She shifted her focus beyond the noble houses to the wealthy residential terraces, where prosperity wore a different face. Tall townhouses and tiled villas built for living rather than impressing rose from local granite and coral—honest materials polished to a lustrous finish that caught afternoon light like captured treasure. Gardens mixed food with flowers in elaborate geometric patterns, practical beauty feeding both body and soul while showcasing the artistry that wealth could afford.
Rain cisterns crowned every roof, their clay surfaces not merely functional but works of art—painted with protective symbols in precious pigments, refreshed so many times the layers gleamed like jeweled armor. Window boxes carved from rare woods overflowed with herbs arranged in deliberate profusion—basil and rosemary and the bitter green mint growing wild on cliff faces, but cultivated here with the care of master gardeners. No imported marble perhaps, but the coral stonework had been shaped by craftsmen whose skill rivaled any foreign artisan.
Fountains did grace some courtyards, though fed by ingenious systems that recycled precious water through terraced pools where ornamental fish swam between edible water plants. These homes served their purpose while quietly proclaiming their owners' success—wealth displayed through function elevated to art.
The true displays spoke of fortunes won at sword-point. There—the carved figurehead of a Vaelthorne warship mounted above Captain Mirela's doorway, its golden paint still bright three years after she'd claimed it, the craftsmanship so fine it must have adorned an admiral's flagship. How many ships had she taken to afford such a house? The property alone must have cost what most families saw in a lifetime. Across the plaza, foreign weapons gleamed in Master Jorik's windows—a Northland axe beside curved Sandshore blades displayed on silk-lined cases, each representing successful raids that had funded this careful curation.
The corner properties commanded the highest prices for good reason—guild masters had claimed them where cross-breezes carried away heat from forges and kilns. Their workshops thrived through decades of skill, turning steady streams of plundered materials into works that rivaled anything the mainland could produce. Higher still, retired naval officers had claimed the commanding heights where they could watch the harbor spread before them, remembering commands given in younger days when their voices had shaped the fate of fleets.
Captain Valdira's house brought back the memory of her study—walls lined with charts whose bloodstained edges had made her stomach turn during that formal visit. The frames had been inlaid with mother-of-pearl, she remembered now, the parchment mounted on silk backing. Knowledge like that could make or break entire expeditions, turn desperate raids into legendary fortunes. How much had such intelligence cost her to acquire? And how much more had it earned her?
Her glass lingered on the shrine as it always did—drawn there whenever palace walls felt too confining, whenever duty weighed heavy on her shoulders. Through the lens, she traced the familiar curves that never failed to steady her racing heart. Serella's face first, catching the lowering sun until the marble seemed to glow with inner fire. Those carved lips she'd memorized in childhood—neither smiling nor stern, but something deeper. Determined.
Her gaze drifted down the goddess's naked form, twelve feet of perfect marble that spoke of both beauty and terrible power. Here, the tentacles that lifted Serella skyward, each carved curve flowing upward like frozen water. The Ocean itself elevating its chosen daughter for her mastery of wind and wave. In her peripheral vision, the tentacles seemed to shift and move—stone breathing with the rhythm of distant tides.
The illusion always struck her the same way: the sea honoring its greatest champion, even now. Even carved from lifeless rock, Serella commanded the waves.
The shrine's base bore reliefs depicting the first BoneTide—Masani ships spreading across carved waves while foreign vessels burned in the distance. Gold leaf caught the light in the goddess's hair, and precious stones marked her eyes, gifts from successful raiders who understood what their prosperity cost. Offerings piled at her feet: rare pearls still gleaming with seawater, ornate weapons that had once belonged to enemy captains, charts marking profitable hunting grounds. The shrine wasn't just art—it was a monument to Masan's prosperity, each decoration proof of her people's strength.
Heat bloomed in Aiyara's chest, fierce and sudden. This was what they had built—not through groveling diplomacy or careful trade, but by taking what they needed when the sea demanded it. The Tide Mother had been the first to understand that survival belonged to the strong, that the weak existed to feed the mighty. When starvation threatened, she had called every ship to sail forth and claim what plenty others hoarded. Not theft—justice. Not cruelty—nature itself.
The shrine's steps were worn smooth by countless boots, knees, and hands. Successful Capitani paused here as they passed, heads bowed in reverence earned through salt and blood. These folk had proven themselves worthy through action rather than birthright, had earned Serella's favor with deed rather than word. Their offerings spoke of understanding—fresh fish redistributed to the poor, coin for widows whose husbands fed the depths, mended nets for crews still learning their trade.
Around the shrine's perimeter, braziers would burn tonight during the ceremony—sacred flames that had been carried from ship to ship since the first BoneTide, never allowed to die. The smoke would rise carrying prayers for fair winds and full holds, for sharp swords and steady hearts, for the courage to take what lesser peoples were too weak to defend.
Movement in the small plaza near the shrine caught her attention—several figures gathering around tavern tables that had been dragged into the open space. At first glance it looked like any afternoon drinking circle, weathered sailors taking advantage of good weather and strong ale. But something about their positioning made her focus the lens more carefully.
Captain Nerara Salva sat with her back to a wall, seemingly relaxed but with clear sightlines to every approach. The others had arranged themselves with similar care—each watching different angles, hands resting casually near where weapons would hang. This wasn't random. These were people who'd survived by never being caught unprepared.
Quartermaster Jolaru gestured with scarred hands, both missing fingers she could see even from this distance. His remaining digits moved in patterns she recognized from her own navigation lessons—tide calculations, current flows, the complex mathematics that meant the difference between safe passage and shipwreck. The others leaned forward with the intensity of people whose lives might depend on understanding correctly.
She recognized faces: Mirela Blackwater, whose raids off the Copper Coast had become legend; Valara Tideturner, who'd earned her name outrunning an entire enemy fleet through treacherous currents. Not the sort who gathered for idle gossip.
Her pulse quickened. If these captains were planning something significant enough to risk meeting so openly, the prize they had in mind must be considerable. Were they positioning themselves to follow the royal fleet west? Or perhaps preparing to take advantage of Masan's reduced defenses once half the navy departed?
The location itself spoke of honorable intentions—meeting so close to Serella's shrine, visible to anyone who cared to look. No treachery could flourish under the Tide Mother's watchful gaze. More likely, they were discussing how other skilled captains might join whatever venture they had in mind. The kind of opportunity that required careful coordination but nothing shameful.
Her attention drifted across the terrace, pulled by movement on a nearby rooftop. Mataru tended his rooftop garden with deliberate care, checking drying kelp stretched on wooden frames, inspecting herbs that commanded premium prices from departing ships. The plants were arranged with a sailor's practicality—medicinal herbs closest to the door where they could be grabbed quickly, cooking herbs in clay pots that could survive the coastal storms, the precious silverleaf that prevented scurvy growing in a sheltered corner where salt spray couldn't burn its delicate leaves.
She studied his movements through the lens, noting the careful way he shifted his weight, the subtle pause before each step. She knew his story—every child in Masan did, told as both warning and inspiration. Sailing master under three captain-mothers, each of whom had trusted him with their ships and crews. His left leg had been crushed during a Korvathi coast raid when a kraken's tentacle had wrapped around it, breaking bones like dry twigs. The healers said he'd never walk properly again, that he'd be lucky to keep the limb at all.
But here he was, weathered hands working soil with the same steady precision they'd once applied to splicing rope between raids. His fingers moved with unconscious skill, testing soil moisture, adjusting the angle of shade cloths, pruning with the efficiency of someone who'd learned that waste was death at sea. As if sensing her observation, the old sailor straightened and lifted one gnarled hand in a casual wave toward the palace heights.
The gesture was so perfectly timed that Aiyara nearly dropped her spyglass in surprise. This was the third time this month she'd caught him acknowledging her distant presence, as if those years scanning horizons for threats had given him some supernatural awareness of being watched. Perhaps the shimmer of her lens caught the light in a way his trained eye recognized, or perhaps the old stories were true—that the best sailing masters developed a sense for attention itself, feeling gazes the way they felt shifts in wind.
His weathered face crinkled with what might have been amusement before he returned to his herb beds with practiced economy, favoring his damaged limb but refusing to let it defeat him. Even forced from the sea, he'd found another way to keep crews alive—those herbs would ease the lung-rot that plagued deep-water sailors, help infected wounds heal clean, settle stomachs churning from spoiled water on long voyages.