Wind lazy, light going. I'm dozing on the yard when the lookout croaks, "Two to lee! Sloops!"
I'm already airborne. Rhaenys staggers from the fo'c'sle, hair a knot, eyes gummy. She doesn't see the hulls yet. flat, low, fast.
"Hands to braces!" Captain Garrad snaps. "Hobb, casks starboard. Mira, stand by the tiller. No shouting unless ye must."
Feet thud, blocks chatter. The sloops split in two direction, one bows on, one sliding for our quarter. Hooks ready. Oars dig hard.
I land on Rhaenys's shoulder making her tilt. And peck her collar. "Back," I chirp, short and hard. She freezes, fingers on the mast. She thinks this is watching. It isn't.
First sloop closes. Oarsmen stare, then stare harder at the bird on the mast that glows at the edges. Confused.
I climb for speed, pull heat into bone and feather until the air fizzles around me. No big flare. But it's already done. Then I drop straight at their bow, wings tucked, chest hot.
Flame Charge.
Impact is a shove of heat and weight across their foredeck. Pitch pops. A coil of line smokes. Men scream and throw themselves flat, not brave, just human. Their stroke breaks; the bow kicks wide.
I bank off their mast-head, skin buzzing. Don't overdo it. Save enough to land.
The second sloop moves better, faster. They time the throw and heave a hook. It slams into our bulwark with a thunk.
"Hold her!" Garrad yells. He nudges the tiller, and the cog shifts, just enough.
I go again. Flame Charge low along their rail. Not to torch the hull, just to scare hands and loosen grips. The iron hookman jerks back with a curse, knuckles blistering. The line slackens; a wave lifts us; the hook clatters free and slides under.
On our deck Hobb plants himself between Rhaenys and open water without making it a scene. "Stay," he tells her, rough and quiet. She nods, small.
First sloop tries to recover. Their helmsman locks eyes with me coming in bright and loses a beat. That's enough. I clip their jib with heat and shoulder, not fire, scare the cloth, not burn it. Sail slats, they lose angle.
"Up! Up, now hold!" Garrad works the tiller and sheets with Mira. The cog crawls into a thin lane of wind I bought them with confusion and small pain. No heroics. Just space.
On the pirate deck, a man spits and makes a sign at me like I'm a curse. Another laughs high and frightened. "It burns," he says, as if he can't believe the words.
We slide past. Both sloops sheer off to fix lines and count blisters. Pride can chase later. Right now they like living.
Silence comes back wrong: sharp, ringing. Lines get checked, casks wedged, the tiller steadied. The crew do not cheer. They peek at me, then look away. Sensible.
I let the heat drain, slow, so I won't burn my current stay. Then I drop to Rhaenys. She's still gripping the mast hard enough to whiten her knuckles. I land on her shoulder and press in, a soft chirp under her ear so her breath remembers how to move.
She swallows. "Velmir… did you burn them?" The words are small, scared, and practical in the same breath.
I tilt my head. Another soft chirp. Not yes. Not no. Enough.
"Will they die?" she asks after a beat, voice even smaller.
I nudge her jaw. She watches my eye, thinks, and goes quiet. Good. She doesn't need the answers I don't have.
Around us, men keep working. Mira wipes scorch from the rail with a wet rag, face set. "No black on my deck," she says to the wood, not to me. Hobb tucks the loose end of a line; his hands still tremble.
Garrad walks the length of the ship, checking cleats and faces, counting out loud under his breath. He reaches us, stops, and looks at the girl first, the soot, the tin cup hooked at her belt, the small shoulders holding still under a hot bird. His mouth is a line. Respect sits there now, and something colder.
Then his gaze lifts to me.
I look back.
He holds it a heartbeat, long enough to admit what he's seeing isn't luck or trick light, then turns his eyes to the rig and clears his throat. "Set for night," he says. "No lanterns high. We'll have quiet."
A few of the crew glance between us and him, measuring. The pirates are gone. The fear isn't. It's changed shape.
Rhaenys leans into the mast and breathes through her nose the way Elia taught her. I stay on her shoulder until the shaking ebbs.
Garrad moves on, voice low, orders clean. He doesn't look back at me again.
Men know what they've seen. Men know men.