Gabriel woke to the sound of waves.
Not the gentle lapping of harbour water, but the steady rush and crash of open ocean. The ship moved differently now, rolling with deep swells that made the hammock sway in slow arcs.
He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The cabin spun slightly, his body protesting the movement after days of hard riding and
violence.
We're at sea.
The realisation came with equal parts relief and unease. Three weeks to the Isle of Giants. Three weeks away from the Church, from the Order, from Paladins hunting Castor's killer.
Three weeks trapped on a ship with limited space and nowhere to run if things went wrong.
Gabriel sat up carefully, testing his ribs. They still ached but the sharp edge of pain had dulled slightly. Sleep and the ship's surgeon had helped. His throat felt less like crushed stone, though swallowing was still uncomfortable.
