic isn't meant to sit still. It burns through structure. But I kept pushing it into the mold I remembered. Adjusting angles, timing, pressure." A small breath. "Eventually, it stopped resisting. It clicked. And it wasn't like fire anymore—it was mine."

Thalor's face didn't change, but something in his eyes did.

"You mimicked a Pyrelight spell," he said. "Mid-combat. In real time. With a foreign element."

He stepped forward.

"You hijacked a structure you didn't understand. Re-engineered it for your own magic. Do you have any idea what kind of toll that takes on your body? Your mind? Just running trials on a new spell is brutal enough—now try doing it with plasma."

He tapped his chest once, low and firm.

"You didn't just need precision. You needed control of your own mana output down to the last drop. One flick too much, and you cook yourself from the inside. Too little, and it sputters. Explodes. Backfires. I've seen mages try to brute-force experimental casting."

He didn't raise his voice.

"Sometimes it doesn't end well."

Thalor crossed his arms.

"You don't just need magical potential for something like that. You need capacity. A reserve of mana that can take the strain of trial and error—of reshaping a live spell, in the field, while someone's trying to kill you."

He gave a short, harsh exhale.

"You shouldn't have been able to do that. Not at your age. Not without collapsing. But you did."

He paused.

"That tells me two things."

He raised a finger.

"One—your mana pool is far denser than we thought. That kind of burn rate would've drained most new casters dry in seconds. You've got the kind of internal pressure most mages spend half their life building—and that's without training."

Another finger joined it.

"And two—you didn't just replicate that spell. You internalized it. You let it speak your language. That's what makes it yours now."

Then, with that sharp quiet of his, he added:

"Mages spend years just learning how to hold someone else's spell in their mind without frying it. Copying is one thing. Adapting on the fly, under pressure? That's the difference between a spellcaster and a spellcrafter."

He gave a short nod.

"It's like watching a swordsman, remembering one strike—and mid-battle, turning it into your own signature technique. Except you don't get to use muscles. You use memory. Imagination. And will."

He looked back at Erin, eyes sharper now.

"You ever wonder why most mages chant or gesture? It's not just for drama. It's because their minds aren't stable enough to handle the blueprint alone."

Thalor turned, gaze sweeping the deck.

"You reverse-engineered a weapon meant for another man's magic, and taught it to sing in yours. That's not just talent, Salore. That's dangerous talent."

He started walking off again—then stopped, as if remembering something.

"Cid."

Cidrin, who had been leaning silently near the mast, raised an eyebrow.

"Take him down to the quarters under the forge deck. Scan his channels. Top to bottom."

Cidrin gave a small, deliberate nod. "Aye."

Erin blinked. "Scan my—?"

Thalor didn't turn. "You pushed your mana like a trained conduit. I want to know what your body's actually holding. Core density, vein flow, pulse resistance. All of it."

Now he did glance back, briefly.

"If you're carrying that kind of pressure untrained, I need to know before you start leaking sparks in your sleep."

Then Thalor stepped off with a final word over his shoulder, calm but laced with iron.

"Go."

Cidrin motioned Erin along without a word, already turning to the stairwell that led below deck.

As their footsteps faded, the rest of the crew remained above. The wind rustled the sails. Below the hum of ropes and creaking beams, the sea itself spoke softly, stretching out into the late afternoon haze.

A beat of quiet passed.

Then Fenrick let out a low whistle. "You know, I was kinda hoping he'd show us his new spell."

Narza, lounging against a coil of rope, didn't look up. "It impressive, honestly. Little firework boy."

Ariya sat on the port bench, arms folded, chin resting on her knuckles. Her voice was flat. "I still want to slap him."

Fenrick rolled his eyes. "Ariya, you want to slap everyone."

"Not the point," she muttered. "He disappeared. Without a word. Could've died out there, and we would've probably ended up leaving without him."

Thalor stood at the bow rail, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "He chose this path when he left home. We don't own him."

"No," she said, "but he chose us, too."

Narza tilted her head. "And we came back. That counts."

Fenrick scratched at the back of his head. "You know, first time I met him, I figured he'd quit the second someone punched him."

A small grin flicked across his face.

"But he's still here. Stupid brave and brave stupid. Both."

Thalor didn't turn. "He's raw. But he's got spine. Spirit, too. The kind that can draw others to him. Shape them. Lead."

Narza gave him a long side glance. "You see him as a leader?"

Thalor nodded once. "Not yet. But the road's there. He just needs time. And the right bruises."

Fenrick leaned back against the mast. "Reminds me of me, y'know. Back when I still lived in Slum City. Dumb as a dock rat and twice as noisy."

"You're still noisy," Ariya said.

He grinned. "Yeah, but now I'm charming."

He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Honestly? He's like a little brother. Listens more than he lets on. And when you talk to him, it feels like he's trying to get it. Like he wants to be better."

Narza's voice was quiet when she spoke. "He's an interesting one to me."

The others looked her way.

She met their eyes in turn. "Before, I stopped letting myself care. He's reckless and irritating and messy as hell… but he feels. It's like he makes me wanna care, and that's deep."

Ariya glanced downward, fingers idly tracing the bench edge.

"…He reminds me why we do what we do."

Thalor turned toward them at last. "You know what the name Salore used to mean? Storytellers, stormwalkers. There are a lot of stories with the name Salore in them. Some call it a curse, others a miracle. Depends who's telling it—and what they lost because of it. A family whose name echoes across the seas and beyond."

"But him," Thalor said, "he's carving something new out of it. Maybe not the name. Maybe just the boy."

Narza gave a small smile. "We're lucky we found him."

"Or he found us," Ariya added.

Fenrick chuckled sarcastically. "Wow Narza, I've never heard you say that about any of us. I'm kinda hurt"

Narza smirked without turning her head. "You were already too far gone when we met. Erin still had hope."

Fenrick clutched his chest theatrically. "Wounded. Deeply. Mortally."

Ariya scoffed. "Oh please, you'd trade a compliment for a snack and a half-decent sunset."

"I have standards, thank you." He gave her a lazy grin, then added more softly, "But I meant it. Kid's got something. Even if he doesn't know what."

Thalor returned his gaze to the sea. "He'll have to earn it. Whatever future he's chasing."

Ariya leaned back against the bench. "He's reckless. Still acts like everything's going to break unless he fixes it. I don't hate him for it… I just want him to stop carrying things alone."

Narza crossed her arms. "He'll learn. Pain teaches. So does trust."

Fenrick nodded. "And we're not exactly the easiest crew to win over."

"No," Thalor agreed, "but he's getting there. One day, maybe more than just one of us will follow him because they want to, not because they have to."

Fenrick tilted his head, watching the horizon now. "He's already someone those kids in the tunnels will never forget. That's gotta count for something."

"It does," Narza said. "That's what the world forgets to measure."

Ariya was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I just hope he doesn't burn out before he figures out who he really is."

Thalor said nothing, but his silence held weight.

Then Fenrick let out a breath. "We're a strange little ship, aren't we? A runaway, a thief, a healer, a ghost, and now a stormwalker with too much fire in his bones."

Narza gave a rare smile, faint and real. "Strange is what survives."

Thalor's voice came low, even. "Let's make sure we're worth the story he's trying to write."

And then they fell silent again.

The wind shifted slightly, lifting the sails as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The sea ahead glinted like fire on glass.

None of them said anything for a while. But they didn't need to.

Erin followed Cidrin down the narrow stairwell, the wooden steps creaking beneath their weight. The air grew cooler as they descended, the scent of saltwater mixing with the musty smell of old wood and metal. It was quieter here, with only the occasional groan of the ship's frame or the muffled sound of waves crashing against the hull.

Cidrin led him into a cramped, dimly lit chamber beneath the forge deck. The walls were lined with shelves packed tight—gears, coils, lenses, stripped copper, and strange crystalline shards glinted in the low light. Half-finished contraptions crowded the long workbench at the center, their purposes impossible to guess. A heavy iron door stood slightly ajar at the back of the room, casting a faint orange glow across the floor from whatever workshop buzzed beyond.

"Don't touch anything unless you want it screaming, exploding, or turning inside out," Cidrin said without looking back. He sounded serious enough that Erin kept his hands close.

Cidrin moved quickly, clearing a space on the bench with practiced flicks of his wrist. He retrieved something from a reinforced drawer—an orb-like device roughly the size of a melon, ringed with silver notches and flowing glass tubes that pulsed with faint internal light. Runes crawled along the base in an elegant pattern, like a mechanical pulse frozen mid-beat.

He placed it on the bench with both hands, like it was sacred.

"This," he said, wiping his palms on a rag, "is the V-Trace Engine. My pride and joy. Measures mana input and output. Flow rate, density, internal equilibrium—all the fun little things your average spell-slinger doesn't think twice about."

Erin leaned closer. "You made this?"

"Of course I did. Who else would? The Guilds wouldn't fund it—too scared of something that measures them back. So I built it alone. Took me months. Half my hair's gone because of this thing." He tugged his goggles higher on his forehead. "Now, you're going to put your palm right here. Flat. Don't force your mana, don't hold it back. Just let it move like you're breathing. Simple flow."

Erin hesitated, then placed his hand on the crystal panel Cidrin indicated.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the machine stirred with a low, rising hum—like something ancient waking from sleep. Lines of soft gold lit up inside the glass tubes, and a ring of runes around the orb began to spin. A second later, the hum deepened into a low whine. Cidrin's brow furrowed.

"Okay, that's… not baseline," he muttered.

The spinning quickened. Symbols flickered across a brass dial, numbers climbing far too fast.

The orb's core began to pulse with light—violet bleeding into gold, then orange, then a stark, radiant white that lit the room like a miniature sun.

"Okay, stop, that's enough!" Cidrin yanked Erin's hand away, swatting the V-Trace with a tool. The device rattled, whirred twice more, then fell still.

Cidrin stared at the readout.

Then he turned and stared at Erin.

"What the hell are you?" he asked.

Erin blinked. "What?"

"Thalor was right," Cidrin muttered, jaw tight. "Your mana pool isn't just big. It's dense."

He tapped the brass dial again, muttering under his breath. "This thing's able to recognize the mana potential of A-rank battlemages. That's elite classification—combat mages who've trained for decades. Do you know what that means?"

"...Not really?"

Cidrin gestured with one hand as if lecturing a ghost. "Mana classification runs E through S. E-rank's the kids who can make sparks, before now that's where you were. C's your standard healer or utility type. B-rank's usable in a fight. A-rank? That's the top of the ladder. That's your battlefield casters. People who can melt stone or shatter fortifications with a few words."

He started counting off fingers. "Fenrick's just barely in that tier. Narza flirts with it when she's not holding back. Ariya sits at C-plus—she overcharges but burns fast."

He paused. "And then there's you."

Erin crossed his arms. "So what am I?"

Cidrin looked at him like he didn't have an answer. "That's the part that's pissing me off. You're off the damn scale. And your body's not rejecting it. That's what really gets me."

"What do you mean?"

"If someone had this much mana and their body wasn't built for it, they'd collapse. Sometimes the core implodes. But you? You're not even sweating. You held the flow steady. Like it's just… normal."

Erin looked down at his hand. "I always figured I had enough to get by. I just never knew how to use spells. I didn't feel anything special."

"That's the weirdest part," Cidrin said, eyes narrowing. "I can't sense mana—I've got none of my own. But the others? If you were carrying this much heat, they should've felt it. Even in passing. A buzz in the air. Tension. But no one's said a thing."

He stepped back, running a hand through his dark hair. "Which means one of three things. One: your core is dampened. Somehow sealed or muted, like it's wearing a veil. Two: you're unconsciously suppressing it yourself, which would require insane control. Or three…"

He trailed off.

"Three?" Erin prompted.

Cidrin's expression darkened with a rare edge of unease. "Or you're on an incomprehensible level."

They stood in silence a moment, the V-Trace's glass still faintly aglow.

Then Cidrin exhaled, squaring himself.

"Point is—you've got more raw mana than anyone on this ship. Maybe anyone I've ever seen. It's not dangerous. Not to you, anyway. But it's not normal. And if you don't figure out why, you're going to attract attention you're not ready for."

He turned back to his bench, grabbing a notepad and scratching fast lines across the page.

"We'll run another calibration later. I want to see how far your reach actually goes. But for now... just relax."

Erin raised an eyebrow. "That your professional opinion?"

"That's my engineering opinion," Cidrin snapped, not looking up. "And my I-don't-want-my-ship-melted-in-half opinion."

Erin stared at the dimming V-Trace Engine, its glow fading back to idle.

He should've been excited. Maybe even proud. All his life, he'd felt behind—less refined, less polished, less in control than the others. He'd assumed his magic was just late to bloom, or maybe it was always going to be rough around the edges. But now? Now he was being told he had more mana than any of them. As much as an A-rank battlemage. 

But instead of feeling powerful, he felt… off-balance.

"I don't understand," Erin said quietly. "I've never trained like Narza. I didn't study theory like Ariya. And Fenrick… Fenrick's a monster. I'm just…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "Me."

Cidrin didn't respond. He was scribbling something rapidly, diagrams and calibration notes half-formed across a parchment already spotted with old ink and oil.

Erin looked at his hand again—the same one that lit the device like a sunburst. "You didn't mention Thalor when you were talking about ranks. Where does he sit?"

Cidrin let out a short laugh. "He doesn't. Thalor doesn't use Magic. He uses Prana." Cidrin leaned back from his notes, tapping the end of his pencil against the edge of the bench. "That's a whole different system. You can't slot Prana into the same scale—like trying to rank a sword's sharpness on a list of fire temperatures."

Erin frowned. "But if he were compared to us?"

Cidrin met his eyes. "He'd be at the top."

That hung in the air for a moment. Erin swallowed. 

"Ancient technique. Way older than spell theory. It's not about casting. It's about becoming the weapon. Reinforcing your body with your mana. Speed, power, instincts—turned inward. Pure willpower and control." Cidrin waved vaguely at the V-Trace. "This thing couldn't even begin to read him. It's designed for magical resonance, and Thalor's body doesn't emit mana the same way."

He gave a humorless chuckle. "When Thalor hits someone, their bones forget how to be bones."

Erin leaned back against the bench, eyes unfocused.

"He doesn't even cast spells," Erin murmured, remembering how Thalor moved—effortless, quiet, devastating. "So how's he stronger?"

Cidrin snorted. "Because every inch of him is built for killing." 

Erin let out a breath, half-laughing under it.

"Yeah," he said. "He's a demon."

Cidrin didn't disagree. He flicked a gear off the edge of the bench like it had insulted him.

"You don't know Thalor like I do."

Erin tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

There was a faint whir from the trace unit as Cidrin leaned back against the table, one arm folded across his chest. He didn't answer right away.

"Years ago," Cidrin said, "I was some nobody with too many ideas and not enough insulation. Came up with a gadget that dampened arcane signals — real nasty trick for a magician trying to warp the local weather to sell fake storms." He chuckled once. "Pissed the right people off. Impressed the wrong ones."

Erin raised an eyebrow. "The Tideguard?"

Cidrin nodded. "They scooped me up, gave me a lab, and told me I was 'serving the greater balance of the oceans' or something equally sanctimonious. That's where I met Thalor. He wasn't like the others. He didn't care about titles or uniforms — just results. Quiet, focused. Kept to himself mostly, but… he saw through people fast. Saw through me."

There was something unspoken in the way he said it — a trace of respect, maybe even guilt.

"He and I worked on a few missions together. Got messy sometimes. Good messy." Cidrin's eyes flicked to a shelf of rusted tools. "But the Tideguard? They didn't know what to do with people like us. They wanted obedience. Not invention. So we left."

"You both just… walked away?"

"No one stops Thalor when he makes up his mind," Cidrin said. "I followed. We bought the Duskvein off some relic hunters who used it to scavenge old sea ruins. Gutted the hull, rewired half its systems. Called it home."

Erin looked down, processing. "So this whole crew… started with you two?"

"Eventually." Cidrin tapped the V-Trace, checking its readings. "Everyone else came in their own way. Some drifted, some ran. But we built something that didn't ask for rank or resume. Just capability. Thalor handles the direction. I handle the guts. And now you're part of that, like it or not."

The weight of it settled over Erin. He wasn't sure if it was comfort or pressure.

Cidrin gave a small, dismissive wave. "Anyway, I've got a few calibrations to run before we pull another reading off your mystery-flame nonsense. You're free to go."

"That's it?"

"Unless you want to organize my tools by voltage."

Cidrin raised an eyebrow. "Go. Eat something. Talk to your friends. Try not to vaporize anyone."

Erin hesitated at the doorway. He opened his mouth to press further but stopped himself. Then he gave a small nod and turned, climbing the narrow stairwell back up to the main deck.

Erin stepped out into the wind.

The hatch clanged shut behind him with a finality he didn't feel ready for. The sun had slipped behind clouds, casting long blue-gray shadows across the Duskvein's deck. Voices and footfalls moved somewhere behind the masts, but Erin stood still at the edge of the rail, knuckles white as they gripped the wood.

He wasn't cold. But his whole body felt tight. Like he'd swallowed lightning and it hadn't settled.

He leaned forward against the deck railing, fingers curled tight around the wood. The sea stretched endlessly ahead, pale gold with morning light, but his thoughts swirled heavier than the tide. Behind him, the Duskvein buzzed with muted voices and creaking wood, but none of it reached him.

He thought of Fenrick's brute strength, the way he could tear through enemies like a landslide given shape. Of Ariya's effortless confidence, her healing spells flashing with purpose even when she was obnoxious about it. Of Narza, silent and deadly.

And him? He still felt like a kid fumbling through a world built for giants. Even after everything in Brackton Cay. Even after the children. Even after Torren Sol.

So why do I feel like I'm still behind?

"Yo, Scrap."

Erin didn't turn. He just let out a quiet breath and stared ahead, letting the wind brush through his hair.

Fenrick came to stand beside him at the railing, arms crossed loosely over the wood. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Fenrick asked, more gently this time, "What'd Cidrin say?"

Erin ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "Said I've got a massive mana pool. Like… off-the-charts huge. Denser than anything he's seen."

Fenrick blinked. "Wait. You?"

Erin gave a half-laugh, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Yeah. That was my reaction too."

"You're telling me the little rat who couldn't even conjure up a spell last month is secretly a mana monster?"

Erin's hands clenched tighter on the rail. "That's what he said."

Fenrick stared for a moment, then let out a low whistle. "Damn. Cidrin serious?"

"He was serious enough to test me twice." Erin's voice was low. "And now I just… I don't know what to feel. If I've had this much power inside me all along… why the hell hasn't it ever mattered?"

Fenrick opened his mouth, but Erin cut him off, the words rushing out like they'd been waiting too long behind his teeth.

"I mean—what's wrong with me? I've been struggling for every inch, and it turns out I had an ocean in my chest the whole time? If it's real, if it's always been real… why couldn't I save Silas when it mattered? Why did I need Narza to pull me out of that gang hole? Why did I only win against Torren by sheer dumb luck?"

He pressed a fist against his chest. "I thought power would mean control. Like, if I just had more of it, things would finally make sense. But it's worse. Now it feels like I've wasted every second."

The wind gusted, tugging at the sails above. Erin kept going.

"I look at you—at Ariya, Narza, even Cidrin—and I think… they know who they are. They're all walking forward like they've got a map, and I'm just stuck in a loop trying to draw mine while it's raining. I wish I was like that. I wish I was—hell, I wish I was perfect. Or at least enough."

Fenrick didn't speak right away. He leaned his elbows on the railing, expression unreadable, eyes following the curling horizon.

Then, without looking at Erin, he said quietly, "If everything was perfect, you'd never learn to grow."

Erin blinked. The words hit like a stone tossed into still water.

"Every second you spend comparing your life to someone else's," Fenrick continued, "is a second you spend wasting yours. You gotta believe in yourself before anyone does. That's the cornerstone upon which real confidence is built."

Silence fell between them.

Erin stared at him. "Okay, who are you and what've you done with the real Fenrick?"

Fenrick finally looked at him, grinning. "I read that from a book"

Erin chuckled, shaking his head. "You read?! You sound like one of those wandering Nomads."

"I knew a Nomad once. Taught me how to knock out a bear with one hand."

"Let me guess. That Nomad was you."

"Nah. I was the bear."

They both laughed—real this time. Lighter.

But as the chuckles faded, Erin looked down at his hands again. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Course you did," Fenrick said, leaning back. "You're not a mess, Scrap. You're just at the beginning of the road. Everybody stumbles when they start walking. Doesn't mean you won't run someday."

Something about the way he said it—like he wasn't just guessing—settled into Erin's bones. And in the stillness that followed, a thought rose to the surface. Unformed, but persistent.

"…You ever teach anyone how to fight?" he asked.

Fenrick raised an eyebrow. "You askin' what I think you're askin'?"

Erin stood up straighter, voice quiet but certain. "I want to learn. Not just how to swing or shoot or throw spells around. I want to fight like you. I want to be strong in a way that's mine. No more excuses."

Fenrick squinted at him, scratching the back of his neck like he was trying real hard not to smile. "Look at you. Finally got the guts to ask."

"I mean it," Erin said, folding his arms. "I need to do something. I can't keep falling behind everyone."

"Yeah, I get that," Fenrick muttered. He looked out to the sea again, jaw working slightly as if weighing something heavier than it looked. "But uh… as much as I'd love to turn you into a miniature version of me—biceps and all…"

Erin arched an eyebrow. "...There's a 'but' coming."

Fenrick grinned. "There is. 'Cause I got a better idea."

He clapped Erin on the shoulder, just hard enough to make him stumble half a step. "You want to learn how to really fight? Then you gotta ask Narza."

That got a full pause from Erin. "Narza?"

"Yeah. The one who didn't get tossed across a room by Torren Sol."

Erin frowned. "But you're strong. She's… scary."

"Exactly." Fenrick leaned in slightly, voice dropping like he was sharing state secrets. "She's the best on this crew when it comes to putting people down fast and quiet. She thinks ahead, adapts mid-fight, uses everything around her. I hit like a hammer. She's a blade. You—" He poked Erin in the chest. "—need to figure out what you are. And she's the one who'll teach you how to think like a fighter instead of just throwing power around."

Erin hesitated, looking toward the stairs that led down into the ship. "You really think she'd say yes?"

"Oh, she'll say yes," Fenrick said, then smirked. "Especially if you ask her. I've seen the way you look at her."

That drew a sharp look from Erin. "What?"

"You heard me." Fenrick made a kissy face and waggled his eyebrows. "All starry-eyed and tense every time she walks past. It's adorable."

Erin went crimson. "That's—shut up. I don't—"

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not judging." Fenrick threw both hands up dramatically. "I know you're into that whole broody 'I could kill you with a spoon' vibe that Narza gives off. Very appealing. You've got some weird taste."

"You're the worst."

"I know. But I'm also right."

Erin groaned into his hands. "Can we go back to the part where I was having an emotional crisis? That was better."

"Nope." Fenrick beamed. "I like this version of you more. Fired up, embarrassed, and ready to beg a deadly assassin to punch him until he gets stronger."

Erin shook his head but couldn't help the laugh that escaped. "You think she'd actually train me?"

"I think," Fenrick said, voice steadying again, "she already respects you more than she lets on. And I think the only reason she hasn't offered is 'cause she's waiting to see if you want it bad enough to ask."

A long beat passed.

Then Erin nodded, more to himself than to Fenrick. "Alright. I'll do it."

Fenrick gave him a mock salute. "Go get 'em, Scrap."

Erin turned, steps lighter than before, heading for the stairs that would lead him below deck—toward wherever Narza had holed herself up. As he disappeared from view, Fenrick leaned back against the railing again, grinning to himself.

"About time," he muttered.

The hallway below was dim, lit only by the faint glow of sun-lanterns hung at uneven intervals. Erin's boots thudded softly against the wood as he passed closed doors and crates, heart thumping louder than his steps.

He made his way to her room first. Knocked. Waited. Nothing. He cracked the door open, peeked inside. Empty.

Alright, not there.

Next stop: the training alcove.

Erin stepped inside, half expecting to see her hammering away at the post, sleeves rolled up and breath sharp. But it was quiet. The post stood untouched. Her blades were gone. Not even the scent of sweat hung in the air.

He wandered deeper into the ship's winding lower halls. Passed storage rooms, the galley, even Cidrin's workshop with its door half-ajar and blueprints spilling onto the floor. Still no Narza.

Then he heard a faint hiss—steam. Running water.

He followed it absentmindedly. Probably a maintenance valve. Or maybe she was just—

He turned the handle to the bathing room without thinking.

The door swung open. And stopped.

For the briefest moment—barely a second—he saw her.

Narza stood with her back to him, water cascading over her skin, her body lean and powerful and covered in scars. Some jagged, some clean. Old wounds that told a history of battles fought too close, too long, too often. Her hair, wet and hanging like melted autumn, stuck to her shoulders. Her head turned slightly. Just enough for one sharp eye to lock with his.

Time stopped.

Then snapped.

"Shit—!" Erin turned on instinct, the door thudding shut behind him as he stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own boots. His face burned. "Didn't—! I didn't mean—! Fuck—!"

He scrambled up the stairs two at a time, heart thundering, vision full of water, her body, her scars and fucking eye contact. By the time he burst back onto the upper deck, he was panting like he'd outrun a tornado.

Fenrick was still leaning against the mainmast, a half-eaten apple in one hand and a look of unearned calm plastered across his stupid face. His gaze flicked to Erin's.

Then to Erin's cheeks.

Then to the panic sweat beading on Erin's brow.

"…What happened to you?" Fenrick squinted. "You look like someone caught you making out with the furnace."

Erin wordlessly crossed the deck and sat beside him, legs folding a little too fast. He hunched over his knees.

Fenrick raised a brow. "You find Narza?"

Erin didn't answer at first. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.

"Asking her is OFF the table."

"Huh…? Did she hit you?"

"No," Erin muttered, staring straight ahead.

"Did you hit her?"

"What? No!"

Fenrick chewed the rest of his apple and shrugged. "Well, whatever you did, I bet she deserved it."

Erin groaned and dropped his face into his palms.

They sat there in silence for a while. The waves slapped lazily against the Duskvein's hull, and gulls cried high above. The sun had dipped lower now, crossing the horizon, bathing the world in warm bronze light fading into night.

Erin didn't move for a long while. Neither did Fenrick. The silence, mercifully, didn't ask for much. Until footsteps creaked across the planks behind them.

Cidrin's boots were unmistakable—thick, patched, and usually accompanied by the sound of something whirring or clicking. 

"Oi, Sunpiercer."

Erin lifted his head.

He approached with something cradled in his arms—angular, mechanical, and faintly humming. It wasn't just a bracer anymore. It looked like a strange hybrid between an arm-guard, a mana siphon, and a conductor coil. Intricate metal rings lined its surface, rotating in staggered rhythms. Thin wires of woven silver traced from a central core into crystal plates, and the entire device clicked with a quiet internal pulse, like it was alive and thinking.

Cidrin offered it out, one brow cocked.

"What… is that?"

"Here. A gift."

Erin blinked. "Wait, for me?"

"Don't get confused. I pity you" He replied. "I call it the Flux Harness. Prototype. Still twitchy. Try not to scream too loud if it bites."

Erin took the device slowly. It was heavier than expected—not in weight, but in pressure. Like the thing wanted something from him.

Erin took it gently. The metal was warm—not from heat, but from the faint resonance of stored mana. The underside housed a smooth inlay of arcanite, divided into three polished plates, each carved with shifting runes. As his fingers brushed across them, one rune pulsed faintly, reacting to the contact.

Cidrin gestured toward the spiraling rings. "Those're called resonant gyres. They respond to internal mana flow. When you wear the harness and attempt to channel magic, your mana is routed through those gyres and focused into compressed harmonic lattices. It forces your raw output into tightly looped sequences."

Erin raised a brow. "So it's a conduit?"

"More like a mirror maze that bites," Cidrin said. "See, the device doesn't just conduct your mana—it intentionally distorts it. Once it picks up your signature, it fractures the flow and scrambles it across three rotational fields. Each rotation shifts the configuration of internal glyph channels, forcing you to constantly realign your output just to maintain stability."

He tapped the tri-plate at the base. "This is the attunement nexus. When your mana enters the harness, the nexus randomizes the internal circuit paths every time. No repetition. No shortcuts. Your job is to observe the feedback, feel the resistance, and reconfigure your flow to match the new sequence before the system destabilizes."

"Cidrin," Fenrick cut in, squinting at the spiraling gyres. "English. Please. Not arcanist poetry."

Cidrin sighed. "Right. Let me dumb it down for you idiots"

He pointed to the tri-plate at the base.

"Every time you push mana through it, the machine shuffles the internal paths. No run's the same twice. You gotta feel your way through the flow like a maze. Do it right, and the pieces click together. "

Fenrick narrowed his eyes. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then it resets," Cidrin said. "And sometimes… jolts. Strong ones."

Erin frowned. "So it punishes failure?"

"It demands precision," Cidrin corrected. "Push too hard, and the flow ricochets and hits you with feedback trauma. Push too little, and the field collapses—takes you back to zero. You're not just 'casting' into it. You're solving a dynamic mana equation in real-time. A shape, a rhythm, a thread you have to intuitively feel. You'll learn how to recognize your own flow patterns. How to bend, adjust, realign. It trains sensitivity, discipline, and memory—each attempt a new variation of the same puzzle."

Fenrick frowned. "So it trains you by beating the shit out of you."

"Exactly," Cidrin said, pleased. "But in a useful, character-building way."

He turned back to Erin. "This thing doesn't let you muscle your way through it. You can't brute-force the solution. It forces you to solve your mana, not just use it. Every failed attempt means you didn't match the internal pattern well enough—so it kicks you out and makes you start over."

Erin turned the device over. Within the central core, tiny gyroscopic rods floated in stasis between magnetized rings. He could see the current pulsing beneath the surface, layered and rotating like a locked vault.

"And when I solve it?"

Cidrin's grin widened.

"Then the lattice clicks. The resonance stabilizes. That's when you'll know you've synced with your mana. When you decide how it flows—not instinct, not emotion, you. That's control. Solve it once, and it gets easier. The more times you solve it, the more control you'll have over your mana. Not because the puzzle changes less—but because you do."

Erin let out a slow breath. "And what happens if I cheat?"

Cidrin clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, it'll know."

Erin said nothing. He slipped the Flux Harness onto his forearm. The bands adjusted automatically, pulling snug with a metallic click, as if recognizing its new owner.

The moment it latched, something shifted.

A low hum vibrated up his bones. Not painful. Not yet. But aware. Watching. The rings on the device began to spin—slowly at first, then with mounting rhythm, each orbit spiraling out of sync.

Erin hesitated. Then, he breathed deep and reached inward.

Mana.

It stirred like a sea inside him—warm, immense, volatile. He coaxed it forward, guiding his mana like a thread into the device. The moment it touched the inner lattice, the device shuddered. Runes across the plates sparked to life—three different configurations, shifting in and out of sync. He tried to follow one, a spiraling path of glyphs that twisted around the core.

He adjusted. Rotated the flow. Compressed it.

The resonance whined.

And then the backlash hit.

It was like something inside the device rejected him, flipped the polarity, and slammed the mana back into his core. And it felt like someone had jammed a needle of fire into his wrist. Erin jerked back, gasping as static danced across his nerves. A sharp pain cracked through his spine, brief but jarring.

"Yep," Cidrin muttered. "Told you it bites."

Fenrick laughed. "Damn Scrap, you alright?

Erin blinked. His hand trembled faintly, but his eyes were locked on the device.

"Yeah," he murmured, steadying his breath. "But I think I felt it."

"Good," Cidrin said, scribbling something into a small, battered notebook. "Then it's working." He turned on his heel, and started back toward the stairwell below deck. "You've got lots of time to figure it out. Try to solve it before we reach Leefail, or I'll be really disappointed Salore."

Erin didn't respond.

The hatch clunked shut behind him, leaving only the waves and the slowly spinning rings of the Flux Harness.

Again, Erin didn't move for a long while. Neither did Fenrick. The silence, mercifully, didn't ask for much.

Until footsteps creaked across the planks behind them.

They weren't Cidrin's this time. No gears, no whirring parts.

Soft. Barefoot.

Erin's shoulders tensed.

Fenrick turned his head and smirked.

"Speak of the devil."

Narza emerged from the stairwell, drying her hair with a dark towel slung around her neck. Her scarf was gone, and her usual leathers replaced with a sleeveless black vest and loose grey trousers. A faint sheen of water still clung to her collarbone, catching the last light like glass. water still clung to her collarbone, catching the last light like glass. She looked… normal. Unbothered. Like she hadn't just been deep below the deck with ghosts of things neither of them had the words for.

"Damn," Fenrick muttered under his breath. "Even her casual look is terrifying."

Erin shot him a glance.

"What? I mean that respectfully."

Narza stretched once—arms overhead, spine arching with a soft pop—then crossed the deck without a word, moving toward the bow. She didn't spare them a glance. Not one.

Erin tracked her with his eyes, jaw tight. 

She reached the railing and leaned forward on her elbows, staring out toward the sea as the sun burned lower behind thick clouds. The wind tugged gently at her damp hair. Her presence filled the space without trying to.

Fenrick nudged Erin with his elbow. "Well? There she is."

Erin didn't move. His spine might as well have turned to stone.

Fenrick gave him a sideways look. "You've been stewing ever since you went downstairs. What's the deal? You two get in a fight or something?"

"No. Worse" Erin muttered.

"Ah. So it's a different kind of tension." Fenrick leaned back with a grin. "The kind where you get all quiet and weird and start feelin' a little tingly down there in your balls when you look at her huh."

Erin shot him a glare. "What?—Can you not?"

"Oh, I see," Fenrick said, eyes lighting up. "You've definitely got a thing for her."

"I do not."

"C'mon, I've seen the signs. Awkward glances, nervous energy, mysterious silence. Classic crush behavior."

"It's not that, you don't get it." Erin groaned into his hands. "I can't face her. Ever. Again."

"You have to."

"Why? So I can die of embarrassment? She glared at me."

"Huh? She glares at everyone. That's her resting face."

Erin gave him a look.

Fenrick sighed. "Listen—that doesn't change anything. You still want to learn how to fight, right?"

"...Yes."

"Then you over there, and you ask."

Erin looked at him like he'd suggested picking a fight with a volcano. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

"I'm trying to get you trained," Fenrick said, eyes serious now. "You said it yourself—no more excuses. You want to get stronger? This is part of it. Facing stuff that makes you want to bolt."

"Stuff that wants to stab me."

"She doesn't want to stab you."

"You don't know what happened." Erin buried his face in his hands again.

"Look," Fenrick continued, gentler now. "You're not scared of her. Not really. You're scared of what she sees when she looks at you. That's the part you're running from. But you asked me because you're tired of running, remember?"

Erin didn't respond. His gaze drifted back to her—bare shoulders catching the breeze, her hair drying slow, wild, and indifferent. That unbearable stillness she always carried. Not cold. Not warm. Just there.

Fenrick went on, a little more gently now. "I'm not saying go profess your undying love or anything. Just… walk up. Say something casual. Tell her she looks… terrifying, or whatever your version of a compliment is."

Erin snorted despite himself. "That's your version."

"Exactly. Works every time. Girls love a little danger."

"She'd kill me."

Fenrick shrugged. "Then at least you'd die having tried. And I'd be there to write your epitaph: Here lies Erin Salore, brave enough to flirt with a knife."

Erin let out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. Fenrick's timing, as always, was absurdly well-tuned for chipping past his brooding.

"She's not gonna bite," Fenrick said, patting his shoulder. "Well. Maybe she will. But if she does, you'll survive. Probably."

Erin stared at the spinning gyres on his arm. "I think I messed things up."

"Course you did. You're sixteen and powered by guilt and that fire." Fenrick gave him a light smack on the back. "But you didn't die, you didn't run, and you didn't fold. That's what counts."

Erin grimaced. "That was actually kind of deep."

"I'm evolving. Like fungus." Fenrick leaned back, arms behind his head. "Go talk to her, man. I promise she won't gut you unless you say something really dumb. Like complimenting her eyes. Or asking if she wants to spar to 'get closer.'"

"I hate you." He took a deep breath, and sighed. "…If I die, tell Ariya she can have my boots."

"Not a chance," Fenrick said, folding his arms behind his head again. "I'm taking those boots. Go."

Erin stood slowly. His palms felt a little too warm.

"Attaboy," Fenrick said. "Now go forth, young Sunpiercer, and make an awkward fool of yourself. I believe in you."

"Please never say that again."

"No promises."

Erin took a step forward.

"Hey," Fenrick called after him, still lounging on the deck.

Erin turned.

Fenrick raised his brows and said, "If you chicken out, I'm telling Ariya you're in love."

Erin gave him a death glare.

Fenrick winked.

Erin kept walking.

His boots sounded too loud on the deck.

Every step felt like someone striking a drum inside his chest, which was absurd, because Narza hadn't even looked at him yet. She was still at the railing, arms resting on the worn wood, watching the wind twist low clouds into coils over the open sea. Her hair had dried just enough to start curling faintly at the edges.

He stopped a few paces behind her.

This was a terrible idea.

He considered turning around. Walking back. Pretending he forgot. Maybe telling Fenrick she wasn't in the mood. She probably wasn't in the mood. Who would be, after—

"Narza."

His voice cracked a little. Just a bit. He winced. Too late. She looked over her shoulder, only briefly. Her eyes flicked to him. No hostility. No warmth either. Just… acknowledgment. He tried not to fidget. He tried not to stare at the water droplets still glinting along her collarbone like dew on obsidian.

"Earlier," Erin started, and immediately wanted to shove the words back down his throat. "When I—uh—I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to—"

Narza raised a brow.

Erin tripped over the sentence, words flailing. "You were—bathing. And I saw. I mean—I didn't see, see—but I did, technically, and—anyway, I just—wanted to say sorry."

Narza looked at him for a long beat. Just looked. "You always talk that fast when you're nervous?"

He blinked. "…Kinda."

She blinked. Then her gaze dropped—to the strange metal-and-leather device on his wrist.

"…What's that?"

Erin glanced down. "Oh. Uh. It's called the Flux Harness. Cidrin made it for me."

He held out the arm slightly, letting the last of the twilight catch on the etched gyres and brass threading. Mana shimmered faintly behind the lens.

"It helps regulate my mana output. Kind of. He said it's tuned to me, since I've got… a lot of it, apparently."

Narza stepped forward and took his wrist in one hand. Her fingers were rough and cool. She turned the device slightly, eyes flicking over its surface with the sharp focus of someone who was always scanning for weakness.

"Hm."

That was all she said. Then she let go and turned back to the sea.

"…It's why I wanted to find you," he said, quieter now. "Before. Even before I… interrupted anything."

She didn't answer, but didn't stop him either. So he kept going.

"I talked to Fenrick about training. Said I wanted to get better. Stronger. Not just magic — everything. Fighting, instincts, how to stay on my feet when things fall apart. He said I should come to you. That you were the one who could actually teach me."

Still nothing from her. But she was listening. He could feel it.

So he took a breath.

And stepped forward.

"When we were in Brackton Cay," Erin said, voice gaining steadiness, "I was reckless. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I went in with half a plan and a fistful of anger, and I dragged Narza into it. I got lucky. We got lucky. And it still nearly killed us."

He flexed his fingers. The cuff hummed softly.

"I don't want to get lucky again. I don't want to be the reason someone else gets hurt. I don't want to charge in blind, or hesitate when it matters. I want to be better than that. I have to be better than that."

His voice tightened — not from fear now, but something else. Steeled purpose.

"I'm tired of being behind. Of being the one people have to look after. I'm not asking for you to go easy on me. I don't want easy. I want real. I want to earn it. I want to fight for it. So… I'm asking."

He looked up. Met her eyes directly, for the first time since this started.

"Train me."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward.

It was heavy.

Measured.

Narza tilted her head, studying him like she was peeling him apart without touching him. The wind caught the edge of her scarf again, and her fingers tapped once against the railing — thoughtful, maybe, or testing the weight of the moment.

"…You're not the same idiot` that got tossed around back on that rooftop," she said finally.

"I don't want to be."

Her gaze narrowed.

"I don't do slow. I don't explain things twice. You fall, you get up. You break, you walk it off. You can't cry about pain and expect strength."

"I won't."

Narza pushed off the railing and stepped past him, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his.

"Meet me in the training alcove tomorrow after breakfast. Don't be late."

Erin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Then—

"Oh. And Salore?"

He turned.

"If you ever walk in on me again," she said, voice calm and even, "I'll kill you."

Erin blinked. "Yeah. That's fair. I'm sorry"

Narza didn't look back as she walked toward the stairwell.

And Erin, despite himself, smiled. 

Erin, despite himself, smiled.

The wind tugged at his hair and caught on the metal ridges of the Flux Harness, humming faintly with latent energy. Somewhere below deck, the ship's crew was shifting into their nighttime rhythm — boots on wood, muffled laughter, the low drone of conversation.

Above it all, the Duskvein sailed steady beneath a sky of deepening blue, her sails catching the last breath of sunlight as the stars began to wake. The ocean stretched endless and dark ahead of them, each wave a silent promise of whatever lay waiting in Leefail — and whatever Erin would need to become to face it.

He looked down at his wrist, at the device Cidrin had built for him — crude, clever, brimming with potential — and flexed his fingers.

He still felt the sting of what he wasn't. But now, for the first time in a long while, he also felt the pull of what he could be.

The ship creaked beneath his feet, groaning softly like some ancient beast charging forward into the unknown.

And Erin, turning back toward the steps, followed it into the dark.