The final two days crawled like barnacles on the Cormorant's hull. The doldrums broke, replaced by a fitful, teasing breeze that filled the sails just enough to inch them towards the smudge on the horizon that was Port Talon. Yet, the air aboard remained thick with a tension thicker than the lingering scent of kavi stew. Borin's mood swung like a loose boom in a squall. One moment, he'd gruffly praise Ash's knife work on a pile of tough tubers ("Less waste, Salt. Almost decent."), the next, he'd slam a pot down, muttering about "land-lubber tricks" and "stolen sweetness," his eyes darting suspiciously towards their cubby. The crew's goodwill, bought by a single good meal, evaporated faster than spilled grog in the sun. Hunger and routine reasserted themselves, and with them, Lars's smoldering malice.
Ash and Preston moved through the ship like ghosts haunted by a visible specter. They adhered to their pact with grim determination: Never alone, never vulnerable. Ash shadowed Borin in the galley, his large frame a physical barrier between the cook's erratic temper and Preston. Preston, in turn, became Ash's shadow on deck, Perry's eyes constantly scanning, her small body always positioned where she could see Lars, Finn, or any potential threat approaching Ash's back. They communicated in glances, subtle shifts in posture, the shared language of hunted things.
Lars played his game with cruel patience. He didn't confront. He insinuated. A heavy coil of rope "accidentally" rolled towards Ash as he scrubbed the deck – Preston shoved Ash clear with a grunt, taking the glancing blow on her shoulder. A sudden, unexplained slick of grease appeared on the ladder Ash was descending – Preston's hand shot out, gripping his belt, preventing a fall that could have broken bones. Each time, Lars watched from a distance, a slow, unpleasant smile spreading across his face. He saw their fear, their forced proximity, and it fed him.
"Stick close to yer shadow, Salt?" Lars called out once, loud enough for nearby hands to hear, as Preston hovered near Ash while he tarred a seam. "Afraid ye'll blow away? Or is it the lad ye're worried about?" He leered openly at Preston. "Pretty little thing for a dockside rat. Almost like a girl, ain't he?"
The taunt landed like a harpoon. Preston froze, Perry's mask cracking for a split second, raw terror flashing in her eyes before she slammed the disguise back down, scowling fiercely. Ash straightened slowly, the tar brush dripping black onto the deck. The hollowness within him pulsed, a void screaming for power he couldn't summon. He met Lars's gaze, his own eyes ash-cold, promising nothing but endurance. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The silent, unwavering stare, the way he subtly shifted his weight to place himself squarely between Lars and Preston, spoke volumes. Touch her, and whatever comes next will be worse for you.
Lars's smile faltered slightly under that flat, dangerous stare. He spat over the rail. "Watch yerselves," he muttered, the threat hanging in the air as he stalked away. Finn scurried after him.
That night, in the suffocating cubby, Preston didn't tremble. She vibrated with a cold, focused fury. "He knows," she hissed, her voice stripped bare in the dark. "He knows. And he's playing with us. Waiting for a mistake."
"He wants us scared," Ash murmured, sharpening his knife with methodical intensity. The shhhk-shhhk was a metronome for his thoughts. "He wants us to slip up. Give him an excuse." He paused. "Or he wants to push us until we break… and jump."
Preston's breath hitched. The unspoken horror of Jax's warning – the quiet, fatal "accident" – hung between them. "We need a weapon," she stated flatly. "Not the stiletto. Something… undeniable."
Ash looked at the knife in his hand, then out through the knothole at the vast, starlit ocean. The sea. Their prison, their path, their potential grave. An idea, desperate and dark, began to form. "The sea is a weapon," he said slowly. "For those who know its moods."
Preston frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Lars hates the helm," Ash explained, recalling snippets of grumbled complaints. "Says it's fiddly work. Thinks real men haul lines, not spin wheels. He only does it when Jax forces him." He met Preston's gaze in the gloom. "Tomorrow… the wind's picking up. Shifting. Varga will want experienced hands at the helm as we near the coast. But if someone… distracted Jax…"
Understanding dawned in Preston's eyes, sharp and ruthless. "And Lars was at the helm… during a tricky shift…"
"Accidents happen," Ash finished, his voice devoid of inflection. "Especially near rocky coasts. Helm responds slow… ship swings too wide…" He left the grim implication hanging. It was a monstrous gamble. It risked the ship, the crew, everything. But Lars was a cancer, growing more malignant by the hour. The risk of not acting felt greater.
Preston was silent for a long moment. The creak of the ship filled the void. "Distract Jax how?" she finally asked, her voice tight.
Ash thought of Borin, of his greed, his wounded pride, his volatile nature. "The last of the kavi paste," he said. "Hidden in the salt pork barrel. Borin finds it… makes a fuss… accuses someone… demands Jax settle it…" It was flimsy, dangerous. Borin might accuse them. But it was the only spark they had.
Preston nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement. "Do it."
Dawn broke on the final day. Port Talon was no longer a smudge but a sprawling, chaotic silhouette against the morning haze: jetties bristling with masts, warehouses hulking along the waterfront, the cries of gulls already audible over the sighing waves. The wind had indeed freshened, gusting unpredictably from the southwest, making the Cormorant heel and groan. Tension crackled on deck. Varga stood by the helm, her grey eyes scanning the approaching coastline and the bustling traffic. Jax stood beside her, radiating coiled vigilance. Lars was nearby, looking sullen.
Ash moved. While Preston lingered near the galley hatch, watching Lars like a hawk, Ash slipped below. He found the small, waxed packet of precious kavi paste hidden beneath their floorboard. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was betrayal, not just of Borin, but of the fragile shipboard order. He pried loose a plank near the salt pork barrel, shoved the packet deep into the greasy, briny meat, and quickly replaced the wood. He emerged onto the deck, sweat cooling on his brow, just as Preston gave him the faintest nod. Lars was still near Varga and Jax.
Minutes later, Borin's enraged shriek tore through the morning air. "THIEVERY! AGAIN!" He erupted from the galley hatch, brandishing the waxed packet, smeared with pork grease. "Me kavi! Stuffed in the pork like rubbish! Which filthy bilge rat did it?!" His furious gaze swept the deck, lingering accusingly on Ash and Preston, then darting wildly to others.
Jax sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "Borin, not now—"
"NOW!" Borin howled, spittle flying. "Captain! This is mutiny! Stealing from the cook's stores! I demand justice! Search the scoundrels! Start with them!" He pointed a trembling, greasy finger at Ash and Preston.
Varga turned, her expression icy. "Jax. Deal with it. Quietly. We're making landfall."
Jax's jaw tightened. He shot a look of pure annoyance at Borin, then a flinty glance at Ash and Preston. "You two. Galley. Now. Borin, show me." He gestured sharply, needing to contain the disruption. Varga needed him at the helm for the tricky approach.
It was the moment. Lars, momentarily forgotten near the helm, saw Jax being led away by the apoplectic cook. A flicker of opportunism crossed his face. The tricky wind demanded attention. Varga needed a hand.
Ash nudged Preston. She melted towards the starboard rail, near a pile of loose netting. Ash drifted towards the portside chains, positioning himself with a clear view of the helm.
Lars saw his chance. He stepped towards the large, spoked wheel. "Captain? Need a hand? Wind's kickin' up from the beam..." He placed his hands on the spokes, subtly nudging aside the sailor currently holding it.
Varga, her attention split between the approaching jetties, the wind, and Borin's commotion, gave a curt nod. "Mind the swing, Lars. Don't overcorrect. Steady as she goes."
Lars grinned, a predator scenting weakness. He gripped the helm. Ash saw his knuckles whiten, not with concentration, but with clumsy force. The wind gusted, hitting the sails broadside. The Cormorant lurched. Lars yanked the wheel hard to port, overcompensating wildly.
"Lars! Ease her!" Varga snapped, sensing the ship's sudden, dangerous swing.
But Lars, unfamiliar with the helm's sensitivity, panicked. He hauled harder, fighting the wheel. The ship's bow veered sharply towards a cluster of anchored fishing smacks near the entrance to the main channel. Shouts erupted from the smacks. Panic flared on the Cormorant's deck.
Ash didn't think. He moved. Not towards Lars, but towards Preston. She was already moving, scrambling over the loose netting towards the starboard rail, directly into the path of the ship's uncontrolled swing. Ash lunged, grabbing her arm just as the deck tilted violently. He yanked her back, pulling her down behind the relative shelter of a water cask lashed to the deck. They hit the planks hard as the Cormorant shuddered, timbers groaning in protest.
Jax, abandoning Borin mid-accusation, exploded onto the deck. He took in the scene in an instant: the ship veering dangerously, Lars wrestling idiotically with the helm, Varga shouting commands lost in the wind. He covered the distance to the helm in three strides. A brutal shove sent Lars sprawling. Jax seized the wheel, his powerful arms straining, correcting the wild swing with smooth, expert movements. The Cormorant groaned, straightened, and slid past the fishing smacks with mere yards to spare. Angry shouts followed them.
Silence descended, heavy and shocked. Lars picked himself up, his face pale, his earlier bravado gone, replaced by raw fear. Varga turned on him, her voice a whiplash. "You! Forecastle! Now! Don't move until I say!" Lars scrambled away without a word.
Varga's gaze, cold and furious, swept the deck. It landed on Ash and Preston, emerging from behind the water cask. Ash still had a protective grip on Preston's arm. Varga's eyes narrowed, taking in their position, their proximity during the crisis. Suspicion warred with the immediate need to secure the ship.
Jax met her gaze, then looked at Ash and Preston. His expression was unreadable, but he gave a single, curt nod. Acknowledgement? Or a marker called due? He turned back to the wheel, guiding the Cormorant towards the designated berth on the bustling Talon docks.
The ship nudged against the sun-bleached timbers. Ropes were thrown, lines secured. The journey was over. Port Talon's chaotic symphony of shouts, clangs, and foreign tongues washed over them. Ash released Preston's arm. They stood at the rail, not looking at the teeming dock, but at each other. The shared terror of the near-collision, the gamble with Borin and the kavi, Lars's temporary defeat – it had cost them dearly. They were marked. Varga knew they were trouble. Jax's protection, if it ever existed, was void. Lars's rage was now mixed with terror, making him even more dangerous.
But they were here. Ash hefted their meager pack, the weight of Borin's stolen rosemary and salt inside. Preston adjusted Perry's cap, her eyes scanning the dock not for opportunity, but for threats. Salt's Savories wasn't a dream; it was a lifeline they had to grasp immediately, before the predators ashore – or the one still aboard – closed in.
Lars, being escorted below by two grim-faced crew members, shot them a look of pure, venomous hatred as he passed. It wasn't over. Ash met his gaze, then turned towards the gangplank being lowered. The edge of the world wasn't safety; it was simply a new, more chaotic kind of wilderness. They stepped onto the noisy, sun-baked dock of Port Talon, the scent of fish, spice, and danger thick in the air, leaving the whispering sea and its contained terrors behind, only to walk into the roaring marketplace of survival. Together.