Crestmar Wharf came into view as a flat silhouette against the glinting surface of the atoll's layered waters, its piers bristling with ships like thorns from a crown. The sky was bruised violet, streaked with gulls circling the outer reef. From the ship's deck, the city looked almost beautiful.
Arthur didn't feel it.
He leaned against the rail, white cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, eyes fixed ahead while his mind drifted elsewhere. The sea below still hummed with echoes from Neramor's Shell, too quiet, too deep. The whisper of water wasn't just noise anymore. It was memory. Cold, slow memory that crept up the spine.
Seisyll stepped onto the deck, the world briefly narrowing around him as his feet touched the wood. The wind tugged at the edge of his cloak, but he didn't feel it. His gaze, usually flat and distant, found Arthur at the far end of the stern, and stopped cold.
