The beach was a blinding stretch of white sand that crunched under Ikarus's boots. He stood beside the bright yellow boat, his fingers tracing a hairline crack in the hull.
"Are you sure this boat can get us to the island?" Ikarus asked.
Arnette looked up to her Master. "For the third time this morning, yes, it can, Master Ikarus," she said. Her voice was as soft as a silk ribbon, but there was a frayed edge to her patience.
She turned away from him, her attention shifting to her son. "Raphael, load the bags. And don't forget those seashells of yours. It's going to be a long time before we see this shore again."
"Yes, Mother!" Raphael shouted.
He scrambled toward the house, his arms already full of the small, rattling treasures he deemed essential for the voyage.
Ikarus stripped off his jacket and knotted the sleeves around his waist, eyes locked on the hull. Arnette had promised it would hold; she'd survived two trips, so a third was a certainty. To a man who built machines, that just meant the wood was one voyage closer to ruin. But he kept the thought to himself. Arguing with her was a chore he wasn't ready to repeat.
Your taste was a disaster, old man, Ikarus thought, his words addressed to the empty air.
Ikarus shifted his gaze to the brunette. She'd been at the shoreline since dawn, prepping the vessel while he was still shaking off the fog of sleep. She'd made sure he knew it too—flashing him a sharp, teasing grin. The woman definitely knew how to hold a grudge.
He stepped closer, his boots sinking into the wet sand. Standing around while she did all the work didn't sit right with him. He watched Arnette's slender hands tighten the straps with ease.
"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked. His shadow stretched long across the sand, darkening the space where she crouched.
Arnette looked up, and paused, a thoughtful finger tapping against her jawline. "Actually, yes." She pointed toward the mast, where the heavy, sun-bleached canvas of the sail whipped in the breeze. "Could you draw the pentagram on the sail?"
Ikarus raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from the sun-bleached sail back to her.
"A scholar, then," he said. The pieces settled—the precise movements, the calculated defiance. It wasn't just unfounded pride; she was trained. "Peregrine class?"
"Almost." Arnette's smile thinned. "I abandoned my pilgrimage research years ago."
"Alright," he said curtly, and stepped onto the gunwale.
The boat dipped sharply under his weight. Ikarus stood before the sail, his eyes narrowed, studying the blank white stretch as if it were a canvas. There was a story behind her words—he could feel the weight of it—but he didn't care. He was too tired for other people's baggage.
Arnette glanced at him. "It's an honor," she said, her voice lilting with a quiet, persistent mischief. "To have the Master of the Clock Tower engrave his art on my humble little boat."
"Late Master," Ikarus stated. He didn't look at her, but his jaw tightened at the title. "And don't mention that name again."
Arnette stood up, wiping the salt and grit from her palms. "Of course, Master Ikarus," she said. A sharp twinkle danced in her brown eyes.
"The materials are ready?"
"In the bag beneath the hatch."
Ikarus knelt, his hands moving through the satchel. He ignored the clutter, his fingers searching for the familiar weight of a transmutation kit.
"What was your field?" he asked. He pulled out a reinforced quill and a vial of thick, metallic ink.
"Wind Art, Master Ikarus," Arnette said. She joined him onto the gunwale, her body swaying with the boat's sudden dip.
Ikarus glanced up at her, amused. Arnette. A little eagle chasing the wind—how fitting, he thought. She took the ink vial, her fingers steady as she acted as his living workbench.
"Wind-art for the sail," Ikarus muttered. He dipped the quill, the metallic ink shimmering like liquid lead. "Wait for the Northern wind to bite..."
He stopped. The quill hovered an inch above the sun-bleached canvas Arnette held steady for him. He looked at the angle of the mast, then back at her, his eyes narrowing. "Wait a second," he said. "We're going against the current?"
Arnette's face lit up. In that moment, the resemblance to Raphael was undeniable—a flash of raw excitement in her eyes. "As expected of you, Master Ikarus. You see right through—"
"Enough." Ikarus's shadow fell over her as he leaned in. "Quite the brave little eagle we have here." He didn't look at her as he returned to his work. "Just don't get us into a dead-zone."
Arnette didn't flinch. She kept beaming, her smile wide and irritatingly confident. "Rest assured, Master Ikarus."
Ikarus let his gaze linger a second too long. He was trusting a woman he'd known for less than a day with his life on a piece of painted driftwood. For a fleeting moment, swimming the distance felt like a safer bet.
Arnette watched him, holding her breath as the first stroke hit the canvas. To most scholars, an Artificer was just a tradesman stained by grease and soot—but Ikarus was the exception. His signature was the heartbeat of the Midland; his hands had birthed the Empire's every gear. She still felt the buzzing shock of Master Daedalos's revelation: this cold, blond man was his own blood.
"Done." Ikarus straightened, turning the sail slightly with one hand. "I don't know how far you can push your art," he said. "So I reinforced it."
He dipped the quill again, adding a few final strokes—small, deliberate corrections.
"It'll hold," he muttered. "Even a hurricane now."
Arnette stepped closer, eyes tracing the lines.
The pentagram was perfect. Every curve and intersection placed with a kind of effortless precision she couldn't quite follow. "The rumors don't do you justice, Master Ikarus," she said quietly, her brown eyes twinkled with amusement.
"Shut it," Ikarus said. He turned away. "What's left?"
She tilted her head back, watching the high, wispy clouds. Her gaze dropped back to him, her eyes bright with that irritating confidence. "Everything is ready. Shall we go now, Master?"
Ikarus gave a short, curt nod. He helped guide the boat into the surf, the salt water stinging the small cuts on his hands. They waited for Raphael to scramble over the gunwale. As soon as the boy's boots hit the deck, the boat lurched, caught by the first real surge of the tide.
"Hold tight, sweetheart," Arnette called out, steadying him with a firm hand.
"I'm holding, Mother!" Raphael's voice was bright with excitement. "I can't wait to see Yuki and Hugo again!"
"Yes, yes. Just don't forget the schoolwork you left behind."
Raphael's shoulders slumped; enthusiasm evaporating at the mention of books. He glanced over at Ikarus, who sat low in the bow with his gaze fixed on the shimmering horizon. The boy crawled across the deck, holding out a hand where a single, vibrant red seashell rested.
"Master! This is the one I told you about. Look!"
Ikarus looked down at the boy—the mini-Arnette. He reached out, his calloused finger tracing the ridges of the shell. "That's quite the find," Ikarus said.
"Right? I'm gonna have Hugo frame it for me!" Raphael grinned, settling onto the deck planks beside him. He opened his box, lost in the quiet world of his treasures as the boat began to catch the swell.
A violent gale slammed into the canvas. The sail snapped—a sharp, percussive crack that sent the boat surging forward. Arnette stood at the tiller, her legs braced against the pitch of the deck. She had discarded her straw hat, letting the wind take it as she fought the rudder. Her navy coat flared out behind her shoulders.
Ikarus shoved his arms into his jacket and gripped the nearest rope, the hemp biting into his palms as their speed climbed. His blond hair whipped across his face, stinging his eyes, but he didn't look away.
For the first time in years, the crushing weight of the Capital felt distant. It was a strange, unwelcome thought—but as the salt spray hit his face, he realized he didn't hate it. The speed, the wind, the raw power of the currents... it was almost pleasant.
The archipelago rose from the horizon like the humps of sleeping beasts. Beneath them, the current began its heavy, sluggish work, clawing at the hull to drag it back toward the bright lure of Paradiso. Overhead, seagulls circled in silence, their black eyes fixed on the small yellow boat.
Ikarus watched as Arnette reached into her satchel. She pulled out a heavy volume bound in emerald leather and a row of ceramic jars sealed with wax. She cracked the seal on the first jar and began to pour.
A stream of fine white sand spilled from the lip, hitting the water with a faint, crystalline hiss. Instead of sinking, the grains spread across the surface, forming a glowing, salt-crusted ring that began to encircle the boat.
"Please. Don't stare so much, Master Ikarus," Arnette said. She stole a quick, harried glance at him before dropping her gaze back to the jars. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she uncorked the second one. "It's hard to work with a legend breathing down my neck."
Ikarus let a thin, surprisingly genuine smile touch his lips. He leaned against the gunwale, his eyes tracking the silver-veined leaves in her palm. "I think you're doing fine."
"Is that so? Thank you," she whispered. She moved toward the mast, balancing the heavy green volume in the crook of her arm. "But coming from you... it feels like I'm back in the Midland, sitting for my final exams….."