"Captain." His voice trembled, "Look at the mirror."
Balk stood in the shadows, his shoulders raised, with fine hard patterns on the side of his neck.
"You've grown scales." The old lieutenant choked up.
Meryl hid behind Balk, very close, her voice so low it was almost inaudible: "He's jealous of you, he wants to stop you."
Balk looked at the old lieutenant, remembering countless nights when this man blocked blades for him, guarded the ship for him,
The remnants of feelings in his chest twitched, then desire overwhelmed them.
He let out a discordant roar and lunged forward.
Mutated claws tore open the throat, blood sprayed onto the cabin walls.
The old lieutenant wasn't dead yet, dragged to the ship's side.
"Don't blame me," Balk said, "The path to the throne always needs someone to pave it."
The sound of falling into the water was light, like a thread being snipped.
On the fifteenth day, under Balk's compulsion, they sailed into the depths of the Broken Isles.
