The first day after Neramor's Shell passed in slow silence.
The battered ship drifted eastward, the wind thick with salt and old magic. Fedlimid had patched the worst of the sails with a few rough stitches, and Melite kept the rudder steady with gentle gusts, but otherwise, none of them worked harder than they had to. Their bodies ached too deep for that.
They slept in shifts, if it could be called sleeping, a restless doze where even dreams felt too heavy to summon.
Arthur barely moved from the prow. He sat with one leg braced against the rail, arms draped loosely over bent knees, his head tilted back into the constant breath of the sea. He barely spoke. The scars of battle and transformation still burned along his skin, though he bore them with the same grim patience he bore everything else.
