Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three light raps—precise, controlled, the knock of a man who did nothing without intention, who measured each gesture, each word, each breath against the scale of consequences.
"Come."
The voice from within was low, graveled, weighted with years and authority. It was the voice of a man who had given orders that sent ships to the bottom and men to their graves.
Thruston turned to his companion. "Wait here. I'll speak with the Master alone."
Dale's face contorted—a flash of anger that was there and gone. He nodded once, sharply, and took up position against the wall.
Thruston pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Master Branth occupied his usual throne—a worn leather couch that had conformed to his body over decades of use. His chilim smoldered in his right hand, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. On the low table before him, glass bottles caught the light, their contents amber and clear and expensive.
At his side stood another man—not as massive as Thruston, but solid. His hair was unkempt, his beard disheveled, but his eyes were sharp. Assessing.
Dunstan. Thruston acknowledged him with a brief nod. The Master's other blade.
Branth took a long drag, held the smoke, released it. "So. Report."
Thruston delivered the facts in order—the fights, the victory, the challenge, the recruitment, the tavern brawl. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. He left out nothing. Embellished nothing.
When he finished, Branth stared at the ceiling for a long moment. The cracks that ran across it were the same cracks that had been there when he first took this room.
Thruston did not wait for permission to speak his mind. "Master. We should kill him. Now. Before his reputation spreads further. Before more fools flock to his banner." His eyes flickered with something hot and hungry. "I'll do it myself. One night. One knife. It's done."
Hmm. Branth's thoughts moved behind aged eyes. This Toric—his energy flows like Thruston's. Like Dunstan's. Is he one of us? Another survivor of something beyond understanding?
I've seen what the Suryazar Navy can do. Their soldiers move like water, strike like lightning. I survived their pursuit by luck alone—luck and the Storm Lord's grace. And the energy that awoke in me afterward...
If Toric has that same gift... if he's been trained to use it...
"Master." Dunstan's voice was calmer, more measured. "I think we should continue observing. There may be more to him than we've seen. A hidden strength. A hidden purpose."
Thruston's glare could have curdled milk, but Dunstan did not look away.
Branth stroked his beard, feeling the coarse hairs slide between his fingers. He let the silence stretch.
"We wait."
Thruston's jaw clenched so hard the muscles stood out like cords. "As you wish." The words were ground out between teeth. He turned, wrenched the door open, then paused. "But you're fearing too much, Master. Too much."
The door slammed against the wall with a crack that echoed through the room.
Dunstan flinched. "Master, should I—"
Branth waved a dismissive hand. "Let him go." He reached for a glass bottle. "If he draws out their hidden cards, we learn something. If he kills the bastard, problem solved."
He drained it in one long swallow.
Crack.
He slammed the empty bottle against the table, the glass shattering. He picked up a jagged piece, turning it in the light. "Do you remember?" His voice was soft, almost gentle. "How you got this? The energy? The gift?"
Dunstan's eyes went distant—and fearful. "The cannons. I remember the cannons. One moment I was on deck, the next... nothing. I thought I was dead. Should have been dead. But something woke up inside me. And then..." He shook his head. "You know the rest."
Branth drew the glass shard across his left palm. Flesh parted. Blood welled. He watched the wound close. Slowly. Visibly. "It was the same for me. But on a larger scale. My entire crew—gone. One Suryazar ship. One engagement. Fire from nowhere. Steel from everywhere. I played dead in a sea of corpses until they left."
He set down the glass shard and reached for his chilim.
Dunstan's eyes widened. "Master... do you think—"
Branth's gaze cut him off. A warning. Not yet. Not aloud.
But he answered anyway. "The world is vast. Stranger than we know. We're cut off here—news from the mainland trickles through like water through cracks. But enough comes. The Hunter Union in Marhavan. The Bramley tribe and their allies. Rumors. Whispers. Maybe there are others. Groups. Organizations. People like us, but more. Stronger. More... trained."
Dunstan's face had gone pale. "So... what do we do, Master?"
Branth exhaled smoke, the grey-white cloud rising toward the ceiling. "Wait. Watch. Hope our fears don't come true." He settled deeper into his couch. "And let Thruston be Thruston. If there's a hidden card, he'll find it. One way or another."