Chapter 21 - The Grain of the World

The sea stretched far and black, but the boy did not blink.

He'd tried — stretched out in his bunk beneath the slanted wooden ceiling of his cabin, sheets tangled at his feet, eyes pressed shut hard enough to hurt — but sleep never came. Instead, he'd lain there listening to the ship speak.

The Duskvein was always whispering, if you listened closely enough. The subtle groan of wood adjusting to the cold. The distant slap of waves curling against her hull. The occasional rattle of a loose rope or chain, and the soft clack of the steering cables shifting above deck. In the dark, it all became louder. Not noise, but presence.

He sat up hours before dawn, dragging the blanket off his legs and planting his feet on the cold floor. The air in the room was crisp, salted from the sea and just damp enough to make the boards sweat in their corners. He didn't light the lamp. He didn't need to.

Moonlight spilled through the round window above his desk — pale silver pouring in across the clutter of parchment and old bindings. Outside, the stars still clung to the black sky, and the horizon was a deep void pressed against the rim of the world.

He moved to the desk slowly, elbows resting on the worn surface, gaze fixed on that window. Not watching anything in particular. Just… looking.

He wasn't thinking about battles, or guilt, or the dead. Not directly, anyway. His thoughts were looser than that — the kind that slid away when you tried to hold them.

He thought about the way the sea always looked like it was hiding something. About how his mother used to hum while she read. About how everyone on the crew seemed to carry some kind of weight, and how no one really asked about it unless the silence stretched too long. He thought about how Narza moved like she'd learned to dodge shadows before swords. About how Cidrin's eyes flickered toward the stars more often than his own maps.

He thought about what it meant to get better. What it meant to train not just for power, but for shape. For discipline. For control.

His eyes drifted to the open journal beside him — it was his father's. He'd skimmed it earlier that evening without much thought. Mostly reading through a jumble of coordinates, sea currents, fragments of celestial charts… but this page had been different.

"You'll never map the whole sea. That's not what we do. We map the parts we survive — the places we come back from. The rest becomes myth until someone else decides to go further. That's the cost of charting truth. You bleed for it. But when it's done, someone else lives because you did."

— K. S.

Erin stared at the words. Read them twice. Then again. It wasn't a lecture. Wasn't even advice, really. Just a passing reflection. A man writing to no one — or to himself — on a night not unlike this one.

But it stuck. Not for its wisdom, but its friction. Its weight.

We map the parts we survive.

He exhaled, slow and steady.

That was the game, wasn't it? Not perfection. Not certainty. Just pushing a little further. Surviving the unknown. Turning pain into something useful. Something someone else could stand on.

Erin reached out and gently closed the book, fingers lingering on the cover. His gaze then drifted down to the object on the desk: the Flux Harness.

It lay there like a creature curled up in sleep, silent but coiled with latent tension. A polished device of coiling rings, interlocked glyph plates, and humming arcanite, still faintly warm from the last attempt. Erin reached for it without hesitation. It was a part of his morning now. A ritual, even if it always ended in failure.

He slipped it over his forearm. The bands contracted with a soft mechanical click, adjusting to his shape. As they did, a low vibration hummed into his bones — subtle, but unmistakable. It wasn't just responding. It was acknowledging. Like a door creaking open for the right key.

The inner rings began to turn, slow at first, then with gradually increasing rhythm — each resonant gyre spinning along a slightly different axis, shimmering faintly with motes of light that shifted like oil on water.

He took a breath.

Then he reached inward.

Mana stirred. It was always there now — an ocean just beneath the skin, hot and vast and hungry. He didn't have to reach far. The moment he touched it, it surged forward, eager to obey.

He wove the first thread toward the harness, careful to match his breath to the spiral he saw in the plates.

One plate pulsed. A glyph shifted. Then another. The pattern scrambled.

He adjusted — narrowed the thread, forced it through a tighter arc, compressed it around the shifting gyres. For a moment, he thought he felt something align. A note in a chord. A breath held just before the drop.

Then—

Snap.

The backlash was immediate.

A jolt of raw mana kicked back through his wrist like a spring uncoiling. He gasped, staggering backward as arcs of static danced along his forearm. The pain wasn't as sharp as the first time — more like a nerve slapped with ice and fire at once — but it left his fingers tingling, his heart beating a little faster.

He blew out a slow breath.

Reset.

The runes faded. The gyres slowed, then spun up again in a new configuration — completely different from the last. No pattern to lean on. No repetition. Just intuition, memory, and sheer, infuriating sensitivity.

He tried again.

The mana flowed — slower this time, more cautious. He shifted its shape midstream, tried to match the angle of the outer ring's spin. But the moment he got close, the configuration in the tri-plate randomized again, and his thread fractured. A violent tug slammed the feedback back into him like a hammer made of fire.

His teeth clenched. His knees buckled slightly.

He exhaled through the pain. Shook out his hand.

The Harness didn't reward brute force. It wasn't about pushing harder. Cidrin had said it trains you to feel your own mana. Not just cast, but solve. Like a puzzle that punched you in the ribs every time you got it wrong.

He sat back down and stared at the gyres.

Even in failure, it taught him something. Each backlash showed him how quickly he'd misaligned. How badly he'd overshot. Sometimes the mistake was in the flow — too sharp, too steep. Sometimes it was the rhythm. The device expected a kind of instinctual harmony.

He wasn't there yet, and he wasn't getting anywhere. 

But he didn't stop. Not after the third backlash, or the fifth. Each time, he paused, breathed, adjusted. When his muscles ached and his wrist throbbed, he switched hands and tried again.

Eventually, he lost track of the sky.

But not of the light.

At some point, the stars dimmed. Eventually, the colors on the horizon shifted from rose to gold. Light slanted through the porthole beside Erin's desk, catching on the edge of the harness. He sat still for a while, shoulders hunched, wrist buzzing with aftershocks. His fingers twitched — not quite steady. His jaw ached from how long he'd been clenching it.

By the time he stumbled out of his cabin, the corridors of the Duskvein had begun to stir with waking life. He moved like a shadow among it — slow, quiet, the ache in his joints buried just beneath the skin. His steps were heavy. His vision pulsed faintly at the edges.

His shirt clung to his back with sweat. His fingers still trembled from mana backlash. Somewhere in the early attempts, he'd split the skin at the base of his thumb — a thin, dark scab now trailing up his wrist like a glyph drawn in blood.

He dragged a palm down his face. His eyes felt like stone in their sockets. Not even tired — just used.

The scent hit him first.

Fresh toast. Spiced egg. Salt-butter and a whiff of something herbal, probably Cidrin's doing. His stomach growled instinctively, but even that felt distant — like his body was reminding him how it was supposed to function.

He stepped into the galley.

It wasn't large. A curved, low-ceilinged room tucked just beneath the upper deck, with bolted tables built to stay level even in rough seas. The far wall bore a trio of round windows looking out over pale morning waves. Brass lanterns swung from short chains above, and the soft clatter of plates and cups gave the space a warmth the rest of the ship rarely matched.

A few crew members were already seated.

Thalor sat at the head of the main table — posture relaxed, but spine straight. A man who could lounge and lead at once. He had a bowl of something dark in front of him, spoon balanced lazily between his fingers. Fenrick was halfway through a plate stacked with eggs and dried meat, gesturing wildly with one hand and chewing with the other. Ariya sat across from him, alternating between blowing on her tea and rolling her eyes. Cidrin was there too, calmly eating his food.

Narza wasn't present.

"Morning," Erin mumbled.

Heads turned.

"By all the stars," Ariya said, blinking. "You look like you've been mined."

Fenrick snorted. "He looks like a ghost that lost a bar fight."

"More like the ghost of a bar fight," Thalor added, not unkindly.

Erin dropped onto the nearest bench. His limbs felt like wet rope. He stared at the table for a few seconds before his brain caught up.

Fenrick slid a plate toward him — toast, some kind of smoked fish, and a pile of scrambled eggs that looked like they'd fought for their lives in the pan.

"Eat," he said. "Before your soul floats off and leaves the rest of you behind."

Erin blinked at the food. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Fenrick said, then added with a grin, "But I'm charging for it later."

Cidrin's eyes narrowed. "How many times did it knock you on your ass this time?"

Thalor gave a faint nod, still eating. "Up early, were you?" he asked without looking.

"Couldn't sleep," Erin murmured, slicing off a piece of toast and chewing slowly. The warmth hit his mouth like a balm — not enough to wake him, but enough to remind him he was still here. Still functioning.

"Still wrestling with the harness?" Ariya asked. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her braid slung over one shoulder. Her frown deepened as she turned toward Cidrin. "Cidrin."

"What?" the artificer replied, far too satisfied to be innocent. "It's not my fault he's got the mana sensitivity of a drunk hedgebeast."

"You made a device that hurts him when he messes up."

Cidrin raised his mug in a casual toast. "Correct. That's how you learn."

"That's how you scar someone," Ariya snapped. "He's bruised, Cidrin. That's not training — that's trial by torture."

"Oh, come off it. You think magic doesn't bite back? The harness is a feedback loop, not punishment. Screw up, it tells you. Loud and clear. That's the point."

"It's not how teaching works," Ariya said. "You don't learn violin by slamming your hand in the case every time you hit the wrong note."

Cidrin leaned back, exasperated but smug. "He could've quit anytime. But he didn't. That means something."

"Yeah," Ariya said dryly. "It means he's more stubborn than you are reckless."

Thalor glanced toward Erin. His tone was quiet. "You alright?"

Erin nodded once, still staring at his plate. "Fine."

"Liar," Fenrick muttered through a mouthful of egg.

Erin didn't answer. But Ariya sighed and leaned back, brushing a hand through her hair. "Seriously, what were you trying to prove? You could've asked for help. I know sensitivity training methods that don't involve frying your nerves."

"I wasn't trying to prove anything," Erin said. His voice was hoarse, low. "I was trying to understand it."

Cidrin's smirk faded, just a little.

Erin finally looked up. There were deep circles under his eyes, but something clearer in them too — a quiet, focused edge.

"It's my mana. I've had it my whole life and barely know how to feel it. The harness doesn't let me skip that. It makes me notice the shape of it. The weight. When I get it wrong, I know how I got it wrong."

"And when you get it right?" Thalor asked.

"I haven't yet."

The silence that followed wasn't judgmental. Just... accepting.

Cidrin raised a brow, then muttered into his cup, "Could've fooled me."

Ariya's eyebrow arched. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Cidrin said, now looking at Erin, "that most people would've quit after the second jolt. Third, tops. That harness is tuned for live combat response training. I didn't think anyone could brute-force their way into matching it by feel."

"I didn't," Erin said. "I failed. Over and over."

"Yeah, and yet here you are. Not dead. Mostly upright. You're further than you think."

Erin blinked. For the first time that morning, his shoulders eased.

Ariya was less convinced. "Still think it's a stupid way to teach someone."

"Didn't say it wasn't stupid," Cidrin replied, smiling again. "Just saying it's working."

Erin finally lifted his spoon. His hand shook slightly as he brought it to his mouth — but the food helped ground him. Warm. Salty. With a citrus edge that reminded him faintly of home.

As conversation resumed — Fenrick cracking another joke, Thalor murmuring something to the quartermaster, Ariya grumbling over her too-sweet tea — Erin didn't say much.

But when he reached under the table and pressed gently at his bruised wrist, he smiled faintly to himself.

The pain wasn't failure.

It was shape.

A second helping of eggs disappeared from Fenrick's plate before Erin noticed Thalor shift in his seat and reach into the inner lining of his coat. He unfolded a crisp sheet of newsprint and laid it flat on the table, weighing the corners down with his cup and a butter knife.

"Picked this up in Brackton before we left port," Thalor said mildly, as if he were just commenting on the weather. "Thought you'd all appreciate a bit of reading material with breakfast."

Ariya squinted at the title.

"The Outer Herald? Isn't that the rag with the horoscopes that told me I'd fall in love with a traveling sand-glass merchant?"

"I believe it also said I'd be cursed by a bird," Fenrick muttered.

"Check the headline," Thalor said, a rare smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

Ariya leaned in. Then blinked.

She read aloud: "Ghostline Strays Sabotage Tideguard Operation — Escape With Dangerous Fugitive in Dunnhaven Heist."

Fenrick nearly choked on a bite of toast.

"The fuck?" he said between coughs, "Ghostline Strays? I'm offended by that shitty name"

"Wait, wait," Ariya said, eyes scanning the article. "Listen to this: A coordinated and highly dangerous group of unknown assailants intercepted a Tideguard escort in the slums of Dunnhaven last week, disabling a Tidewarden and extracting the known criminal Darial Kline from custody. Authorities report precise magical interference, advanced sabotage tactics, and 'inhuman coordination.'"

"Inhuman coordination," Cidrin snorted. "We couldn't even decide where to land the damn skiff."

"Hey," Fenrick said, lifting a fork. "I coordinated myself just fine against the Tideguard"

"You couldn't even get Darial Kline, Narza did."

"That's because that bitch messed me up" Fenrick said, rolling his eyes. 

Thalor's eyes didn't leave the page, though his tone was drier than driftwood.

"They've got no names. No faces. Just speculation about a crew operating out of the Ghostline routes."

Ariya tapped the print. "And vague descriptions. 'One figure was said to wield a new magic that distorted spells .' Not even close."

"Technology for the win," Cidrin muttered quietly. He leaned over to glance at the photo sketch under the article — a blurry charcoal smear that looked like someone angrily drawing a scarecrow with fire coming out of it. "That's supposed to be you, Salore?"

Erin gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Looks more like a scarecrow being electrocuted."

Ariya snickered. "A dangerous scarecrow. With inhuman coordination."

Fenrick mock-shivered. "The deadliest kind."

The banter flowed easily now, the table warm with laughter and clattering plates. Even Cidrin chuckled behind his mug. But Erin just listened for a while, his spoon slowly chasing the last of the eggs around his plate. There was a comfort in the rhythm of it — the sound of people who'd bled together, eaten together, survived together.

Eventually, Ariya looked up again, eyes narrowing playfully.

"You know what this means, don't you?"

"What?" Erin asked.

She grinned. "We're famous."

Fenrick leaned in dramatically. "Folk songs. Posters. Maybe a traveling play starring a suspiciously handsome rogue based on yours truly."

Cidrin groaned. "You mean you're going to commission your own play again."

"It was critically acclaimed by at least three drunk sailors and a pigeon."

"It stole two hours of my life," Ariya muttered.

Erin found himself smiling, just slightly. He hadn't noticed the tightness in his shoulders loosen or the taste of salt lingering warmly on his tongue. The quiet bruises still throbbed under his sleeve, but the ache felt distant now — like something already softened by the morning.

He glanced toward Thalor, who was still reading, though his fingers tapped absently against the table like a man who didn't realize he was humming along with the room. He was talking more than usual today — not loudly, not often, but more. Erin didn't mention it. He just took note. Like the shape of mana under his skin, it felt important in a way he didn't fully understand yet.

Fenrick made a show of reaching for more toast, but Cidrin's eyes had drifted back to the paper. He wasn't laughing anymore. His fingers tapped once against the side of his mug.

"I've been digging since Dunnhaven," he said, almost offhand, like it was nothing. "Didn't sit right with me — those two showing up like that. The ice one, and Thorne. Vaelgrim, they called themselves, right?"

Erin glanced up. Fenrick froze with the toast halfway to his mouth.

Cidrin didn't wait for confirmation. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, folded slip of notes — hand-scribbled, densely packed, and slightly smudged. He laid it on the table beside the newspaper.

"They're not ghosts. Not entirely. If you follow the whispers — really follow them — they've been spotted. Not just Dunnhaven. A few Outer Islands. Tamsen's Reach. Blackgrove. There was one in the Inner Crescent — a battle that ended in a stalemate, then everyone on both sides vanished a week later."

He flipped the page and tapped another note. "And then there's Caldera."

Erin blinked. "Wait—what?"

Cidrin met his eyes. "Yeah. Your home, right?"

Erin sat up straighter. "What happened there?"

"Nothing. That's the strange part. Just rumors. A sudden storm that hit the northern docks. Trade froze. A courier ship was delayed with no clear reason, and two local officials disappeared with no explanation. No notes. No resistance. Just… gone."

Erin frowned. "I didn't hear about any of that."

"Exactly," Cidrin said. He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's like they're mapping something."

Ariya snorted softly. "Mapping?"

"Well, not literally." Cidrin scratched his jaw. "But they move like there's a route only they see. Some places, it's violence. Others, silence. Sometimes a political shake-up. The strangest part? These sightings? They're scattered across the map. Far scattered. But they show up on islands on opposite ends of the seas within days of each other. Sometimes less."

Fenrick gave a slow, skeptical blink. "You're saying they're teleporting?"

"I'm saying they don't move like normal people. They don't take ships or skyrails. If they are, no one sees them. It's like they're cutting straight across the world… flying, or phasing between places. Too fast to track. Too clean to leave trails."

Ariya crossed her arms, expression sharpening. "That's impossible."

"Yeah," Cidrin agreed. "It is. And yet."

He flipped the page again. "It's not just killings. Or chases. Sometimes they stir up chaos and vanish. Other times, it's almost like they're observing. There was an island — Sundregate — where a high priest confessed to a dozen crimes no one asked about. A week later, someone spotted a figure in a silver-gloved hand standing outside the crumbled temple, just watching."

Erin's mind kept circling back to Caldera. His voice came out a little sharper than he meant. "If they were there… why? There's nothing worth targeting. It's just—"

"Home," Fenrick finished, quiet now.

"Maybe that's what made it worth it," Cidrin said. "Maybe they weren't targeting anything. Maybe they were looking for something." 

Erin stared. "But why?"

"I don't know," Cidrin admitted. "Could be coincidence. Could be shadows. But you start seeing the same name passed between mercenaries and mage-hunters, cultists and scholars? Even pirates won't talk about them directly. They just say 'Crest-bearers' and move on."

Thalor finally looked up from the paper. "How far back do the rumors go?"

Cidrin hesitated. "Hard to tell. A few years, maybe more. But only recently have they gotten bold. Dunnhaven might've been the first time they were seen outright."

The table went quiet.

The ship rocked gently beneath them, the only sound for a few heartbeats the faint scrape of Ariya's fork against her plate. The sunlight from the porthole didn't feel quite as warm anymore.

Erin stared at his plate, appetite drained, but not from fear. It was something else. A question forming behind his ribs that he didn't know how to ask.

Eventually, Thalor folded the newspaper again and spoke without looking up. "Keep digging, Cid."

Cidrin nodded.

Fenrick exhaled and leaned back in his chair. "So much for a peaceful breakfast."

Ariya smirked faintly. "You say that like we ever get those."

Still, the laughter didn't return. Not yet.

They sat with it — the soft hum of the Duskvein around them, the quiet weight of a name that meant nothing to most and far too much to them.

Vaelgrim.

Erin didn't say much after that.

He finished what was left of his breakfast — though it felt like the taste had gone hollow — and wordlessly scraped his plate clean. The others had drifted into smaller conversations again, but something lingered in the air between them. Not fear, not quite. Just awareness. Like the crew had all stepped a little closer to the same cliff's edge without realizing it.

He carried his plate to the washbasin, rinsed it clean, and set it aside with a practiced clatter. The motion helped. It grounded him. The throb in his shoulder was back, not dulled now — sharper. Like his body remembered what the Vaelgrim felt like before his mind had a chance to catch up.

He didn't wait for Ariya's teasing or Fenrick's inevitable joke. Instead, he turned, rolled his shoulders, and headed down the corridor toward the lower deck

By the time Erin made it below deck, the air was cooler — still, but not calm. Not the kind of silence that rests. The kind that waits.

He ducked into the training space Narza had claimed for herself — a wide, cleared section near the ballast tanks, lit by thin, flickering wall-lamps and lined with coiled rope, battered mats, and whatever gear she'd seen fit to drag down here. The ship's gentle sway was stronger this low, but Narza never seemed to notice.

She stood near the center, arms folded, scarf tied loose around her neck this time. Her gaze snapped to him the second he stepped in.

"You're late."

Erin blinked. "You said after breakfast."

"That was after breakfast."

He glanced at the lamps. No windows down here. No clocks. "You didn't say how long after breakfast."

She shrugged. "That's on you." Then she tossed something at him.

Erin caught it — barely. A vest. Heavy, lined with buckled straps and weighted along the back.

"What's this?"

"Training vest. You're wearing it until I say otherwise."

Before he could complain, she tossed the second item. Smaller — wrapped canvas weights.

"For your ankles. Strap them tight. And don't drag your feet or I'll double them."

Erin opened his mouth, considered arguing, then sighed. He sat and began adjusting the straps in silence.

"I'm not going easy on you, Salore," Narza said. "You're terrible. And if you want results, this is how we'll get them."

"I know."

She watched him a second longer, then cracked her knuckles and motioned him to stand.

"Before we dive into anything — strength, endurance, your Solforge stuff — I want to see what I'm working with. Whole picture. So we're doing a test."

Erin adjusted the vest across his chest, feeling the weight settle like a lead fog over his shoulders. "What kind of test?"

Narza grinned — sharp and humorless. "Simple. You touch me, you pass."

He stared at her. "…That's it?"

"That's it."

A beat.

"But," she continued, "if you use your magic directly on me, you fail. If you lose sight of me, you fail. If you try to wear me down instead of acting, you fail. If I land three clean hits on you before you touch me, you fail."

She took a slow step backward, dropping into a loose stance. "You've got five minutes."

Erin narrowed his eyes. "…And if I pass?"

"You earned some rest before our next session. If you don't—" She cracked her neck. "We move straight into endurance training."

"You'd make a terrifying teacher."

"I am a terrifying teacher. Clock starts now."

Erin barely had time to brace before Narza moved.

No warning. No warmup. One blink and she was gone from where she'd stood — a rush of red scarf and smoke-slick footwork, her form flickering toward him with razor certainty.

Erin barely managed to twist away. Her knuckles skimmed his cheek. He stumbled back, breath caught shallow in his throat.

Okay. That's one.

He grounded himself. Feet shoulder-width. Ankles weighed down. Chest tight under the vest. Think. Think fast.

She was already circling. Not stalking — hunting. Her eyes never left him.

She leads with her right, pivots off the left. Aggressive feints. Keeps low, hits high. If I can draw her into a committed swing… maybe I can sidestep and—

Her elbow crashed into his side. The thought scattered. He gasped and dropped into a roll, barely avoiding the follow-up strike.

"One," she said flatly.

Already?

He shot back to his feet, sweat already needling his spine. No time to reset. She was back on him, steps fast, precise, quiet — like smoke learning how to walk.

He threw out a wide feint to bait a parry — she didn't bite. She stepped in instead, crowding his space, cutting the angle off before he could adjust. Her heel caught his ankle; not hard enough to drop him, just enough to remind him she could.

She's not rushing. She's reading me.

He faked a stumble, tried to spin it into a low tackle.

Her knee found his chest before he'd finished moving.

He choked on air, staggered back.

"Two."

Erin's jaw tightened.

He shifted into a loose stance. Gave ground on purpose. Made his footwork clumsy, his center unbalanced. Pretend tired. Pretend desperate.

Narza's gaze narrowed — but she followed.

He led her toward a stack of coiled rope, where movement was tighter. If he could just angle her body near the crate, bait her into a swing with too much commitment, he could slip past and tag her shoulder. Just one touch.

She went for it — a flash of motion high and wide.

Erin ducked. Slipped under. Reached.

Her scarf brushed his fingers.

Got you—

Her palm hit his temple like a hammer.

Stars bloomed behind his eyes.

He fell, body folding into the rope pile.

"Three," she said.

He lay there, staring at the beams above, lungs pulling in ragged air. The vest crushed down on his chest like someone had stacked bricks on top of his ribs.

"You're too slow," Narza added. Not cruel. Just honest. "Not in the legs. In the head. You're too busy thinking about your next move while I was already making mine."

"I was trying to read you." he muttered through clenched teeth.

She folded her arms. "You think anyone's going to let you read them in a fight?"

He didn't answer. His pulse still pounded behind his eyes.

"On your feet, Salore."

Erin got up.

The vest groaned with him, dragging at his spine. His shoulders screamed. His breath hitched — not just from exertion, but from something deeper. Something he didn't know how to name. A memory trying to come forward, but blurred at the edges. He shoved it back.

Narza walked past him, grabbed a thick rope from the corner, and dropped it at his feet. Then she nodded to the far side of the room — a pile of waterlogged sandbags, each half his weight. "Circuit," she said. "Ten rounds."

"Of what?"

She pointed. "Drag the bag to the mast pole. Sprint back. Grab the rope, climb to the top. Down again. Then strikes — that dummy there, fifty hits, fast and clean. Then again. That's one."

Erin stared at her. "You're serious."

She walked closer, reached up, and adjusted the weighted vest across his chest — just enough to make the bruises under it shift. "This is the light stuff. Start moving."

The first round nearly wiped him.

The sandbags weren't just heavy — they shifted like dead weight, the rope handles slick with old salt. Erin's legs burned by the third lap. His forearms ached from the climb by the fifth. The dummy strikes blurred by the eighth. Narza never once stepped in. She just watched. Silent. Unforgiving.

By the ninth round, Erin's hands were raw. He could barely lift the bag.

He dropped it halfway through the drag and stood over it, breathing hard, throat dry and lungs too tight to speak.

"Don't stop," Narza said from across the room.

"I—" Erin hunched forward. "Just need—"

"You don't get breaks." She walked up beside him. Her eyes weren't cruel, but they weren't soft either. "Your enemies won't give you time to catch your breath. You don't get to tap out mid-fight. You want to survive? Move."

Erin gritted his teeth. He pulled the bag again.

The tenth round nearly broke him. He couldn't remember what number he was on halfway through the dummy strikes, only that he kept swinging. Narza counted. Quietly. Relentlessly. Fifty. Then she raised a hand.

"Done."

Erin dropped to his knees. His breath wheezed through clenched teeth, sweat dripping off his jaw like rain. He wanted to lie down. Sleep. Just stop.

But Narza crouched in front of him.

"You have mana," she said. "A pool bigger than most. But your body can't keep up with it yet. You don't have the stamina. You're fast, but not long enough. Strong, but only in bursts. That vest's going to stay on until you're stronger than it."

He sighed, exhausted.

"Come on, onto our next exercise" She said

Erin forced himself up. His knees buckled once. He caught himself on the wall and pushed upright.

She knelt and fastened the new weights to his wrists without comment. Not tight enough to cut circulation, but snug enough to tug against every movement.

"You're not ready for forms," she said. "So we work with what you've got."

Then she gestured to the center mat. "Footwork drills. You don't stop moving. Ever. I'll call out changes. You mess up, I hit you. That simple."

Erin's legs were already jelly. His shoulders felt like they were about to fall off. But he moved to the mat, wiped the sweat from his brow, and nodded.

Narza didn't ease him in. The commands came fast. "Diagonal right. Back step. Forward lunge. Pivot. Duck. Duck lower."

The first blow caught him in the gut when he rose too early. Not hard enough to knock him down — but enough to hurt.

He gasped and stumbled.

"Wrong angle," Narza snapped. "Again."

She circled him like a predator. Calling movements. Correcting nothing. Letting pain do the teaching.

Each time he faltered, she struck. Shoulder. Thigh. Ribs. She didn't go for lethal shots — but she didn't hold back either. Her strikes were surgical, refined, and merciless. Erin tried to keep track of her, tried to anticipate her placement, but she moved too quickly. No pattern. No rhythm.

When he slowed, she didn't yell.

She swept his legs.

He hit the mat hard and gasped, wind knocked out of him.

Then — silence.

He lay there a moment, chest heaving, before he realized she wasn't calling anything. She was just watching.

"You're not fast enough," she said. "Not fluid enough. You hesitate. That'll get you killed."

"…I'm trying," he muttered.

Narza's voice sharpened. "Trying is for people who have time. You don't."

She crouched beside him again, voice lower now, but colder too. "You think the Vaelgrim care that you're a work in progress? You think Rhyz Thorne hesitated when he nearly caved your face in?"

Erin's hands balled into fists.

"I'm not doing this because I hate you," she said. "I'm doing this because you'll die if you don't get better. And I'm not watching another person get dragged off a battlefield in pieces."

She stood again.

"Get up."

They kept going. And going. The ship rolled beneath them, the walls of the training space streaked with Erin's sweat and scuffed prints from dragged limbs and lost footing. Time didn't slow — it vanished. The flickering lamps dulled with the afternoon lull, and still Narza didn't stop.

She had him doing balance drills on suspended planks, the ankle weights making every shift a gamble. If he slipped, she made him start over. She blindfolded him next and forced him to rely on sound — wooden pellets tossed at him randomly from different angles. He had to dodge them. He rarely did.

Then it was endurance. Push-ups. Then planks. Then sprints across the ballast corridor while the ship listed from the sea's natural drag. And when his arms trembled too much to hold his weight and his legs locked up, she pushed him into grappling — hands-on, close-range combat forms where she threw him onto the mat over and over until he lost count of the bruises.

By the time she finally barked, "That's it," Erin didn't answer.

He just stood there, shoulders slumped forward, breath wheezing through clenched teeth. His entire body pulsed like a bruise — not just sore, but wrecked. Even the air against his skin hurt. The vest hadn't come off once.

He tried to move, and nearly tripped on his own foot.

Narza didn't say anything this time. She just started cleaning up — as if none of it had been cruel. As if it were just normal.

And maybe for her, it was.

The galley was quiet this time of day — caught between lunch and supper, with only the lazy creak of the ship and the occasional clink of glass or mug from the small pantry. The sunlight poured through the side windows in long, angled beams, warming the benches and catching on the edges of old lanterns and rivets. It smelled faintly of salt, citrus, and old wood.

Erin stepped in, shoulders aching, legs heavy from a full day of training that had left his body ringing like a cracked bell. He moved like his joints had opinions. He wasn't even sure what he was after — water, fruit, maybe something sweet — but he knew if he stayed still in his cabin any longer, he'd seize up and fossilize.

That's when he saw Fenrick.

The older boy was reclined across two benches with his arms behind his head, a half-eaten fruit skewered on a fork and a smug little smile tugging at his mouth. His coat was off, boots up, hair a mess as always. One might've thought he'd just returned from a brawl and a nap in the same hour.

"Well, well," Fenrick said without looking up. "If it isn't the sunpiercer himslef."

Erin grunted and made a beeline for the pitcher of chilled lemonwater on the far shelf. He poured himself a cup, downed it in three swallows, then immediately poured another.

Fenrick whistled. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse," Erin muttered. "I think one of my bones learned a new language just to scream at me."

"Good. That means it's working."

Erin dropped into the seat across from him, groaning as he did. "She made me wear a training vest and ankle weights before I even said hello."

Fenrick snorted. "Sounds like Narza. What was the test?"

"Touch her."

Fenrick blinked. "What?"

"Touch her," Erin repeated, rubbing his shoulder. "Without using magic. Couldn't lose sight of her. Couldn't try to wear her down. If she landed three hits, I failed."

A beat.

"Did you pass?" Fenrick asked, even though he clearly already knew.

"No."

"Thought so," he said, taking another bite of fruit. "But hey, if it makes you feel better, I wouldn't have either."

Erin raised a brow. "You wouldn't?"

Fenrick then burst out laughing, "I'm lying to ya. Of course I would've passed!"

Erin groaned and dropped his forehead to the table with a soft thunk.

"You're the worst," he mumbled into the wood.

"I prefer 'motivational,'" Fenrick replied, chewing leisurely. "You get used to her style. It's like being mentored by a ghost with anger issues."

Erin lifted his head just enough to glance at him. "You think she's trying to kill me?"

"No," Fenrick said, grinning. "If she wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. This is her being nice."

Erin scoffed. "She gave me five minutes. I lasted… I don't know, forty seconds?"

"That's longer than I expected," Fenrick said, raising his cup in mock salute. "She must've been in a good mood."

Erin let out a breath and leaned back, arms draped across the bench. For a moment, they both sat in silence, letting the warmth of the room and the slow sway of the ship fill the space between words.

Then Erin said, almost idly, "You ever train like that? Before this crew, I mean."

Fenrick's grin didn't fade, but his posture shifted — just slightly. Less lounging. More present.

"Not exactly like that," he said. "But I've had my fair share of 'hard lessons.' Most of them didn't come with weighted vests or polite warnings."

A pause.

Then Erin glanced sideways at him. "What was the hardest fight you've ever had?"

Fenrick's chewing slowed. His smile, this time, didn't quite reach his eyes.

He set the fork down beside the half-eaten fruit, the clink surprisingly loud in the quiet galley.

"Hardest?" he echoed, but now he wasn't reclining. He was thinking.

There was a different kind of stillness in his body now. One that wasn't lazy or amused. It was memory. Heavy, slow, edged in something unspoken.

"You sure you want that story?" he asked.

Erin nodded.

And just like that, Fenrick's gaze turned to the middle distance, past the windows, beyond the sea — to a place that no longer existed the way he remembered it.

He let out a slow breath, like something old had just exhaled from the bottom of his lungs.

"Alright then," he leaned back, eyes unfocused but sharp. "His name was Ashar Varn,"

Erin didn't interrupt. He didn't need to. The shift in Fenrick's voice was subtle — lower, more careful — like he was laying bricks as he spoke, building something fragile.

"I was thirteen," Fenrick said, eyes half-lidded now, voice quiet but steady. "Ashar was fifteen. We'd been running together since I was ten. We weren't from the same place. Ashar and I met in the gutter of a back-alley job. We were both running cons on the same mark—stole the crowns from opposite pockets without realizing the other was there. Ended in a fistfight and a bottle to the head. Neither of us won. We respected that."

He gave a small, humorless grin. "We teamed up the next day."

"He was older, faster, smarter. Taught me how to pick locks and how to disappear when you needed to. We used to run games — rooftop races, coin toss cons, thievery in the merchant lanes. Dumb shit. But we were good, real good. Ashar had precision, I had force. He could read a room before I even walked in. I'd break the door down if I had to. It worked. For a while." He smiled, faint and wry. "Once convinced a traveling spice trader that we were his nephews. Got free meals and a ride halfway across the city. Didn't last. The old man wised up when Ashar tried to lift his pocket watch."

He paused to sip his drink, then stared down into the glass like it had swallowed the memory.

"Ashar was the kind of friend you bleed for, back then. He didn't say much, but when things got loud, he'd have your back. I thought he would, anyway. We did odd jobs. Favors for cartels, ship crews, bounty gigs. Nothing noble. But we didn't hurt people who didn't deserve it. That was our rule."

Erin stayed silent, but his gaze hadn't moved from Fenrick's face.

"We found Vash about halfway through winter," Fenrick said. "Back when the storms still rolled in heavy and low across the east canals. We'd ducked into a broken storm drain to wait one out. And there he was."

Another pause. This one longer.

"He was small," Fenrick said, voice softer now. " But he was beautiful. Even then. White fur with streaks of silver, gold rings around his eyes. Could barely stand, but he growled like he was ready to take us both down. We found him malnourished, with mottled feathers and fur, tangled in chain wire. One wing bent. Half his face bruised up bad. We didn't know what he was. Just that he looked wrong. Like a creature that wasn't supposed to exist inside the city."

"Ashar wanted to leave him. Said the thing had too much wild in its eyes. Said it would bite us. Maybe kill us."

A faint smile touched Fenrick's mouth again — bittersweet this time.

"I went back anyway. Every day for a week. Fed him scraps. Whispered to him. He growled the first few times. I growled back. We reached an understanding."

He glanced sideways at Erin. "I named him Vash. Short for Vashael. Means 'ember-soul' in Old Mirek. He had a spark even then."

"Was Vash a person?" Erin finally asked.

"No, a Vulfenar," Fenrick said. "Mythical beast — wolf-hawk hybrid. Smart as a person. Proud as a god. He couldn't have been older than a year. But I didn't care what he was. He was mine, and I was his. We learned each other's rhythms. He followed me rooftop to rooftop like a shadow with wings. I stopped needing to look over my shoulder. I had someone who didn't just fight with me — he flew for me."

The next words came heavier.

"Ashar didn't like that." Fenrick's eyes darkened, and the smile disappeared.

"I didn't notice it at first. But he changed. We'd been running as a pair, always. Then suddenly I had three footsteps where there used to be two. A companion that didn't answer to him. Someone I trusted more."

He leaned forward now, elbows braced against the table.

"There was this gang — the Chainrats. Real gutter bastards. Not the kind of people you steal from unless you've got a death wish or nowhere else to run. You don't cross them. You don't accidentally cross them. But we did both."

"We ran. Job to job, dodging ambushes. Always looking over our shoulders. Ashar said it was fine — he had a plan. Said we'd disappear like always. Except he started acting off. Cold. Edgy. Kept pushing for a way out."

His eyes sharpened. "One night, we stopped at a safehouse on the cliffs of the Atoll. Middle of nowhere. I remember it was the middle of the night. No moon.. Vash was curled up near me."

He stared at the table now, the wood like memory under his hands.

"I woke up to silence. Ashar was gone. So was my blade."

Erin tensed slightly. Fenrick's voice didn't change, but the edges grew razor-thin.

"I didn't have time to panic. They hit us five minutes later. Vash and I were ready to fight, but we were surrounded. Twenty of them. And Ashar…" Fenrick's jaw tensed. "Ashar was already behind them. Clean. No scratches. He'd handed us over."

"For coin. For safety. And a Vulfenar in exchange for his life. I was just a bonus."

Erin didn't speak. The ship creaked gently around them.

"I tried to cover Vash," Fenrick said. "Told him to run. He didn't. Little bastard stood his ground, wings flared, teeth bared. But they tore me apart," Fenrick said flatly. "I fought like hell, but there were too many. Blade to the ribs. Hook through the shoulder. I remember hitting the ground and seeing the bones in my arm. I remember the silence when I stopped hearing Vash's wings."

He swallowed hard.

"They cut his wings and killed him."

Erin flinched. A tiny motion. A shared grief.

"Or… they thought they did."

Fenrick exhaled.

"I don't know what happened next. I was bleeding out, taste of metal in my throat. Vash was dying too — maybe already gone. But there was this heat. This pull. Like something ancient woke up in the marrow of the world. There's no other way to explain it. Vash merged with me. His soul, his mana, his will — it poured into me. I felt his heartbeat inside my chest. His breath in my lungs. My hair turned white at the roots. My eyes burned like fire."

"When I stood again, the sky tore open above us. And I went on a hunt."

He looked at Erin now.

"I don't remember the kills. Just the motion. The noise. The feeling of teeth and claw and wind and blood. It wasn't magic. It was something older. Something I didn't control — not yet. I just remember standing over what was left, breathing like an animal, the whole alley slick with red."

Erin sat motionless. The silence between them lingered. "That's… a lot."

Fenrick gave a small nod, not agreement, just acknowledgement. Then he leaned back again, eyes not on the sea, not on anything.

"Ashar was gone," he repeated. "But not dead."

He rubbed his jaw, slowly, as if the memories lived there, tucked beneath the skin.

"I didn't see him again for years. Not until I joined this crew."

Erin's brow furrowed, but he didn't speak.

"We were docked at some port off the Inner Islands," Fenrick continued. "Just wrapping a supply run. I was grabbing food, minding my business, then I saw him. Ashar. Alive. Smirking. Like nothing ever happened."

His fingers curled on the table, slow and tight.

"He looked older. Wore it well. Scar down the cheek. Fancy leathers. But it was his eyes that made me stop. They used to be sharp. Clever. But now? Now they looked hollow. Hungry. Like something was eating him from the inside out, and he liked the taste."

He exhaled through his nose.

"I don't remember what I said. Probably something stupid. I was already moving before I could think."

Erin sat forward a little.

"You fought?"

Fenrick gave a dry laugh. "Barely. We traded maybe four strikes before he threw a bone-spear that nearly took out half a wall. That's when I realized — he wasn't just stronger. He was different."

He glanced at Erin now.

"Ashar had picked up Ossthanar — bone magic. Forbidden. Old. The kind that feeds off marrow and memory. You don't just study that kind of power. You become it."

Erin's eyes widened slightly.

"He told me," Fenrick said, voice going quiet again, "If I wanted to finish it — if I wanted to really settle what we never did — to meet him on Veyrholt. No crew. No weapons we didn't make ourselves. No witnesses."

"Did you go?"

"Of course I did."

He sat still a moment, then his eyes glazed again, and when he spoke next, it was the voice of someone already halfway back there.

***

The skiff's hull scraped stone.

A low groan echoed as wet wood met black volcanic shelf. The tide hissed at the impact like it disapproved, retreating in foamy drawl across the jagged rock. Fenrick stepped out without ceremony. His boots crunched against cooled magma — porous and brittle in some places, slick with ash and salt in others. The spray of the sea bit at his neck.

He stood there, motionless for a moment, letting the wind drag its cold fingers across his face.

The smell here was wrong. Brine and sulfur. Smoke and old death.

No seabirds cried. No insects buzzed. Not even gulls circled overhead. Just the distant churn of water colliding with the cliffs, and the creak of the boat untethered behind him.

Veyrholt.

The island wasn't on any maps worth a name. The few that had charted it marked it only with rumors — an old volcanic spire split down the center during the Last Driftquake. Remote, uninhabited, long abandoned. But not empty.

Not today.

Fenrick's gaze scanned the jagged expanse ahead — barren ridgelines warped by tectonic stress, forests reduced to skeletal groves of petrified trees, craters blackened by cooled lava and sharp-glassed stone. The clouds above hung low and mottled, like bruises on the sky.

A good place for ghosts.

He adjusted the collar of his coat. Felt the hilt of his sword where it rested against his back. Worn leather. Familiar. Comforting, if only barely.

There was no audience here.

No Cidrin to drag him out of his head, no Thalor to bark sense into his shoulders. 

A cold, unfamiliar current pulsed in the air, a dark mana signature that tugged him toward the basin. He started forward, every step sinking slightly in ash, ankles brushing dry reeds that crumbled at his passing. A few loose stones slid underfoot and skipped into the fog-choked ravines. He didn't flinch. If anything, the silence made his heart quieter.

No fear. Just rhythm.

His path wound through the edges of a broken forest — trees fossilized mid-growth, twisted upward like hands in a final scream. Lightning had blackened parts of the earth here. Steam vented from the cracks like breath from a dying god. Somewhere beneath it all, the land still boiled.

Eventually, the path curved.

And the basin came into view.

A shallow valley ringed in volcanic cliffs, broken and wide. The earth was cracked like dry skin, patterned with old veins of obsidian and slate. Pools of hot vapor hissed quietly around the edges. Bone-white branches stuck out of the rubble like splinters. Something might have lived here once. Nothing did now.

And at the far end, framed by scorched stone and mist—

Ashar.

He stood alone, as promised. No tricks. No crew.

Loose black robes shifted faintly in the wind. His arms were bare to the elbow, the sleeves rolled neatly up, revealing forearms laced with pale scars like spidercracks across porcelain. His hair had been cropped short, harsh against the skull, and his skin looked drawn — taut over a lean frame that hadn't softened with time. It had hardened. Tempered.

His face was sharp, angular. Tired.

And his eyes… held nothing.

No hate. No rage. No remorse.

But Fenrick knew better.

Even from here, even after all this time, he could still feel it — the scar between them. It didn't bleed anymore. But it never healed.

Ashar's presence was like a knife still embedded in flesh. Not twisted. Just there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Fenrick stopped at the edge of the basin, maybe twenty paces away.

His boots cracked loose stone.

His hand drifted to the hilt at his back, not to draw — not yet — but to feel it. To remind himself it was real.

Ashar didn't move.

Then—

"Wasn't sure you'd come," Ashar said. His voice was low, dry. Calm in the way driftwood is calm — hollowed by years of salt and tide.

Fenrick tilted his head. "Didn't think you'd be hiding on rocks and ghosts."

Ashar's lips tugged upward — not a smile, but something close. "I like it here," he said. "It's honest."

Fenrick cracked his neck. A sharp sound. The wind took it and tossed it across the basin.

"Your mana... it's like a sickness now," Fenrick replied, his voice a low, rough rasp. "What did you do to yourself, Ashar? You feel like something dead."

Ashar's lips tugged upward, a motion that was not a smile, but something chillingly close. "Sickness? No, Fen. This is clarity. This is truth. You cling to your sentimental 'strength,' but I saw the real power. The marrow of the world." He spread his empty hands, a subtle tremor running through his unnaturally thin fingers. "I found Ossthanar. The forbidden."

"Don't call me that," Fenrick cut him off, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "Not anymore. You lost that right a long time ago."

Ashar's empty eyes seemed to glint. "Still so dramatic. Still so burdened by the past. You haven't changed, Fenrick. You still fight for something that died long ago." He gestured with a hand, the skin stretched tight over the knuckles. "Tell me, do you still feel Vash's heart beat in your chest? Or is that just another phantom ache you refuse to let go of?" 

Fenrick didn't answer.

He just stared.

Not with rage. Not even hatred.

It was something colder. Something older.

A death stare — still as stone, carved from the ruins of who he used to be.

And Ashar — the boy who'd once laughed beside him on rooftops — looked back with eyes hollowed by time and choices that couldn't be undone.

"Good," Ashar murmured, reading the shift in Fenrick's resolve. "Then let's break what's left." He snapped his fingers. He didn't shout, didn't gesture wide. Just whispered through cracked lips:

"Ossthanar: Tooth of Judgment."

And ripped a molar from his own mouth.

Blood hissed down his chin. He held the tooth aloft — and it grew.

Warped. Splintered. Shifted.

The root spiraled into a jagged hilt, and the crown extended — twisting into a curved, serrated dagger nearly the length of his forearm. Bone runes pulsed along the blade's edge.

He lunged.

Fenrick met him halfway, muscles tensed, breath sharp.

"Beastrend: Ravager's Pounce!"

His feet struck the earth like thunder. A pulse of kinetic force cracked the ground beneath him as he launched forward in a burst of speed that blurred his form.

Their blades met with a screech of bone and steel.

But Ashar was faster than he should've been — not agile, surgical. His dagger flowed like it belonged to his arm, slipping past Fenrick's guard and slicing a shallow cut across his thigh.

Fenrick snarled, twisted, spun mid-air — and dropped low.

"Cycle Shift."

The dagger in his hand shimmered, blurring, and in an instant, became a long, impossibly thin bone rapier, materializing with a faint, dry thrum. Ashar sidestepped Fenrick's overwhelming charge, a whisper of movement. The rapier darted out, a surgical thrust, finding Fenrick's bicep. Fenrick felt the sting, the warm bloom of blood, but he twisted, using the rapier's own momentum, hooking his blade around its hilt. His own momentum carried him past Ashar, but he used the pivot to wrench, aiming to pull Ashar off balance. Ashar pulled back, his rapier now becoming a coiled bone whip, deflecting Fenrick's wrenching strike with a shocking, clattering parry that resonated like dry bones clicking. "Still so predictable, Fenrick," Ashar's voice was a dry, dismissive rasp. "All strength, no finesse." He lashed the whip out, a blinding flicker, aiming for Fenrick's legs. He then flicked his wrist, and a jet of superheated steam hissed from a nearby fissure, aimed directly at Fenrick's eyes, obscuring his vision and forcing him to blink rapidly. Fenrick spun, a sudden dip of his shoulder, letting the whip whistle past his knee. "Beastrend: Serpent-Fang Pivot!" He used the motion, leveraging the whip's own pull, to pivot into Ashar's space, his free hand lashing out in a primal strike. "Beastrend: Apex Maul!" His elbow, mana-infused, slammed into Ashar's ribcage. The sound was a dull, sickening thud. Ashar grunted, a brief expulsion of air, but his body barely registered the impact. The ribs under his skin seemed to shift and grind with a low crackle, deflecting the full force. Fenrick saw his face in that moment, up close – the familiar sharp planes, but overlaid with that chilling, vacant gaze. A flicker of the boy who'd laughed beside him, stolen bread with him, flashed in his mind. He hesitated. His follow-through, meant to be a brutal, rib-crushing continuation, faltered, his muscles tightening for a split second, a silent question in his eyes. Ashar saw it. His empty eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. "Ossthanar: Spine Bloom!" Bone spikes erupted from his forearm with a sudden, explosive burst, a wet pop of breaking skin. He lashed out, his arm becoming a flailing weapon, catching Fenrick in the shoulder where his guard had momentarily dropped. Fenrick roared, the razored bone tearing through his coat and scoring a deep wound across his collarbone. He tasted blood, a sharp tang. The cumulative injuries were starting to register, a dull throb beneath the adrenaline. Ashar didn't pursue. He stood for a moment, letting the bone spikes recede with a soft click as they retracted, his empty eyes studying Fenrick. "You fight with so much... effort," he mused, a chilling tone. "Like every breath is a struggle. Your mistake, Fenrick, was thinking pain mattered." He then snapped his fingers, and the ground around Fenrick glowed with a faint, malevolent heat, making the ash under his boots feel like hot coals. Fenrick snarled, a low, guttural growl that pulled from deep within him, pushing through the cold statement. He wants me to break. He wants me to feel what he feels. He let his own mana surge, a hot, roaring current, pushing Vash's power to the surface. His eyes began to glow, a faint golden light. "Beastrend: Beast Form!" His muscles flexed, coiling, his senses sharpening, the air around him crackling with raw kinetic energy. The world narrowed to Ashar's movements, the subtle shifts in the air, the faint thrum of his magic. He could smell the faint, metallic scent of Ashar's cold blood, sharp and coppery against the sulfur. Ashar simply smirked. "Good. Let's see if your beast can break bones." He stamped his foot. "Ossthanar: Marrow Dance!" The ground beneath Fenrick erupted. Hundreds of skeletal limbs – arms, ribs, femurs – burst from the ash, clawing, spinning, whipping towards him with terrifying coordination. It was a maelstrom of grinding bone and scraping stone, a horrifying symphony of the dead. The air filled with the dust of disturbed graves. Fenrick didn't back down. "Beastrend: Direhound Feint!" He blurred, a flicker of movement, weaving through the chaotic storm of bone. He was a phantom, an afterimage, evading impossible attacks, his heightened senses reading the impossible trajectories. He wasn't just dodging; he was flowing, turning the chaos into his own rhythm. He burst out of the maelstrom directly behind Ashar, his blade roaring with Vash's energy. "Beastrend: Vulture Fang - Spiral Slash!" His blade became a whirlwind of serrated force, a circular shockwave of claw energy that carved a trench around them. It caught Ashar full on, tearing through his robes, scoring deep gashes across his back, and sending him stumbling forward. The force of the blow shattered a petrified tree limb near Ashar, sending splinters raining down. The air tasted faintly of ozone and pulverized rock. Ashar grunted, then laughed, a dry, rattling sound. He simply twisted, a sickeningly fluid movement, and plunged his hand into his own bleeding back. "Ossthanar: Ossuary Reversal!" He ripped out a fresh rib, bone snapping with a wet crunch. It reformed in his hand, not a spear, but a massive, blunt vertebrae hammer. It shimmered, momentarily appearing translucent, a subtle hint of the rapid marrow depletion, before solidifying. He swung it, not at Fenrick, but into the ground between them. "Ossthanar: Ivory Bloom!" The basin floor exploded upward, not in one spire, but a jagged wall of bleached ribcage erupting from the ground, blocking Fenrick's path and momentarily obscuring Ashar. The sound was a grinding roar of stone and bone. Fenrick was forced to skid to a halt, the wall rising faster than he could react. He's using the terrain to create distance and block my assault, Fenrick realized, his mind racing. He's resetting. Without a thought, Fenrick pivoted. "Beastrend: Harrier's Wail!" A concussive blast, shaped like a screaming avian maw, exploded from his outstretched palm. It tore through the newly formed bone wall, shattering it into dust and shrapnel, opening his path with a sound like tearing fabric. The air crackled with residual mana. Fenrick then slammed his boot into the ground, causing a small, controlled rockslide to cascade down a nearby slope, aiming to momentarily disorient Ashar or obscure his retreat. But Ashar wasn't there. He'd used the cover to melt into the mist at the edge of the basin. Fenrick's enhanced senses picked up the faint whisper of shifting ash, the subtle hum of mana. He wasn't retreating, he was flanking. Fenrick spun, blade raised, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The lacerations on his bicep and side throbbed. He could feel the drain of mana, the cumulative effect of the fight. But the primal fire of Vash refused to dim. Ashar reappeared, closer than Fenrick expected, a shadow launching from the mist. He didn't use a spell. Instead, he moved with the raw, brutal efficiency of their street-fighting days, only amplified. His movements were precise, surgical, exploiting every fraction of Fenrick's exhaustion. He feinted left, then lunged right, aiming for Fenrick's injured side. Fenrick parried with his blade, the clash of steel against hardened bone. Ashar's attack was a series of calculated blows, targeting joints, leveraging Fenrick's bulk against him, his knuckles hard as stone. "You're slowing down, Fenrick," Ashar mocked, a feint with a punch, then a lightning-fast kick to Fenrick's already compromised leg. Fenrick staggered, his vision blurring further, the world swaying. His left arm, though still functional, felt sluggish, heavy. "All that beast blood, and you still bleed like a common rat." Fenrick roared, a primal sound torn from his chest, shrugging off a follow-up punch. He let the rage become focus. "Beastrend: Apex Maul!" His shoulder slammed into Ashar's chest, a bone-jarring impact that sent Ashar skidding back a few paces. Fenrick pressed the advantage, a flurry of rapid, un-magical strikes – the old way. Fast, brutal, designed to overwhelm. He landed a solid hook across Ashar's jaw. Ashar's head snapped back, a trickle of blood appearing from his nose. "Still the brute," Ashar chuckled, wiping the blood with the back of his hand, his eyes shining with a strange, dark amusement. "That's why you could never truly win, Fenrick. You always fought with your heart." He reached out, quick as a viper, and grabbed Fenrick by the throat, his grip impossibly strong. "Ossthanar: Sternum Bell." Ashar whispered it like a secret and pulled a rib from his own chest with his free hand, a sickening crunch of bone. Then—he smacked Fenrick across the face with it. Not to kill. To embarrass. The blow sent Fenrick stumbling back, dazed, blood on his tongue. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, the taste of rust metallic and overwhelming. He could feel his focus fraying, the edges of his vision encroaching. Ashar strolled after him, casually turning the rib over in his palm, like a craftsman admiring a piece of work. "Still hesitating," he said, his voice soft, almost intimate. "Still hoping I'll stop. Still waiting for me to look like the boy you remember." He leaned in, his hollow eyes boring into Fenrick's. "Do you know what I remember, Fenrick? You crying. When they tore Vash's wing." Fenrick's heart hitched. The raw, searing memory. It felt like Ashar was ripping the wing from his chest all over again. He saw Vash, small and broken, then the Chainrats closing in, Ashar's face in the shadows… Fenrick's hand tightened on his blade, but then, his muscles tensed, a ghost of a shared laugh, of Ashar's hand on his shoulder in a cold alley, flashed. His body locked, his strike freezing for a crucial second, unable to follow through with the raw, brutal finality needed. Ashar saw it. His empty eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. "I remember thinking, 'he's still a child,'" Ashar continued, his voice a low, brutal hum. "And I remember being relieved. Because it meant you'd never surpass me. You were a weakness, Fenrick. A tether. Vash... he just cemented it. You had something pure, something that answered to you, and I had nothing but the gutters. You were too blind to see the truth of the world, Fenrick. And I opened my eyes. I shed the weakness. I took the power. And I became everything you could never be." Ashar's voice deepened, his eyes gleaming with a manic, almost joyful malice. His unnaturally lean frame seemed to vibrate with a suppressed energy, a constant, subtle twitching of his knuckles, the skin over his jaw pulled so tight it seemed ready to split. "You remember that storm drain, Fenrick? The one where we found Vash? You saw a scared, hurt animal. A broken thing you could fix. I saw a liability. A drain. Another mouth to feed, another weakness to protect. I hated that. I hated how you clung to it. How you clung to me. Always looking for a family, always needing someone to lean on. It was pathetic." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his breath foul with the scent of stagnant blood. "Remember that time we stole the spice merchant's entire stock? You felt bad for him, didn't you? You wanted to give some back. Pathetic. Or the night I picked a fight with the Chainrats, and you jumped in, all loyalty and no sense? I knew then. You were always going to be a burden. Always going to hold me back from true power. So I cut the dead weight. I watched Vash die, Fenrick. I watched you bleed. And I felt... nothing. Only liberation." Ashar's lips pulled back in a rictus of pure, unadulterated disgust. "Every time you looked at me, I saw the pathetic boy who needed a brother. Every time you fought, I saw you holding back, afraid to break something you loved. It disgusted me. Your compassion, your loyalty... it was a disease." Fenrick's body didn't move. But inside—something snapped. The heat in his chest wasn't just rage. It was betrayal. Crystallized. Weaponized. The last piece of what he needed. The bitter truth, finally laid bare. This wasn't a brother to save. This wasn't even a husk of a brother. This was a monster. A monster that had always been there, hidden beneath a veneer of shared hardship. The memories, once precious, now twisted, poisoned. The weight of his own sentimentality, of clinging to a phantom past, lifted. He was finally, truly, free. Free from the lie. Free from the hope. Free from the burden of who he thought Ashar was. A cold, absolute resolve settled over him, chilling him to the bone, yet invigorating him. The sadness remained, a deep, aching void, but it was overshadowed by a grim, unbreakable purpose. Ashar's cruel smile stretched, a grim triumph. "There it is," he whispered, gesturing with the rib. "You feel it now, don't you? The part that wants to rip me apart. Come on, Fenrick. Let the beast out." Fenrick looked up. And the golden glow in his eyes intensified, blazing with a terrible, absolute clarity. No more doubt. No more childhood ghosts. No more dreams that Ashar could ever be anything but this. He had asked his questions. Ashar had given his answers. And now, there was only one path left. "You're not him," Fenrick said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, the final, undeniable truth. "The boy I bled with. Starved with. Slept in sewer gutters with. You're just the husk." He drew his blade back, the cracked metal singing with a new, dangerous hum. The wind paused—like the world knew what came next. And with that—he moved. Not fast. Not explosive. Inevitable. "Beastrend: Vashael's Crown!" A storm of white-gold energy erupted behind him, coalescing into massive, feathered wings – the spectral image of the Vulfenar, majestic and terrifying. A low, resonant hum filled the air, the sound of ancient power waking. Fenrick blurred, ash exploding behind him as he launched into a predator's sprint, his body a conduit for raw, untamed power. His blade, now humming with Vash's pure essence, gleamed with glowing beast sigils, each flaring like breath from a myth-beast's maw. Ashar's eyes, for the first time, widened in something akin to shock. He lunged, a desperate counter. "Ossthanar: Tyrant's Chain!" A segmented bone whip, threaded with sickle-blades, hissed through the air, attempting to ensnare Fenrick. But Fenrick was no longer playing Ashar's game. "Beastrend: Clawstep Rampart!" He vanished mid-stride, not with speed alone, but with instinct, a series of impossible, deceptive movements that made him seem to teleport. He reappeared above, below, behind—three times in half a heartbeat—weaving through the lashing chain. Then, he was there. He slammed his boot into Ashar's chest, a bone-shattering impact that sent Ashar hurtling backward into the volcanic cliffs. The rock pulverized, exploding into dust and shrapnel around Ashar's broken form. Ashar emerged, a twisted ruin, blood streaming from his brow, his body shuddering from the force. His movements were jerky, less fluid than before, the Ossthanar struggling to keep pace with the damage. A faint, sickly green glow pulsed from beneath his skin, a visible sign of the marrow burning, the magic consuming him. But he pushed himself up, a mad, twisted smile spreading across his face. "Finally," he breathed, a raw, almost joyous sound. "Now it's fun." He flung his hands wide, his form trembling with exertion, but his eyes burned with triumph. "Ossthanar: Gravewake Dominion!" The cliffs behind him groaned, splitting wide, and the very ground of Veyrholt trembled. From the hollowed crust of the coastline, something impossible began to rise. A fossilized Leviathan – easily three times the length of a galleon. Its skull, jagged and split. Ribs warped like ancient sea anchors. Dozens of spear-sized teeth glinting in the haze. Its bones moved. Every vertebra. Every talon. Every shattered fin. It was an ancient nightmare given form, a testament to Ashar's ultimate, horrifying power. Ashar lifted his hand, trembling with the immense mana cost, his eyes burning with a desperate, triumphant madness. His skin seemed to stretch even tighter, his knuckles twitching uncontrollably, the raw consumption of marrow visibly draining him. The Leviathan roared, a sound like grinding mountains, ancient and terrible. It lurched forward, jaws of ancient horror opening wide, a maw of stone teeth. Fenrick stood alone beneath it, his broken blade flickering. His body screamed in silent protest – the wounds, the blood loss, the mana drain – all of it a crushing weight. His vision blurred, swimming with red. But his focus is absolute. He didn't flinch. He grinned, a wide, feral smile that mirrored the Vulfenar's spirit within him. "Vash," he whispered, his voice resonating with primal power. "Let's hunt." He dropped low, sinking into the ultimate apex predator stance. "Beastrend: Apex Drive!" He launched skyward, pure kinetic force cracking the air behind him like a thunderclap. "Beastrend: Howlcarve Form!" His blade, white-hot with concentrated beast-blood mana, seemed to lengthen, a ghost of fangs tracing its edge. "Beastrend: Phantom Maw!" He arced through the air, glowing with light and memory, a single, impossible strike against the resurrected terror. The Leviathan roared, its colossal maw snapping shut around Fenrick. For a moment – silence. The island held its breath. Then – "Beastrend: Apex Sever Moonfang Rend!" The entire head of the fossilized beast split open from within. With a howl that shook the cliffs, Fenrick erupted from the top of its skull – spinning mid-air, his shattered blade dragging behind him like a comet tail, slicing through rib after massive rib. The Leviathan skeleton exploded into a thousand fragments, raining fossil dust and rib shrapnel across the island like divine judgment. The cataclysmic sound echoed for miles, shaking Veyrholt to its core. Ashar shielded his eyes as the shockwave blew him backward, slamming him against a jagged outcrop, his body a twisted marionette. When the dust finally cleared – Fenrick stood, a ruin of a man. His cloak was shredded, his blade broken almost to the hilt, his left arm a dead weight at his side. He was bleeding from a dozen new wounds, his breath rattling, but he was standing. He was victorious. Ashar lay twisted on the ground, his body a broken mess of bone and corrupted flesh. His limbs were unnaturally thin, almost translucent, and a faint, sickly glow pulsed from beneath his skin as his Ossthanar fought a losing battle to repair him. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated. He slowly lowered his remaining hand, a low, dry chuckle escaping him. "No more holding back then," he rasped, blood bubbling at his lips. Fenrick didn't answer. His silence was heavy, a statement beyond words. He dropped his broken blade, letting it clatter against the obsidian. This wasn't about magic anymore. This was raw. Ashar, despite his broken state, pushed himself up, his movements jerky, almost robotic, his eyes still burning with defiance. He launched himself forward, a desperate, feral lunge, no magic, just the sharpened bone of his remaining hand aimed for Fenrick's throat. Fenrick met him. No spells, just the brutal, honed instincts of a street fighter. He ducked Ashar's lunge, a punch snapping out, connecting with Ashar's jaw with a sickening crack. Ashar stumbled, but didn't falter, his pain immunity making him a relentless, horrifying opponent. He countered with a flurry of precise, bone-hardened strikes, aiming for Fenrick's exposed ribs, his injured side. Fenrick grunted, absorbing the blows, his own fists hammering into Ashar's chest, his stomach. The sounds were wet, visceral impacts, the thud of flesh against bone, the ragged gasps of Fenrick's breath. Ashar's movements grew more erratic, his body visibly deteriorating under the strain of Ossthanar's constant, failing regeneration. His skin was stretched taut, almost translucent over his protruding bones, and his eyes sank deeper into their sockets. Fenrick, fueled by pure, unyielding will, pressed the attack. He landed a brutal uppercut that snapped Ashar's head back, then followed with a knee to the gut that doubled Ashar over. Ashar tried to lash out with a bony elbow, but Fenrick caught his arm, twisted, and with a grunt of exertion, snapped it clean. Ashar didn't scream, but a dry, rattling cough escaped him, his body convulsing, a faint, desperate bone-itch making his remaining fingers twitch. Fenrick looked down at his feet. His broken blade lay there, a shard of steel and memory. He snatched it up, the jagged hilt fitting perfectly in his battered hand. Ashar, broken but still defiant, tried to launch himself forward one last time, a desperate, clawing lunge, his eyes burning with a final, desperate hatred. Fenrick met him. Not with a swing, but with a brutal, forward thrust. The broken blade, now a mere shard of its former self, plunged into Ashar's heart. Silence. Absolute. Ashar's eyes, dulling now, still held a faint, desperate gleam. His body stiffened, then sagged. "Why do you look sad, brother?" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, a final, twisted question. Fenrick's eyes flickered, just for a moment, a fleeting glimpse of the profound sorrow he was suppressing, the ghost of the boy Ashar once was. "You died a long time ago," he murmured, his voice raw, not an accusation, but a eulogy. His last tie to family, irrevocably severed. He was alone. And with no more words – Fenrick pulled the shattered blade free. And ended it.

***

The memory lingered like smoke clinging to the skin.

Fenrick didn't speak right away.

The galley sat in stillness, the low creak of the ship and distant gull cries outside the only sounds that remained. Erin hadn't moved, elbows resting lightly on the table, cup still cradled in his hands. The story had landed — not like a punch, but like a weight gently placed on the chest. Heavy, permanent.

Fenrick leaned back slowly. The tension in his jaw had eased, but not his eyes. Those still stared through some distant place in the past, unfocused.

He let out a breath, voice low.

"So yeah. That was the hardest fight I ever had."

Erin blinked, then sat back too, slowly. "You said you died."

Fenrick gave a lopsided shrug. "Yeah. I mean, I don't remember what happened between the stabbing and the standing. Just... pain. Cold. Then fire."

His fingers traced a faint scar across his side — almost thoughtlessly.

"Next thing I knew, I wasn't alone in my body anymore. Vash was there. His soul, maybe. Or something bigger. Our mana synced, and I changed. That's when the gold eyes started. And the white streaks. Not just style, in case you were wondering."

Erin shook his head. "No, that's… that's actually kind of amazing. And terrifying."

"Yeah. That's about right." Fenrick smirked faintly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Erin looked thoughtful. "You really went back to the crew right after that?"

"After dragging myself out of a goddamn pit, yeah." Fenrick nodded.

Yeah. Took a few days just to stop bleeding. Ariya hadn't joined yet, so it was herbs, bandages, and Thalor threatening to cauterize me with a hot spoon."

That made Erin blink. "Wait — then how did Ariya end up joining?"

Fenrick tilted his head, thinking. "Sireford, I think. Might've been North Korrin. One of the Inner Islands."

He rubbed his jaw. "We were docked doing supply runs. Thalor pulled some strings to help a local family — long story short, Ariya was part of it. I don't know the details, but I think he saved their lives. She joined up a week later."

Erin looked surprised. "Out of gratitude?"

"Debt," Fenrick said. "Gratitude came later. She said she'd stay until she repaid him."

A small grin tugged at his mouth.

"Still here, though."

"She doesn't seem like the 'owe you for life' type."

"She's not. Which means there's more to it than she lets on. But you'd have to ask her."

He stood then, stretching his arms over his head, spine popping.

"Well," he said, voice dipping back to that dry drawl Erin had grown used to. "I've hit my emotional quota for the year. I'm going to my quarters before I accidentally say something earnest."

Erin smiled faintly. "Thanks for telling me."

Fenrick paused at the doorway. Then, without turning:

"Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't."

And with that, he left, boots echoing down the hallway until the creaks of the ship swallowed them.

Erin sat a little longer, alone now.

His fingers tapped lightly against his cup. The story still lingered in his bones.

He died once, Erin thought. And came back.

He wasn't sure if that made Fenrick more terrifying, or more human.

Maybe both.

He stayed in the galley until the shadows lengthened and the warmth from the portholes gave way to the golden tint of late evening.

Eventually, he stood. The cup was empty. His head wasn't.

He found his way back to his cabin more by instinct than awareness — the Duskvein creaked and swayed beneath him, familiar now, like a tired beast humming in its sleep.

Once inside, Erin dropped onto the edge of his bed with a sigh. His legs ached. His shoulders buzzed with dull fatigue. The bruise under the flux harness had turned a darker violet, circling his wrist like a ring.

But his mind was awake.

He reached beneath the bunk and pulled out his father's journal.

It was a mess — half-travelogue, half-sketchpad, half brain-dump. Pages dog-eared. Ink smudged in the corners. But it was his.

He flipped to a blank page, then stared for a long moment before writing.

Day 1

It's been a day since we left Brackton Cay.

Narza tried to murder me with training this morning. Training vest, ankle weights, an ambush disguised as a lesson. She gave me five minutes to touch her — failed before I could finish a thought. Then came the "warmups." My bones still feel like jelly.

Cidrin laughed at me. So did Fenrick.

Ariya looked like she wanted to throw the flux harness out the nearest porthole.

After that, Fenrick told me about his hardest fight. A guy named Ashar. Used to be his best friend. Betrayed him. Sold him out. Left him to die.

I believed him when he said it was the hardest thing he ever had to do. Killing someone you once loved — someone who knew your steps before you took them — that's not just a fight. That's a burial.

He said he died once, too. Died protecting a Vulfenar named Vash — a mythical beast with wings and eyes like gold. The bond they had was… something else. I don't think I've ever seen Fenrick speak that quietly before.

Makes me feel like everything I've done so far is just… noise.

He paused. Then frowned.

Without thinking, his hand drifted to the back of the journal — to the first few pages, the ones not written by him.

The ones written by his father.

Kael Salore's handwriting was rough but clean. His entries were brief. Laced with shorthand notes and cryptic directions only he would understand.

Date unknown. Stars remain unreliable. The crescent moon we charted two nights ago now appears full.

We've arrived at Velmirith, the Isle of Quartz Orchards — though none of the locals call it that. To them, it's simply Her Hollow. A place where the wind is slow, but the eyes are quicker. Even the fruit trees lean away from the manor.

We've been working under the patronage of Her Grace, Duchess Elyriane Vaun'Cireth Aelyx of the Twinned Scepters — a name as long as her shadow, and one she insists be spoken in full.

She requested our services to map the sinking ridges along her island's south coast, though none of us have yet understood why. The cliffs there emit a tone only animals respond to. Birds flee. Dogs whimper. Horses go still as statues. Whatever the tone is, it can't be heard by human ears.

The Duchess is... strange. No one ever sees her walk. She appears. At railings. On balconies. Always overlooking, never within. Her voice, when it arrives, seems to come from the walls.

She wears rings that change color depending on the room. And gloves — always gloves. Her hand brushed mine once, briefly, as she passed a note. Her fingers were cold as coral, and left a print of something like frost.

Still, she pays well. Better than well.

And despite her courtiers' whispers, we remain — even as the southern tides rise without reason, and the trees near the orchard begin to split open like old books.

We leave in three days. Or we try to.

— K. S.

Erin scanned them slowly.

None of the entries were longer than a few lines. But each one felt like it echoed through something deeper. Every sentence hummed with danger. With wonder. With weight.

His own words suddenly felt like toys next to them.

He stared down at the open journal, thumb brushing the edge of the page.

"…It's not enough," he whispered to the quiet room.

Not the training. Not the bruises. Not even the story Fenrick had told.

Not yet.

He wanted more.

He wanted to see things no one else had seen. Touch the edge of maps where cartographers had shrugged. Hear languages that crackled like wind through crystal trees. He didn't want a legacy — he wanted stories. His stories. Not just ones borrowed from the man who came before him.

He wanted to fill these pages with something that would've made even Kael Salore pause and raise a brow.

I want to see all of it. Every ocean. Every island. Every forgotten ruin and place that feels like it doesn't belong.

I want to burn it into my bones and say I was there.

He set the pen down slowly.

The flux harness still sat on his desk, humming faintly. A soft blue pulse. Waiting.

He stood. Walked toward it.

Then stopped.

The bruise around his wrist caught the lamplight just right — angry and dark, with thin threads of red at the edges.

He stared at it.

Then, quietly, he turned away.

"…Tomorrow," he murmured.

And climbed into bed.

The wind outside shifted, brushing against the hull with the gentleness of some old sleeping thing.

Erin closed his eyes.

And dreamed of somewhere he hadn't been yet.