The open sea was a different kind of silence. It was not the suffocating quiet of their solar, but a vast, roaring absence of human noise, filled with the groan of the ship, the hiss of water against the hull, and the scream of gulls. For the first two days, it was a relief. The performative masks of Prince and Princess were packed away with their formal clothes. Here, they were simply Hadrian and Seraphina, two names on the ship's manifest.
Reality, however, had its own inertia. They inhabited separate spheres aboard the Aethelwyn. Seraphina was instantly absorbed into the scientific hive-mind of the wet lab and the command center, her language reverting to Latin species names and complex chemical acronyms. Hadrian, true to his word, did not try to architect. He observed. He followed the ship's first mate, a grizzled woman named Kaelen, learning the rhythms of the watch, the names of the sails and lines on the auxiliary masts, the capricious mood of the barometer.
They met for meals in the officer's mess, a cramped but cheerful room smelling of strong coffee and brine. Conversation was polite, logistical, and conducted in the presence of Captain Moreau or senior researchers. It was a new kind of formality, born not of royalty but of professional hierarchy and the awkwardness of their private history laid bare in such close quarters.
On the evening of the second day, the first real test came. A weather system, swift and spiteful, descended upon them. The Aethelwyn, though sturdy, began to pitch and roll in earnest. Hadrian, who had prided himself on his resilience, felt a treacherous lurch in his stomach. He retreated to their shared cabin—a compact space with two narrow bunks, a bolted-down desk, and a single porthole now streaming with rain.
Seraphina found him there, pale and gripping the edge of the desk, fighting a losing battle with his dignity.
A flicker of something—not sympathy, but recognition—crossed her face. She moved past him with the sure-footed grace of one born to the water, opening a small cabinet. She pulled out a vial of ginger extract, poured a dose into a metal cup, and added water from a carafe.
"Drink this. Slowly. Look at the horizon line through the porthole, not at the water moving."
Her tone was clinical, the marine biologist administering care. He obeyed, the spicy brew burning a path to his queasy stomach. He fixed his eyes on the distant, heaving line where grey met darker grey.
"I told you you'd be seasick," she said, not unkindly. She sat on her own bunk, bracing herself against the wall as the ship took a particularly deep trough.
"You were right," he admitted through gritted teeth. A wave of humiliation washed over him, hotter than the nausea. This was how she saw him—an alien in her element, a liability.
"It passes," she said simply. "The body adjusts. Or it doesn't. But the mind can learn to disregard it." She was quiet for a moment, the storm howling outside. "It's about finding your center of gravity in a world that won't stay still."
He looked from the porthole to her. She was staring at the riveted door, her face illuminated in the sporadic glow of the storm lantern. She wasn't just talking about the sea.
"How do you do it?" he asked, the question encompassing everything—the storm, the dying reefs, the silent marriage.
She sighed, a sound lost in the creak of the ship. "You focus on the next task. The next sample. The next wave. You don't think about the whole ocean. It's too big. It will swallow you."
The ship lurched violently. Hadrian's cup clattered to the floor. He stumbled, and Seraphina shot out a hand, steadying him by the forearm. Her grip was strong, calloused from handling ropes and equipment. The contact was pragmatic, but it was the first time she had voluntarily touched him since the bonfire game.
He righted himself, but she didn't let go immediately. Their eyes met in the swaying light. For a second, he saw not the princess or the scientist, but the girl he'd met on a windswept Aquillian dock years ago, all fierce intelligence and challenging smiles.
Then the ship gave another groan, and the moment broke. She released him and bent to pick up the cup.
"Get some rest," she said, her voice returning to its professional tone. "The watch changes in four hours. You'll feel better by then."
He didn't, but as he lay in his bunk, listening to the storm and the sound of her steady breathing from across the narrow space, he held onto the feel of her hand on his arm. It was a small point of stability in the heaving world. A first, fragile knot in the vast, unraveled rope between them.