Morning came not with sunlight but with the gray pall of storm clouds. The Eryndor groaned as she cut through the restless waters, sails heavy with damp air, timbers creaking like old bones. The night's fury had passed, but the ocean was far from calm. Swells lifted the ship high and let her drop again with stomach-turning rhythm, the deck slick with the remnants of rain.
Ardyn rose with the others, his body aching from the restless hours below deck. The cramped quarters offered little comfort. Hammocks swayed against one another, the air thick with sweat and mildew. For a year he had lived among these men, and still the stench of too many bodies in too little space threatened to choke him each morning. Yet none of them complained. This was life at sea, and a sailor who whined too loudly soon found himself thrown from one berth to another or worse, cast into labor no sane man desired.
He pulled his boots on, tied the laces tight, and made for the ladder to the deck. The light above was pale, filtered through clouds, but it stung his eyes all the same. He blinked against it and filled his lungs with the sharper, cleaner air of the open sea.
The crew was already at work. Men shouted to one another as they tightened ropes and mended the small tears the storm had left in the sails. Two others scrubbed the deck with seawater, trying to wash away the grit of salt and mud that storms always seemed to deposit. Brannick, the quartermaster, barked orders in his gravel voice, his beard glistening with spray.
Ardyn fell into the rhythm without being told. He hauled ropes, checked knots, and adjusted a line that had come loose during the night. His hands were raw from months of labor, but he welcomed the sting. Work kept him steady. It kept the whispers of the sea at bay, at least for a while.
Above them all stood Captain Dorn. He was a tall man, broad in the shoulders, with hair gone white before its time. His face was cut with deep lines, carved by years of sun and storm. His voice carried across the deck like a bell, clear and commanding. He had no need to shout twice. Men obeyed him out of respect as much as fear, for Dorn had sailed longer than most of them had been alive.
"The Eryndor still holds," he said as he surveyed the ship, "and she will hold as long as we keep her bones strong. There is no storm that can break her if we stand as one."
A few men grinned at that, thumping fists to the rail or muttering their agreement. Superstition ran deep at sea, and sailors liked to think of their ship as more than wood and nails. The Eryndor was a creature in her own right, a lady of iron will, who would protect those who served her faithfully. Ardyn did not know if he believed in such things, yet he found himself comforted by the thought all the same.
As the morning wore on, the work eased into routine. The storm had not damaged them as badly as it could have. A cracked spar, a torn sail, nothing beyond repair. They had seen worse. By midday the men gathered near the galley hatch for their meal. The cook, a short, stout man named Kellor, ladled out bowls of thin stew and hard biscuits that could break teeth if one was not careful. The men ate quickly, more intent on filling their stomachs than savoring the fare.
Ardyn sat apart, as he often did, leaning against the rail with his bowl balanced on his knees. He listened as the others spoke, voices carrying easily over the groan of the ship.
"Another storm like that and she'll split in two," one man muttered.
"She's held for twenty years," Brannick countered. "She'll hold for twenty more."
"And where's she carrying us this time?" another asked. "The captain keeps his charts close. Not a man aboard knows our true course."
"That is not for you to know," Brannick snapped. "The captain guides, we follow. That is how it's always been."
Grumbles followed, but no one pressed further. The sea demanded trust, and to question the captain openly was to invite misfortune.
Ardyn ate in silence, his thoughts drifting. He did not care where they sailed, not truly. To him the sea was endless, and one shore was the same as another. What mattered was the work, the survival from day to day. Yet part of him wondered. The golden light he had seen in the storm lingered in his mind, shimmering at the edge of his thoughts. He told himself it was nothing, yet he knew better. The sea had spoken, and he could not ignore it forever.
After the meal the men returned to their duties. Some climbed the rigging to check the lines, others polished the brass fittings or patched the sails with needle and thread. Ardyn found himself assigned to the bilge, a task few envied. He descended into the dark belly of the ship, the air thick with rot and stagnant water. With bucket and rope he worked alongside another sailor, hauling the foul water up and tossing it overboard. It was backbreaking labor, but necessary. A ship that carried too much in her bilge grew heavy, slow, and vulnerable to the sea's wrath.
Hours passed in sweat and silence. His companion muttered a few curses now and then but did not try to speak with him. That suited Ardyn fine. He preferred the quiet, even if it reeked of mold and decay.
When at last they climbed back to the deck, the air felt clean again, sharp with salt and wind. The sky had begun to clear. Patches of blue showed through the clouds, and the sun cast a pale light upon the water. The sea had calmed some, though the swells still lifted the ship like a toy in a child's hand.
Ardyn wiped his brow and leaned against the rail. His muscles ached, his throat was dry, yet he felt alive. Each day aboard the Eryndor was the same, a cycle of toil and rest, but there was comfort in the sameness. It kept him from dwelling on the past, on the faces he had lost, on the whispers he sometimes heard in the waves.
Still, as he gazed across the endless water, he felt the weight of something waiting. The ocean was vast, but not empty. It held secrets, and one of them had called his name.