Dawn arrived without warmth.
A flat, gray light seeped through low clouds and spread across the deck, revealing the aftermath in full. Blood had been scrubbed away where it could, diluted by seawater and time, but the marks of the battle remained. Bent railings leaned inward like broken ribs. Hairline fractures ran along sections of the deck where stone and lightning had struck. One sail hung partially slack, its enchantments intact but strained.
The sea itself was calm.
Not peacefully so—more like something holding its breath.
Noel stood near the center of the deck, arms crossed loosely as he listened to reports come in. His posture was steady, but his eyes tracked everything: the way sailors moved more carefully now, the way some avoided looking at the water, the way fatigue sat heavy even on those still standing.
"Twelve injured total," Elyra said, closing a glowing sigil with a flick of her fingers. "Four serious. None critical anymore."
None dead.
