The fifth day passed quietly.
Not in the way battles went quiet—sharp and waiting—but in the way the sea did when it finally decided to behave. The Estermont ship cut through calm waters with steady confidence, its hull barely shuddering as it carried them forward. Everything about it felt intentional: polished wood, clean lines, soft lighting even below deck. A luxury vessel, through and through. It stood in stark contrast to the state of the people riding it.
Marcus had not woken yet.
He lay in one of the private cabins near the center of the ship, breathing evenly, color returned just enough to his face to prove he was still there. Clara remained at his side almost constantly, seated close enough that her knee touched the bedframe, one hand resting lightly near his arm as if letting go might tempt fate. She spoke to him sometimes—quiet, ordinary things—but mostly she watched and waited.
Charlotte was awake, though only barely present.
