The morning after the fire, the island was quiet. Too quiet. The sailors worked with brisk energy, hauling crates down the path to the dock, their laughter sharp as gull cries. Rose fussed over Kino's cloak, smoothing the fabric as though she could shield him from what waited beyond the horizon.
"You'll be safe," she whispered. "You'll see wonders."
Her voice was warm, but Kino felt the weight of the library's smoke still clinging to the air, as though its ashes had settled in his chest. He wanted to ask her why the crew had carried books from the flames, why they hadn't tried to stop the fire at all. The words pressed against his tongue but never escaped. Rose's hand lingered too gently on his cheek, silencing his questions the way it always had.
Cisco loaded Kino's bag with a grunt, muttering, "Keep your stance wide, boy. Even on a ship." He squeezed Kino's shoulder once, hard, then turned away before his face betrayed him.
Kaiji ruffled Kino's hair, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Eat whatever they give you, eh? City food's tasteless. You'll miss my stews before the week's done."
Kino tried to smile back, but his throat tightened. The man should have been here. The one with green hair, who had taught him to hold a wooden sword, who told stories that rang with truth. Instead, Kino was leaving with strangers.
The boat rocked gently as he climbed aboard. From the deck, Kino looked back at the island. The mansion, the gardens, the smoke-stained sky. Rose, Cisco, Kaiji stood small against the cliffs. His whole world was shrinking before his eyes.
"Cast off!" a sailor bellowed. The ropes slipped free, and the ship drifted from the dock.
Kino gripped the railing, heart aching as the island grew smaller, until it was only a blur against the endless sea. For eighteen years, that had been his prison and his home. Now it was gone.
The voyage was meant to last two days to the capital, then six more hours upriver to Silkan City. The sailors spoke of the city often—its towers, its markets, its noise. Kino listened, but their words felt hollow. He sat apart, watching the waves.
At night, the stars spread like shattered glass across the sky. Kino lay awake on the deck, remembering the man's voice describing constellations, pointing out which star sailors trusted most. He had always spoken with certainty, with calm, as though the sea itself obeyed him. Kino tried to remember his words, but they slipped away like water through his fingers.
The crew didn't speak to him much. They laughed among themselves, played dice, argued about currents. Sometimes he caught them glancing his way, then looking quickly aside. He wondered if they pitied him. Or if they knew something he did not.
On the second night, the wind changed. Clouds swallowed the stars. The waves grew restless, slamming against the hull. Kino clutched the railing as the ship pitched, his stomach lurching.
"Storm brewing!" a sailor shouted.
The sky cracked open with lightning. Rain lashed the deck, blinding and cold. The mast groaned under the wind's fury. Kino stumbled, crashing to his knees. Sailors rushed past him, pulling ropes, shouting orders lost to the roar of the storm.
He thought of the man's tattoo, the owl spreading wings across his back. He thought of the sword that had never left its sheath. If the man were here, Kino felt certain the sea itself would calm. But the man was not here. Only Kino, clutching wood, helpless as a child.
The ship bucked hard. A wave rose like a mountain, crashing down with thunder. The deck splintered beneath Kino's hands. He heard wood scream, saw the mast snap, and the world tilted.
Water swallowed him.
Salt burned his throat as he flailed. The sea dragged him down, cold and endless. He kicked, fought, but the darkness pressed tighter, his chest screaming for air. Images flickered—Rose's smile, Cisco's steady hands, Kaiji's booming laugh, the man's calm voice. Then even those slipped away.
Kino let go.
When he opened his eyes, the world was gray. Gulls cried overhead. He coughed, water spilling from his lungs, his body shaking. He lay sprawled on rough planks, the smell of fish and salt filling his nose.
A harbor. Nets hung drying from posts. Boats rocked gently in calmer waters, their sails patched and weather-worn. Men in boots moved about, hauling crates, staring curiously at him.
Kino tried to sit up. Every muscle ached, his clothes clung heavy with seawater. The memory of the storm clung sharper still—the roar, the waves, the moment the sea took everything.
The ship. The crew. Gone.
He was alive, but alone.