The sea had been calm for days. Fishermen's boats drifted close to shore, children practiced sparks on the quay, and Guard drilled along the dunes. Then, one morning, the waves simply stopped. No wind. No tide. The horizon turned sharp as a blade.
Hei Long felt it before anyone saw it. He stood on the unfinished quay, cloak trailing, the Origin's glow in his chest pulsing unevenly. Yuran was at his side in a breath, pale. Qingxue's sword was already in her hand. Yexin's foxfire flickered nervously.
"They're not sending winter," Hei Long said quietly. "They're not sending night."
The horizon darkened. Three ships, larger than all the rest, slid forward without sails, their hulls built from bone thicker than fortress walls. Upon their decks stood three figures shrouded in shifting mist, each taller than a man, their forms uncertain — as if sculpted from tide and shadow.
The masters had come themselves.
The Masters Step Ashore
