The rain had finally stopped.
After more than an hour of relentless downpour, silence fell over the hills—a silence so deep that even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
By the time the massive rock tortoise lumbered toward Bloodbeard's encampment, evening had settled in. The world was washed clean, the sky a bruised shade of violet and gray. Water dripped rhythmically from the trees, and the air smelled of wet earth and smoke.
Inside the small stone house perched on the tortoise's back, the quiet was heavy. Dinner had passed in near silence. Only the faint clinking of a spoon and the whisper of rainwater sliding from the shell roof broke the stillness.
Luciel stood by the door, fastening the last strap of his weatherproof pack. He wore his dried camouflage uniform and a saber at his waist. His expression was calm, but his eyes reflected the shimmer of stormlight—sharp and determined.
