The return voyage passed without incident.
That alone felt unnatural.
The ship cut through Morgain territory beneath a sky choked with cloud and snow, the altitude high enough that the world below vanished entirely. Endless white peaks drifted past like half-remembered shapes, their tops swallowed by mist. For long stretches, there was nothing to see at all—just grey, cold, and the steady groan of the hull pushing forward.
Trafalgar stood inside the command cabin beside Alfred, one hand resting loosely against a support beam as the ship sailed blind through familiar skies.
Alfred wore his usual heavy coat, thick monster fur layered and worn smooth by years of use. It made him look larger than he was, but nothing hid the stiffness in his movements, nor the way the cold settled into his bones no matter how long he endured it.
