The Curator's ship, Dawnlight, did not smell of fear. It smelled of new canvas, hemp rope, and fresh varnish.
Elion had tried to stop the journey until the very last second, but when he realized his wife would not yield, he did the only thing he could: he sent four of his finest personal guards. Cassian assured him the crew was more than sufficient, but Elion replied—with rare firmness—that "the guards are not for the ship's protection, but for Lady Seravel's."
The voyage lasted four days.
For the elves rescued from the King's Forest, they were four days of quiet healing.
This time, they were not thrown into the hold. Captain Morrel, a gray-bearded man of few words, gave over the entire upper deck to them. Mattresses were laid beneath white awnings. Hot food was served three times a day.
Lyra spent her days among them—not as a noble, but as an equal. She translated the sailors' orders, helped serve soup, held the hands of those who still trembled at the sight of the sea—the same water that had brought them as slaves now carrying them away as free.
But the nights… the nights were hard.
On the third day, Dawnlight docked at a commercial port to take on fresh water.
Lyra was in the passenger cabin. The ship's gentle sway, which for others was a cradle, was for her a trigger. Every creak of wood sounded like the bolt of a hold. The smell of salt turned into the smell of sweat and urine.
Unable to sleep, she wrapped herself in a thick cloak and went out onto the deck.
The early morning air was damp. The pier was deserted, save for a few dockworkers and crates being shifted in the shadows.
Near the gangplank, two voices were arguing—low, but sharp with aggression.
Lyra moved closer to the railing, hidden by the shadow of the furled sails.
She saw Captain Morrel. And she saw a large man with an ugly scar running from his forehead to his chin, dressed in filthy leather rags.
"The deal is always the same, Morrel," the scarred man growled. "You unload the grain, we load the 'timber.'"
"Not this time," the Captain replied, his voice tight. He glanced around nervously.
"The Curator has never refused extra cargo before. The payment is right here."
"I said not this time," Morrel hissed, stepping forward, nearly shoving the man. "We have eyes aboard. Noble eyes. This voyage is clean. Out and back. Do you understand?"
"Nobles?" The man spat on the ground. "Since when does he care about—"
At that moment, the wind stirred Lyra's cloak.
The movement above caught their attention.
The scarred man looked up. His eyes met Lyra's in the dark.
Captain Morrel looked as well. He went visibly pale.
"Go," the Captain ordered the man in an urgent whisper.
The scarred man stared at Lyra for another second—like a predator assessing untouched prey—then vanished into the port's narrow alleys.
Morrel straightened his coat, made a short, rigid bow to Lyra, and climbed the gangplank, shouting unnecessary orders at the crew, pretending nothing had happened.
Lyra remained staring at the empty pier.
Not this time.
The words spun in her mind.
But exhaustion—and the hope of reaching Ilinea—made her push the suspicion aside. Perhaps it was just ordinary smuggling. Sailors' business.
She chose not to see, because she needed to believe the ship was safe.