Juan realized very early that Esperanza Matteo was not going to be an easy passenger aboard his ship.
Not that he minded. In fact, he found it adorable the way she scowled at him like a feral kitten, all fire and fury despite her weakened state. Her resistance was noble, if a bit dramatic, and he couldn't help but be amused by how she still tried.
The second time she woke up, she waited for her moment. Calm, calculating. He had just leaned close to check her breathing when she suddenly slammed a curled fist into his jaw.
It didn't hurt.
The drugged incense still weighed down her limbs, her magic tamped beneath heavy smog, so the punch landed more like a light swat of her knuckles.
Juan didn't flinch. He merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
"Spirited," he said, massaging his chin, even as she slurred, "I'll kill you…" before slipping back under.
The third time she woke, she made a break for the door. Her bare feet barely touched the wooden floor before her knees buckledc crashing into a heap just before the threshold, her breath ragged and magic crackling helplessly around her like sparks sputtering in a storm drain.
Juan sighed, scooping her up again. "Too early, mi Reina. Be patient."
He laid her back onto the cushioned bench and adjusted her blanket with quiet reverence.
It went on like that for several days.
Every attempt at rebellion became more pitiful, and more endearing. He began referring to each one in his notes to his mother, always ending with:
"Still not ready. But she's strong. Stronger than any of us guessed."
He tried to feed her during her lucid windows. Sometimes he coaxed her upright long enough to get a spoon near her lips, but she only glowered and slowly pushed the plate off the table with the grace of a moody cat. He watched in silence as yet another ceramic bowl shattered on the floor.
Still, she drank water. That was something. That, and she never once begged for mercy.
Juan admired that.
Beneath the incense, Esperanza hated how heavy her body felt, hated the flickering haze in her mind, like static under her skin. But mostly, she hated herself. For being tricked. For running away.
Each time she woke, she whispered prayers to Guabancex under her breath.
"Help me out of this. Please. I messed up. I should've faced it. I should've stayed."
Only silence greeted her.
Sometimes a distant thunderclap.
Sometimes… nothing at all.
While Esperanza wilted beneath incense and silver-smoked dreams, La Sirena surged forward like a freed blade through the Sea of Bones.
The wind was wild, and so were the smiles aboard the ship.
The family, what remained of it, found strange comfort in movement. The ache of loss dulled beneath the salt air and sword drills. And for the first time in nearly a decade, Elena felt free. No nobles. No councils. No gods screaming for compromise.
Just them. The sea. The storm.
Phineus trained with Alejandro daily, his form sharpening like tempered steel. Niegal, much to Elena's chagrin, encouraged it. "He needs to feel capable," her husband said, rubbing a shoulder after a sparring match. "Like he can protect something." Elena said nothing at first. She just watched. Quiet. Uneasy.
Alejandro, too, had aged. His long blonde braid was streaked with silver now, and his laughter had a hoarser timbre. But his pride in Phineus was unshakeable. Aurora watched from the deck rail, a serene, if tired smile tugging her lips. Vera trained too, but her gifts were more delicate. Green magic curled from her palms to soothe small cuts and call seagulls from the sky. She was her father's golden girl and the ship's gentle soul.
The children were near inseparable. Phineus followed Vera like a guardian shadow, ready with a hand or dagger if she so much as stumbled on a rope coil. Niegal teased that Phineus had become her knight. Alejandro beamed. Elena just prayed.
Sometimes, at night, Elena and Aurora would sit near the helm, a bottle of cafecito or soft mate between them, watching the children explore. "We'll retire after this," Aurora murmured once. "Somewhere with no waves. No thunder. No gods."
Elena nodded, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
In the bowels of La Sirena, Phineus and Vera hosted secret councils among the glowing mana engines, debating what they would do if something happened to the adults. Vera always wanted to find her cousin Esperanza and make her come home. Phineus would nod, silent but certain.
"Promise?" Vera would whisper.
"On my blade," Phineus would reply.
The adults didn't know about those meetings. But they suspected. Children always did what they did best-
find trouble.
But for now, no trouble had found them. Not yet.
And for a moment, for one brief, breathless moment, they allowed themselves to believe they might just bring her home.
Before the next storm struck.