The oars moved slowly.
Not because they were tired—but because neither of them wanted the sound.
Each dip into the water felt like a betrayal of the silence that followed them. The sea was calm, smooth as dark glass, carrying the small boat forward without effort, as if it wanted them gone as much as the island had.
Mateo sat near the bow, his hands wrapped loosely around the wood at his feet. He wasn't rowing. He hadn't been for a long time. His arms rested there out of habit, not purpose.
Behind them, the island burned.
Not the violent fire from before—no roaring, no chaos. Just a low, steady glow. A dying thing that refused to disappear quickly.
That glow held everything.
The ship.
The voices.
The men.
Mateo didn't turn around again. He already knew what he would see.
Ash where names used to be.
The oars slowed.
Then stopped.
The boat drifted.
Mateo realized his hands were shaking. Not from cold. Not from fear.
From the absence.
He had spent his life believing loss was loud—screams, blood, desperation. But this was quiet. This was the sound of the world continuing as if nothing had happened.
He hated it.
"They're all gone," Mateo said.
The words felt unreal once spoken, like they belonged to someone else.
Armand didn't answer right away.
He sat at the stern, one oar resting across his knees, the other still dripping into the sea. His posture was straight, controlled—but something in him had collapsed inward.
"Yes," he said finally.
That was all.
Mateo waited for more. An order. A plan. A reassurance.
Nothing came.
The boat rocked gently.
Mateo exhaled, slow and uneven. "I keep thinking I'll hear them."
Armand's jaw tightened slightly. "So do I."
That surprised him.
Mateo turned his head. Armand wasn't looking at the island anymore. His gaze was fixed on the water ahead—dark, endless.
"I hear Jacques' boots," Mateo continued quietly. "On the deck. Always dragging the left one."
Silence.
"And Lucien," Mateo swallowed, "laughing at nothing."
Still silence.
"I don't even remember the cook's name," Mateo said. His voice cracked. "But I remember the way he hummed when he thought no one was listening."
The words piled up now, unstoppable.
"They trusted us," Mateo whispered. "They trusted you."
Armand closed his eyes.
The oar slipped from his knees and rested against the boat.
"I never asked them to trust me," Armand said.
Mateo laughed—once, bitter. "No one ever does."
The boat drifted farther from the island. The glow dimmed.
Mateo felt something tear loose inside him.
"Why did we live?" he asked.
Armand opened his eyes. "That question will destroy you if you keep it."
"That wasn't an answer."
"No," Armand said. "It was a warning."
Mateo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I don't know what to do now."
Armand studied him. Really looked at him—for the first time since the fire.
"You keep breathing," he said. "That's all anyone ever does at first."
Mateo shook his head. "I don't want first. I want meaning."
Armand's mouth twitched—almost a smile, but colder. "Meaning comes later. Usually too late to help."
The sea carried them onward.
Mateo stared at the water slipping past the hull. "Where are we going?"
Armand hesitated.
That pause mattered more than any answer.
"There's an island," Armand said. "East."
Mateo waited.
"It's not safe," Armand continued. "Nothing is. But it's quiet."
Mateo nodded slowly. "You know someone there."
"Yes."
Mateo didn't ask who—not yet.
Instead, he asked, "Is this why you started the crew?"
Armand didn't respond immediately.
When he did, his voice was lower. "I didn't start it. Not the way you think."
Mateo turned fully now. "Then how?"
Armand looked past him, into the dark. "I was running."
That word hung heavy between them.
"From what?" Mateo asked.
"Myself," Armand said. "And men who knew who I used to be."
Mateo listened.
"I didn't want power," Armand continued. "I wanted noise. Motion. Something loud enough to drown memory."
He let out a slow breath.
"So I gathered people who didn't ask questions. Men who wanted the sea, not the past."
Mateo felt something twist in his chest. "And they died for it."
"Yes."
No defense. No excuse.
Mateo looked away. Anger rose—but it had nowhere to land.
"Do you regret it?" Mateo asked.
Armand thought for a long time.
"I regret surviving it," he said.
The words cut clean.
Mateo swallowed. "Then why keep going?"
Armand's gaze softened—not kind, but honest. "Because stopping doesn't bring them back."
The boat creaked softly.
Mateo leaned back, staring at the sky. Stars scattered above them, indifferent.
"I don't know who I am without them," he said.
Armand nodded. "Neither do I."
Mateo closed his eyes.
Inside his head, the fire replayed—not the chaos, but the moment after. The moment when sound vanished, and he realized something irreversible had happened.
"Do you think they hated us at the end?" Mateo asked.
Armand's voice was steady. "No."
"How do you know?"
"Because hatred takes time," Armand said. "They didn't have any left."
The sea stretched endlessly.
Mateo opened his eyes again. "What happens when we reach the island?"
Armand rested both hands on the oar. "We rest."
"And then?"
"We decide whether we deserve to keep living."
Mateo laughed softly. "That's a grim plan."
Armand met his eyes. "It's an honest one."
The boat moved on.
Behind them, the last trace of fire vanished completely.
Nothing marked where they had been.
Mateo felt tears finally fall—not sudden, not violent. Just quiet, steady grief.
Armand didn't stop him.
He rowed.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if carrying more than two souls across the sea.
Elsewhere
Captain Richard Fairfax watered the plants himself.
The quarterdeck was quiet in the early morning, washed clean by a pale sky that had not yet decided what kind of day it would be. The fleet lay anchored in perfect order behind him—ships aligned with mathematical patience, masts rising like disciplined soldiers awaiting inspection.
Fairfax paid them no attention.
He knelt beside a small wooden box fixed near the railing, where a row of potted herbs grew. Basil. Rosemary. Thyme. The leaves stirred gently in the sea breeze. He tipped the watering can with care, letting the stream fall evenly, never rushing, never spilling more than necessary.
"Too much water," he said calmly, not looking up, "kills the roots."
An officer stood a few paces behind him, back straight, hat tucked under his arm. Lieutenant Hawthorne had been standing there for several minutes already. He did not interrupt. No one interrupted Fairfax when he was tending to something.
The captain finished with the last pot, set the can aside, and brushed soil from his hands with slow precision. Only then did he rise.
He was not tall. Not broad. His uniform was immaculate but unadorned—no unnecessary medals, no theatrical flourish. His hair was neatly tied back, already showing threads of gray that suggested experience rather than age.
He turned to face the lieutenant.
"Report," Fairfax said.
Hawthorne swallowed. "The island is secure, sir. No resistance of note. The vessel was destroyed as ordered."
Fairfax nodded once. "Casualties?"
"Minimal on our side."
"Good."
He walked to the railing and rested his hands on the polished wood, gazing out at the sea. His eyes were pale, thoughtful, almost gentle.
For a moment, it looked as though he were simply admiring the morning.
"Did you find what you expected?" he asked.
"No, sir," Hawthorne replied carefully. "Only signs that they were there."
Fairfax smiled faintly—not with amusement, but with recognition.
"They always leave signs," he said. "Men like that cannot help themselves."
He reached into his coat and removed a folded piece of paper. He did not open it. He merely tapped it once against the railing, as if confirming its presence.
"How many ships are currently fit for pursuit?" he asked.
Hawthorne hesitated. "All of them, sir. But—"
Fairfax raised a hand. The lieutenant stopped instantly.
"Select five," Fairfax said. "No—seven. The smaller ones. Fast. Quiet."
"Yes, sir."
"They are not to engage anyone unnecessarily," Fairfax continued. "No displays. No warnings. No heroics."
He turned his head slightly, eyes still on the horizon.
"We are not hunting," he said. "We are correcting."
Hawthorne nodded. "And if they resist?"
Fairfax considered the question as one might consider the weather.
"Then they will exhaust themselves," he said. "Most men do."
He glanced back at the potted herbs. One leaf had bent awkwardly, weighed down by water. Fairfax walked back, adjusted it gently, and straightened the soil around its base.
"See that the fleet remains orderly," he added. "Chaos spreads faster than fire."
"Yes, Captain."
Hawthorne hesitated once more. "Sir… should we inform the Admiralty?"
Fairfax finally looked directly at him.
"No," he said softly. "This is not a matter for records."
The lieutenant felt a chill, though the morning was warm.
Fairfax dismissed him with a nod.
When he was alone again, Fairfax returned to the railing. Far out on the water, nothing stirred. No smoke. No sails. No trace of what had already been erased.
He stood there a long time, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable.
Then, quietly—to no one at all—he said:
"Let them run."
And behind him, seven ships began to move.