The late afternoon sun, a rare visitor to the Westering Isles, bled molten gold into the turbulent grey sea. James and Philips sat on their usual outcrop—a precarious perch jutting from Saint Ursa's eastern cliffs. Below them, dark slopes plunged toward restless waters that sighed and crashed against the rocks with an ancient rhythm. The wind, though still carrying its familiar chill, whispered here rather than howled, a gentler thing than what prowled the orphanage walls.
Fangtail had claimed James's lap as his rightful throne, a warm purring ball who had quickly decided that sleeping alone in the echoing dormitory was beneath his dignity. Tiny claws flexed contentedly against worn wool as the cat settled deeper into sleep.
They watched the sun descend in comfortable silence, each lost in thought. The day's abrasions seemed distant here, buffered by wind and waves.
"Marcus Kaelen is arrogant," Philips said suddenly, his voice barely louder than the surf below.
A dry smile touched James's lips. "Astute observation."
Philips picked at a loose thread on his mended trousers, his movements restless. "But he's got things to be arrogant about, hasn't he? And after today…" He trailed off, glancing back toward the orphanage. "He won't forget what happened in that clearing."
James felt Fangtail's warmth against his chest, a reminder of why the confrontation had been necessary. "Let him remember. Some things are worth the consequences."
"Easy to say now," Philips muttered, then caught himself. "Sorry. I know you did the right thing. It's just—Marcus has a long memory and a longer reach."
"His father's money? His grandfather's faded noble name?"
"Well, yes—that's enough to make anyone dangerous." Philips grimaced. "But I meant his mind. His intelligence. You saw how he commanded attention today. And in Father Alaric's class—that whole Sparrow's Point strategy."
James let out an incredulous scoff. "Intelligence? That death trap?"
"Don't dismiss it!" Frustration crept into Philips's voice. "Even Alaric said it had merit."
James laughed quietly, startling Fangtail, who blinked amber eyes before resettling with an offended flick of his tail.
"Why are you laughing?" Philips looked indignant.
"Because it was foolish from start to finish," James said, his laughter fading into familiar intensity. He stroked Fangtail's soft fur. "The boat would fight onshore winds and current—struggle to clear the cliffs before being spotted. And that 'invisible' goat-track he was so proud of? Visible from three different headlands. Perfect for ambush."
James's voice grew quieter, more certain. "Marcus called some people 'less critical'—sending them down that track is just sending them to slaughter. His layers were different ways to fail."
Philips absorbed this, the purring in James's lap suddenly the loudest sound between them.
"So what would you have done, Mr. Clever-clogs?" No real bite to it, only genuine curiosity.
James smiled faintly, looking out at the darkening sea. "Chaos. Make them chase ghosts."
"Ghosts?"
"Not one precious boat—dozens. Anything that floats. Old fishing skiffs, hastily made rafts. Launch them from every hidden beach just as the tide turns strongest." James's eyes lit with the strategy taking shape. "The Serpent's Maw current drags things sideways for hours, even against headwinds. Our decoys would scatter along the coast, not straight to sea."
"So they wouldn't really escape?"
"They'd create chaos. If that dawn sea-drizzle rolls in—the kind that smothers everything in grey—the Onyx Fleet chases ghosts in the mist, scattering their ships among the Jagged Teeth reefs."
"And on land?"
"More chaos. Release all livestock just as the first decoys are spotted. Let sheep and cattle scatter across the peninsula. Raiders are greedy—a moving feast breaks formations." James paused, his voice growing more animated. "Then we make the land-bridge a beacon. Set it ablaze along with some outbuildings. They'll see smoke and fire, think we're destroying everything or that victory's imminent."
"What about the goat-track?"
"That's for our twenty best fighters. They go up it after the chaos begins, expecting the ambush." James's voice dropped. "Their job isn't to sneak—it's to hit that ambush hard, make it look like the Order's elite are making desperate breakout. Draw as many raiders as possible into the Serpent's Spine ridges, terrain the enemy doesn't know."
"They'd be sacrificed," Philips whispered.
"A calculated sacrifice. They fight, delay, inflict damage. Two, maybe three sharp ambushes as they retreat deeper, making pursuit costly. Then when they've pulled the enemy far enough—they scatter like sparks. Each for themselves, using every hidden path and cave. Some will make it. Many won't. But they buy the most precious thing: time and misdirection."
James looked down at Fangtail, a fleeting, almost sad smile touching his lips. "Because while all that happens—burning bridge, decoy fleet, fighting retreat—the families, children, lore-keepers with vital texts divided among them slip away. Not together, not in one vulnerable group. Twos and threes through routes the raiders would deem impassable. North through Whispering Reeds where armor sinks, east along Screeching Gull Cliffs where the path is handhold and prayer."
"But how do you choose?" Philips's question came out sharper than intended. "How does anyone decide who's brave enough to die? Who's expendable?"
The word hung between them like a challenge. James was quiet for a long moment, his hand stilling on Fangtail's fur.
"You don't decide who's expendable," he said finally. "You ask who's willing. There's a difference."
"And if not enough volunteer?"
James met his gaze steadily. "Then leadership means making the choice so others don't have to live with it."
Philips shivered, though whether from cold or the weight of James's words, neither could say.
He paused, then asked, his voice softer, "What would you have proposed, Philips? If Father Alaric had called on you?"
Philips considered this, pulling his knees to his chest. After a moment, he shrugged, a hint of his usual gentle optimism returning, though now tinged with a newfound appreciation for the problem's complexity. "Oh, mine would have been much simpler, I suppose," he said, almost apologetically. "Just try to get everyone into the mountains as quickly as possible, through all those little paths we know. Scatter in small groups from the start. Hope our superior knowledge of the terrain and the harshness of the Serpent's Spine would be enough to let most of us evade them after the land-bridge fell. No decoys, no grand fires... just run and hide, Really." He looked at James. "Yours sounds much more… thorough. And much more dangerous for some."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by wind and waves. Fangtail stirred, sighing softly.
The sun touched the horizon now, a glowing disc balanced on the edge of the world. James watched it slowly sink, the light gradually dimming from gold to amber to deep orange, casting long shadows across the water until finally the last sliver vanished. As twilight deepened into night, the conversation on the cliff dwindled, leaving only the sound of the wind and the rhythmic crash of waves below. The weight of their talk about sacrifice and strategy lingered as they made their way back to the cold stone walls of the orphanage, the sleeping cat a warm, trusting weight in James's arms.
The days that followed brought their own quiet upheavals. Word spread through the dormitories that two more children were gone—Peter and young Miles, their beds found empty at morning wake-up, belongings vanished without trace. In Fr. Sam's absence, the prayer hall buzzed with unrestrained chatter. Even during the opening responses, boys leaned across pews to whisper theories about the missing pair. The excitement was more muted than it had been for Arthur weeks ago, but still carried that familiar thread of hope—perhaps a wealthy family, perhaps their own beds and warm meals. When Fr. Sam finally arrived, James noticed the usual chill of the stone hall seemed to linger. Fr. Sam looked flustered, maybe because he'd come late for prayers. As the prayers continued, however, his familiar warmth gradually filled the space, and James found his own shoulders relaxing.
On Tuesday, it was Philips's turn at morning grace. He stood at the lectern and, instead of choosing a tale of valor, recounted the story of a mother and daughter from a fallen sanctuary who chose death over revealing the paths that protected the last of their people. In Philips's gentle, hopeful voice, their silence became not cold calculation, but an act of profound love.
Life continued its monotonous rhythm. With the orphanage's eccentric cleaner still away on his annual leave, James found himself on hands and knees scrubbing the vast refectory flagstones. Another day saw him assigned to the kitchens, peeling endless potatoes under Mrs. Gable's sharp, dismissive glare. It was here that Fangtail's survival instincts truly sharpened. The cat had sampled the watery kitchen porridge once, fixed James with a look of profound betrayal, then promptly established himself as the dormitory's chief vermin hunter. Soon he was padding silently through the halls—a ginger shadow on four paws—leaving the occasional grisly trophy of a dispatched mouse by James's cot.
Fangtail's presence had woven itself into the fabric of James's daily routine in ways both expected and surprising. The cat shadowed him through chores, claimed his lap during study periods, and had established a nightly ritual of purring James to sleep. It was during one of these quiet library sessions that the first unexpected consequence revealed itself.
One afternoon while reading, James idly plucked a ginger hair from his sweater sleeve. Fangtail, perched on the arm of his chair, suddenly tensed, his ears pricked forward with unusual alertness. The cat's amber eyes were fixed on the doorway to Father Daniel's inner sanctum, where muffled voices could be heard—Father Daniel's dry whisper and another voice, warmer and more familiar. Fr. Sam.
The conversation was too quiet to make out words, but something in the cadence, the pauses, suggested importance. Fangtail's tail twitched with nervous energy, his entire body rigid with attention.
"Easy," James murmured, reaching to stroke the cat's fur. "It's just Father Sam visiting."
But Fangtail refused to relax, his gaze never wavering from the doorway. If anything, James's touch seemed to heighten the cat's alertness, as if he were trying to communicate some urgent concern.
It was then that Father Daniel's voice emerged from the shadows of his inner sanctum, each word precise and brittle as autumn leaves.
"Affection has its costs, Thorne. And its place. The cat is no longer welcome among the books."
One night, deep in the dormitory's echoing silence, James was wrenched from dreamless sleep. Not by sound, but by insistent weight upon his chest. He blinked his eyes open to find Fangtail standing on his sternum, paws kneading with urgent, sharp pressure. The cat's amber eyes were wide, his body rigid, and a low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest as he stared toward the dormitory door.
"What is it?" James mumbled through sleep fog. He tried to shift the cat aside, but Fangtail's claws found purchase through the thin blanket—not painful, but insistent. His focus was absolute. A silent desperation that James's drowsy mind couldn't parse.
Just as his heavy eyelids began to surrender again, a scream cleaved the night. Thin as wire, sharp as breaking glass, threaded with raw terror.
James bolted upright. His heart slammed against his ribs. Sleep-clumsy hands fought with tangled blankets as adrenaline flooded his system, and he swung his legs over the cot's edge. Bare feet found cold stone. One uncertain step toward the door, then another. His fingers had barely grazed the metal doorknob when the door exploded inward.
James stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Thomas—one of the smaller boys from the younger dormitories—tumbled inside. His face was a ghostly smear of tears and terror in the wan moonlight.
The dormitory erupted. Startled cries bounced off stone walls. "What happened?" "Quiet!" "Who was screaming?"
While most boys were still fighting free of their blankets, Philips was already moving. He reached the sobbing child and dropped to one knee, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"Thomas, look at me." Gentle but commanding. "Breathe first. Then tell us."
The boy's words came in shattered gasps: "Went for water… there was something by the wall. A shadow, but not like shadows should be. So tall it touched the ceiling. And it was watching me."
"Why didn't you fill it earlier?" Miller's voice cracked from across the room.
"Shut it, Miller," someone hissed. "We're trying to sleep."
But sleep felt suddenly fragile. Fear moved through the room like cold draft - Older boys tried to sound brave, dismissing it as nightmare terrors, but their whispers carried unease. Eventually, Philips guided the trembling boy back toward the general dormitories, his gentle voice fading down the corridor as the shuffling subsided and the remaining boys burrowed back under their blankets
James remained sitting on the edge of his cot. Fangtail was calm now beside him. Both of them stared into the darkness beyond the doorway where something had been tall enough to touch the ceiling.