The novelty of being served by a fist-sized crab—which, amusingly enough, had cooked herself—never failed to make me chuckle. She scuttled across the table, carefully balancing a tiny tray, her movements precise despite her size. Natasha's faint smirk suggested she found my amusement familiar, almost expected.
Venessa's eyes widened as she watched the little crustacean at work. "She… cooked, herself?" she asked, incredulity lacing her voice.
"Indeed," I said, grinning. "She surprised me the first time she did it. Apparently, she wants to travel with me just to try new food. A glutton, just like her old man." A few light-hearted snips sailed my way.
"This is Scarf, our cook," I introduced the crab. A few sharper snips came my way this time. "She's still mad I named her that," I said, laughing as I pulled my hands away from the irritated crustacean. Once out of reach, Scarf spun around and waved at Vanessa. Scarf spun back, claws snapping at me in mock menace, then promptly returned to her duties, tiny tray balanced perfectly as if nothing had happened.
The galley rang with laughter as she departed, Scarf's indignation trailing behind her like a tiny storm. The warmth faded, replaced by the quiet weight of my next words.
Tears shimmered on her lashes, glinting in the galley light. "Please… take me to Krakos," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Away from that momster."
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died on my tongue. Before I could even speak, Natasha said, "Course set, Captain."
Leaving Venessa in Natasha's capable hands, I finally made my way to my quarters. It was time to rest—truly rest—for the first time in days.
I sank onto the edge of my bed, letting the creaking wood beneath me hum in familiar rhythm. Three days, and already she trusted us—or trusted me. Strange, that a soul could anchor itself so quickly, and stranger still that the Wave-Keeper's tug felt… familiar. I knew one thing before sleep finally claimed me—Krakos had answers to more than one of my questions.
Waking in my own bed atop the open ocean for the first time felt amazing. The gentle rocking of the ship beneath me, the smell of salt tangling with warm wood, the soft creak of the planks—it was a symphony of comfort. Only the memory of that strange awakening on the island's beach came close to this feeling of rare, unbroken peace. But unlike then, I rose at once, ready to set out on this new journey.
The Strain—the gnawing pulse that comes from overusing a Shard Core—no longer throbbed through my body and mind. Like any muscle, Shards could be trained, strengthened, tempered—but push them too far without rest, and the consequences could be severe. Healing Venessa had condensed my Shard into a more symmetrical design. This time, the Strain was… pleasant—a subtle, steady pulse compared to the torment of the Nightweavers' education.
Even without a Foci, the Deadwood connected to me as one. If anything, it was Natasha's Foci I could access. I sent my will through that connection, and the ship responded. I was the Deadwood, and it was me. Another presence brushed against my awareness—a fleeting greeting, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared, slipping back into the background.
By the time I reached the deck, everything I had missed on the Deadwood had been reviewed, and the positions of my crew made clear. Natasha gripped the wheel, Venessa scanned from the crow's nest, and Scarf scuttled through the holds, preparing a nutritious mixture of chum, bones, and powdered wood for the crew.
Releasing my grip on the connection, I watched my crew with quiet satisfaction. Already, they were beginning to take on their own uniqueness—no two were ever exactly alike. Some had grown long, dreadlock-like tendrils, others vibrant, petal-like hair that seemed to shimmer in the light. Only the patchwork of clothing they wore gave a hint of organization amidst the chaos.
I made my way to the prow of the Deadwood, where the unfinished figurehead loomed—a giant block of condensed wood and bone. I leaned against the ship's railing, letting the ocean spray hit my face, tasting salt on my lips and feeling the wind tug at my hair. A brief smile crossed my lips. There were two known routes from the island to Krakos, and we were taking the one away from the Crimson Hold—the Nightweavers' stronghold.
Glad to have postponed the family reunion, I couldn't help a small, guilty smile. The change added an extra week to the voyage—a total of three weeks to journey around Velhiem, the largest continent on Kaelyra. Both Krakos and the Crimson Hold were in Velhiem's northern region, but on opposite sides. According to Venessa, the island was one of the Wave-Keeper's graveyards.
There are many like it across the ocean she had said, created with the help of her friend, the Goddess of Death, Vehlara. Few are actually known or documented, and all are considered holy grounds. Each ocean current ends at these sanctuaries, but the currents are as chaotic as living energy. They spread the remains across the ocean floor, passing them back and forth between one another. Eventually, after a long journey, what remains arrives at the island to decay with time.
A tug at my pants leg yanked me from my thoughts. Scarf was there, pincers snapping like tiny castanets, eyes bright. "Move it, Captain," her gestures seemed to say—"or we'll eat without you!"
I laughed at Scarf's impatience, then we made our way to the galley, where a line of the crew was already waiting. Natasha stood to the side, calm as ever, while Venessa looked like she might faint again—this time from her overloaded brain. As soon as she saw me, she screamed, "Why are they eating!"
Still chuckling from Scarf's antics, my laughter erupted into a roar at her question. "They eat because they need the nutrients to sustain the plants and bones," I managed to get out once my laughter finally died down."
Her blank look almost drove me to the floor, but I persevered and explained, "Their stomach is a plant that… well, functions like a stomach. It turns the chum Scarf makes for them into a bioluminescent sap, which they store in their bones like marrow. The plant then uses this marrow as fuel."
My gaze shifted to Natasha before I continued. "Natasha is what I hope they can eventually become."
We watched as Scarf ladled chum into the waiting bowls. With each bowl, Venessa's face turned a little greener. In a small voice, she asked, "Are we eating that?"
I didn't have the heart to joke and say yes. I just shook my head, holding back a laugh. Natasha, on the other hand, walked over to the chum, ran a finger through it, and licked it clean. "Delicious as always, Scarf," she said lazily, reaching in for another scoop—only to yank her hand back as Scarf's warding claws snapped shut.
The thump of a body hitting the deck finally released the laughter I'd been holding back. Even the ocean spray and the wind itself seemed to join in the merriment. Though it had only just begun, this voyage was already very promising.