Saltpier slept ugly at night.
Fog had laid claim to the streets, not like a shroud but like breath left behind by something immense, heavy, damp, and sour. The air hung thick with the smell of tar, old fishbones, crab rot, and burnt oil wick. Ropes drooped from salt-ravaged beams. The wood of the planks underfoot had the soft give of always being a little wet.
Rin moved like someone walking inside her own bruise.
Her side ached with every shift of weight. The purple bloom across her ribs made her hold her breath in shallow pulses. A scab at her brow itched under the hood of her shirt, and her jaw felt misaligned from the blow that had nearly knocked her senseless two nights before.
She hadn't wrapped anything. She hadn't had the cloth.
But she walked forward all the same, shoulders squared as best they could be, eyes fixed on the warped door at the end of the lane.
The tavern slouched against a leaning beam, just as it had before. Lantern light flickered from within, more shadows than glow, and wind tickled loose slats like bones brushing bones. A half-crushed crab skittered past her boot and vanished under the porch.
She paused one step before the door.
Her fingers brushed her ribs lightly, a breath catching, before she exhaled through her teeth and pushed forward.
The tavern door groaned, swung inward. The smells struck her immediately: burnt sea oil, sour beer, old net mold. They seemed thicker now, as if the place had fermented another layer since her last visit.
Inside, the tables still leaned like crooked teeth. A man with a boot off slouched near the hearth, toes dark with dock-grime. Another curled in the corner beneath a tapestry of tangled kelp, whispering into his tankard with eyes like hollow knots.
The room ignored her. That was how it worked here.
Except for him.
He was where she expected him, back in the corner, under the same bent ceiling beam. His posture unchanged. One hand on the table. One hand on a chipped mug.
He looked up slowly.
Not like he was surprised to see her, more like he was confirming what he'd already expected. His gaze lingered on her face. Drifted briefly to her side. To the faint swell of bruising where her shirt didn't quite hang straight.
"Saltpier teaches fast," he muttered, voice roughened by disuse and drink.
He didn't rise. Didn't invite her.
So Rin walked toward him.
Each step buzzed against the soreness in her ribs. The tavern seemed larger now that she was moving through it, every chair a longer distance than it should be, every eye pretending not to follow her.
She stood across from him until he finally tilted his head slightly, questioning without asking.
"You meant it?" she asked. "That I should come back?"
The sailor's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something more like a weathered reaction. He considered her for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"Aye," he said. "I'm not here to waste breath."
With that, he reached into the deep interior of his coat and drew out two copper coins, dull with grime but still recognizable.
He tossed them toward the bar.
They spun once in the air, clinked hard off the corner edge, and landed flat against the warped surface with a heavy finality. The barkeep, half-shadowed behind a curtain, muttered something wordless and pulled the cloth closed tighter.
It was understood: coin bought silence. Coin bought space.
The sailor stood, adjusting his coat with a small shrug to settle the collar.
He turned toward the side door.
No explanation. No gesture.
Just:
"Come on, then."
And with that, he walked into the fog.
Rin followed him through the side door and into the drowned dark.
Fog wrapped the docks in gauze, thick enough that the lamps strung along the slats seemed to float disembodied in the murk. Everything beyond five paces became suggestion, rope, plank, shadow. The salt was heavier here, sharp in her throat, laced with fishrot and old iron.
The sailor walked like he'd done it a thousand nights, never once checking if she was behind him. He took the long route: past the collapsed crab traps twisted into the shape of broken cages, through a side-cut alley with a deck so warped it buckled between footfalls. A rusted weathervane shaped like a sunken helm leaned sideways atop a splintered pole.
Twice, they passed rope markers nailed to posts, each daubed with a different symbol in faded oil-ink: a reef tooth, a hook with two eyes, and one Rin didn't recognize, three waves overlapping like knuckles. She didn't ask.
The only sounds were the lapping of black water below, and their feet, his steady, hers cautious. Every jolt echoed through her ribs like a warning bell.
Eventually, the city thinned.
Lanterns gave way to silence. Wood gave way to stone. The planks turned damp beneath their boots, and salt lichen curled in the cracks between beams. A half-crumbled shrine to some old sea god huddled against the sea wall, a figure with a spiral jaw and hollow mouth, covered in green streaks from algae runoff. Tiny offerings lay around its base: a cork float, a broken comb, three copper fishhooks bound with twine.
Rin's breath caught at the sight. It looked like something forgotten had made a home here.
Ahead, the shack rose out of the dark like a barnacle clinging to the coastline. Low-roofed, shingled with broken driftboard and sailcloth nailed in patches, it leaned against the outer curve of Saltpier's seawall like it might fall back into the ocean at any moment. A faded ship's wheel, cracked in half, was bolted above the doorframe. Fishbones rattled from eaves in the wind, strung together in twisting lines, charms or warnings, she couldn't tell.
The sailor reached into his coat, pulled a key knotted with red twine, and opened the door with one hard twist. It creaked open with a smell of old smoke and brine.
He stepped inside without a word. She followed.
The interior was a single room, long and narrow, barely wider than a hallway. Rafters sagged low overhead, blackened from years of hearth smoke. Rope nets hung in loops from the beams, some empty, others filled with dried herbs, rusting gear, or empty bottles plugged with wax.
To the right, a hearth glowed with faint coals, barely enough to light the room. To the left, a cot tucked into the wall had clearly been made for one, the blanket folded square and a single bolster arranged with ritual neatness.
Fishing knives in varying stages of use lined a rack above a small workbench, and near the window sat a shelf of carved driftwood icons, a kelp-browed sailor, a sea-mare with whittled teeth, a ship with blind sails. One figure was nothing but a tangled knot with fingers, no face, no shape.
Near the door, nailed directly into the frame, was a painted piece of wood. A crude eye had been carved into it, with red twine wound around the base, a common "watcher" knot, meant to ward off betrayal at sea.
The sailor gestured to a crate near the hearth.
"Sit."
Rin did, slow, careful. The crate creaked under her, but held.
The sailor crouched near a seam in the floor, lifted a loose board, and pulled out a weather-darkened roll of oiled leather. He placed it between them, unrolling it with care.
Inside were two daggers.
One was slim, with a small nick near the point. The other had a notch worn at the hilt from years of draw. They were clean, but not polished, no gleam, no flash. Just tools that had been kept and used.
"This one's earned a few close calls," he said, tapping the nicked blade. "Might keep you from earning one of your own."
He didn't offer it yet. Just looked at her.
Rin hesitated.
A weapon was a shift. A step across some line. No turning back.
She studied the sailor's face, unreadable as weathered stone, then reached out and took the dagger by its hilt.
The grip was tight-wrapped leather, scuffed smooth where fingers had worn it. It smelled faintly of salt-oil and iron. The balance point was forward-heavy, not a finesse blade. A survivor's tool.
"Wrong grip," the sailor muttered.
He crouched beside her, adjusting her fingers. His touch was impersonal, direct. He turned her elbow inward, nudged her wrist.
"You're thinking of stabbing like you're folding paper. This ain't paper."
"What is it then?"
"A reason not to die."
They moved through simple drills.
How to draw from a boot. How to flick the point from under a coat hem. How to reverse the grip without opening your own palm. Every move sparked along her aching ribs, but she bit down the pain.
Her breath shook once. He didn't comment.
Only once did he demonstrate, a slow slash, elbow tucked, pivoting with his back heel.
"Don't fight the way you think you're supposed to," he said. "Fight the way you won't get remembered."
She mimicked it. Awkward, slow, but intent.
Eventually, the sailor sat back on his heels.
"Better."
Rin lowered the blade into her lap. It felt heavier now, as if it had agreed to something.
She looked up toward the shelf of carved figures.
"What are those?"
"Memories. Some mine. Some not."
She didn't press.
The hearth crackled. The shack groaned in the wind.
Finally, the sailor leaned back and said:
"What do they call you?"
"Rin."
"Strong cut. Short."
"And you?"
"Malri."
No handshake. No smile.
Just a nod.
A line drawn in salt and blade.
Rin came back the next night.
And the next.
Each return was quieter, more deliberate. She didn't flinch at the fog anymore, didn't hesitate at the wind-lashed boardwalks or the night-warped silhouettes along the piers. Her ribs still ached, a dull ghost of pain along her side, but her body was learning again, learning what it meant to move with purpose.
Malri never greeted her. He didn't ask why she came back. He simply stepped aside, let her enter, and went back to whatever quiet task occupied his hands.
Some nights it was carving, driftwood shaved into shapes that didn't always resemble people. Some nights it was knotwork, complex sailor's braids done in silence, unraveled just as easily. Once, she caught him tuning an old lyre by the firelight, though he never played it.
The dagger was hers now. He never reclaimed it. She wore it at her belt, wrapped in rags during the day and hidden under her sash when she left. The first time she'd tried to reverse the grip without warning, it slipped, left a thin red line across her palm. Malri had handed her a strip of old cloth and said only:
"Now you won't forget."
He taught her to move with her weight, not against it. To strike at angles, to feint low and finish high. When she faltered, he pointed with the handle of his own blade, never raising his voice, never showing frustration. The fire was often the only sound between drills, a low, spitting crackle.
Each night she left sore, but stronger.
And then one night, there was no drill.
Instead, Malri sat by the hearth with a long, narrow case carved from pale bone. It bore scrimshaw runes along its sides, loops, coils, a fish's mouth wide open in a scream. He turned it slowly in his hands, silent.
Rin watched him from the crate across the fire, one hand on her thigh where the dagger rested. She didn't speak first.
"You remember that tune I hummed," he said at last. "The night you came to the bar."
"The one that calmed the water?"
"Aye."
He opened the scroll case with a practiced twist, then withdrew a thin strip of kelp-paper, dark and brittle, burned around the edges like it had passed too close to saltfire. Symbols ran the length of it: coiled strokes, inked spirals, jagged teeth. They shimmered oddly in the firelight, refusing to reflect it properly.
Rin leaned closer but didn't reach. The parchment didn't look dangerous, it looked… remembered.
"This one's the first two lines of a verse from Wind's Calling," Malri said.
"Is that a song?"
"It's a shanty. One of the real ones."
He set the parchment on his knee. It flexed like dried skin, faintly translucent.
"Most folk think shanties are rhythm keepers. For rowing, for hauling, for cleaning nets when the tide's wrong. What they don't know is that every true shanty's born from the sea."
Rin raised an eyebrow.
"Born how?"
Malri tapped the script.
"Nobody writes them. They show up."
"What, they just… appear?"
"Aye. Out of nowhere. Verses wash ashore.They tend to come in sets, usually three but anywhere up to six. One after the other."
He paused. His eyes weren't on the parchment anymore.
"And almost always… they surface on one island. Always within the year."
"So the sea gives it to people?"
"Gives, maybe. Or warns."
Rin studied the strange script again, the way it seemed to flex when she blinked.
"And when it's sung?"
"Depends on the verse. Some call wind. Some calm it. Some rot sails. Some hide you from sight. And some, the old ones, they can split rock or drag iron under the waves."
"But only if you sing it right?"
"Not just right. With intent. With voice."
He leaned forward.
"Shanty magic isn't spellcasting, girl. It's song. It's rhythm. The sea don't listen to symbols. It listens to sound. To voice filled with meaning."
"That night in the tavern," she said softly. "You sang alone."
"Aye. That's why it was small. One line sung by one throat, it still trembles the tide. But it's like striking a bell with a bone spoon."
"But a crew.."
"That's a hammer. That's thunder."
Malri rolled the parchment and sealed it again in its bone case, fingers moving with care. When he looked back at her, his face was harder. Not cruel, but set in stone.
"The Crown knows this."
"They ban it?"
"They unmake it."
He leaned back, placed the scroll on the shelf beside the figures.
"Royal Decree. No shanty magic, no verse trade, no sea-spoken relics. Any captain caught carrying a full shanty gets docked, fined, stripped of charting rights. Some are branded. Some are vanished."
Rin's voice dropped.
"Vanished?"
"Crews taken. Ships sunk. No names written down. No trials. The old ones call it the Hushed Fleet, vessels silenced for daring to sing."
A long silence passed between them.
Then Rin said:
"Why would you teach me this?"
Malri didn't answer right away. He watched the coals collapse inward, the red glow flickering along the carved fishbone charms above the hearth.
"Because you didn't run. And because you asked the right question."
"Which was?"
"Not what is it. But how does it work."
She hesitated.
Then:
"I want to learn more."
"You don't even know what that means."
"Then show me."
He rose slowly, dusted his palms against his trousers, then added a pinch of salt to the fire, the hiss curling upward like a whisper.
"Knowing's the first step," he said, voice low.
"Singing… that's another."