The wind was kind this morning. Salt-brushed and quiet, pushing steady through the sails of the shipas it carved its way toward the mainland. The sea shimmered like silk under the pale blush of dawn, and gulls circled somewhere in the distance—lazy, yawning calls overhead.

  Lark sat near the captain’s wheel on a worn bench, one boot tucked under his leg, his tunic loose, ginger hair already catching in the wind. Azalea was beside him, her legs crossed at the ankle, hood up, eyes trained somewhere toward the horizon. A few curls of her now black hair escaped the hoods edge, catching sunlight like glass threads. The ring on her finger shimmered faintly—too faint for the human eye.

  She looked nothing like herself.

  Still, Lark could see her. In the way she crossed her arms when she was uncomfortable. In the precise way she peeled an orange the crewman had handed her. In the slight narrowing of her eyes whenever someone looked too long.

  She hadn’t said much since they boarded. But she’d come. That had to count for something.

  Two mornings ago felt impossibly far away.

  The grove had been soft with dew and golden morning light. Azalea stood just off the path, arms crossed, watching birds skim through the canopy.

  Lark had just finished explaining—again—what he felt. Why he had to go. Why it couldn’t wait anymore.

  And Turaleth… frighteningly calm, nodded like he’d known this moment would arrive the moment Lark stepped into the grove weeks ago.

  “I have a friend,” he said, stepping barefoot through the moss with his hair bound high, a lazy goblet of pear-sap wine in hand. “A sea captain. Discreet. Queer as a summer bloom, you’ll like him. I’ll get word to him. He can meet you at the western cove by dusk tomorrow.”

  “You—really?” Lark blinked. “Just like that?”

  Turaleth smirked. “I’m older than you think. I don’t waste time pretending to be surprised.”

  He turned, as though to drift away, then paused again, shifting his gaze to Azalea.

  “I have something for the tide-born.” He extended his hand, and in it sat a strange cylindrical ring—almost like a carved loop of petrified vine. Subtle, powerful.

  “From Nyxeros, my father. He made it for travelers. For tricksters. You’ll pass among them unseen.”

  He handed it to Lark, and he took the ring carefully.

  Later, in the quiet of their hollow, he held it a little longer than he should have. Thought about sliding it over her finger himself. But she was still angry with him. Still distant.

  He handed it to her without ceremony, and she took it without a word. The illusion shimmered around her like mist forming shape.

  By midday, he was packing. Folding their few things into satchels and cloth. Wondering if she’d still be beside him when the ship came.

  That’s when Turaleth found him yet again—as if he dreaded their departure.

  Lark, anxious, uncertain, admitted under his breath, “I feel behind. Like I’m running a race I was never trained for. I’m not ready.”

  Turaleth’s eyes, gold as dawn, softened.

  “You are not behind,” he said, touching two fingers to his brow. “You are becoming.”

  Lark hadn’t known what to say.

  And now, the breeze tugged at the sails again.

  “Captain Marien,” Lark called, squinting toward the helm. “You’re sure this wind holds?”

  The captain glanced down, dark-skinned and sun-weathered, with a single piercing in his left brow and a curious smile tugging at his mouth.

  “With the blessing your forest god gave me? I’d be more surprised if it didn’t.”

  Azalea gave a quiet snort beside him. Lark elbowed her gently.

  The captain stepped down from the helm and leaned nearby, nodding toward the horizon. “It’s been years since I saw Turaleth in the flesh. Damn him. Still beautiful. Still too tall.”

  Lark smirked. “You like him.”

  “Of course I do. How could I not? That man has cheekbones that could split glass. And when he gets drunk on his own wine? He sings like he invented starlight.”

  Azalea quirked a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

  “Because I’ve heard him sing,” the captain said, eyes gleaming like a sailor who speaks of his wife. “He once serenaded a jealous storm into passing over my ship. Naked.”

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  Lark blinked. “He what—?”

  Captain Marien winked. “Gods make strange lovers. You’ll learn that if you spend enough time around them. That one, though… he only ever loved the world.”

  Azalea turned her gaze back to the sea, her face unreadable.

  The sun had burned higher in the sky by the time Lark was properly scolded for the third time.

  “Don’t touch the ropes unless you’re told!” barked the boatswain, a square-jawed woman with a braid that could swing through air like a whip. “You nearly swung the boom out of alignment!”

  “I was just trying to help,” Lark muttered, hands half-raised in surrender, balancing awkwardly on the slanting deck.

  “Then help with buckets. Swab something. Or better yet, sit down and look pretty. You’re good at that.”

  Behind him, Azalea made a snorting sound she didn’t bother to disguise.

  “Thank you for the support,” Lark hissed sideways, dragging the mop across the deck with a heavy pant. His hair, now shoulder-length in curls, was tied in a loose half-up style, the top pulled back while the rest spilled around his neck like a lifeline. “I’m adjusting. It’s been months. Cut me some slack.”

  “You’re still land-legged,” she said softly, not looking at him. “It’s endearing.”

  He grumbled under his breath, watching a crewmember swing lithely up the rigging like a monkey. Even though the sea was calm and the ship felt steady beneath his feet, the occasional creak of wood or slap of wave against hull still made something in his ribs clench. The memory of being pulled under—of drowning, of his time as prisoner—didn’t leave easily.

  He shook his head, trying to clear the ghost-thought.

  By midday, they’d been invited to eat on deck—simple fish stew and dried fruit passed around in bowls. Lark and Azalea sat together near the shade of a sail, sipping the broth. The warmth helped settle Lark’s nerves, and for a moment he found himself watching the horizon, not waiting for disaster, but… simply watching.

  That peace was broken by a voice like over-sweet honey.

  “Oh, what a gorgeous ring!”

  Lark blinked, looking up to see a fair skinned, elegant woman with a parasol in one hand and a gold-embroidered satchel in the other. Her sleeves were sheer and impractical, and her attention was fixed on Azalea’s hand, where the ring—Nyxeros’ gift—rested like a curl of enchanted vine.

  Azalea froze, her hand still around her bowl. Slowly, she turned her head toward the woman with a look that might’ve once stopped a shark in its tracks.

  The woman blinked at the cold reception, but pressed on with a bright, oblivious smile. “It’s so unique.Did you get it in Veribelle? No—Tulantic craftsmanship, I bet. I’m traveling from the continent myself. I know pieces like that when I see them.”

  Azalea’s eyes narrowed to slits. Her mouth didn’t move.

  Lark let out a sudden, barking laugh. “Ah! Haha—yeah, it’s, uh—it’s actually an heirloom. We, uh…”

  He quickly slipped an arm across the back of Azalea’s seat, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. She didn’t flinch, but he could feel the tension in her muscles.

  “My wife,” he said, loudly and clearly, “isn’t feeling well right now. Lost her voice just yesterday, can you believe that? Too much sea air.”

  The woman’s face shifted instantly to sympathetic horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry. How dreadful! Are you on your honeymoon?”

  Azalea inhaled slowly. That was the only movement.

  Lark smiled with every ounce of diplomacy he’d ever learned and nodded. “Something like that. It’s been… quiet. She’s the silent, strong type.”

  The woman looked like she wanted to press further, but the expression on Azalea’s face—smiling with her eyes like the surface of an iced-over lake—must have finally registered as hostile.

  “Oh! Well—safe travels to you both,” she said quickly, padding away with an apologetic flutter of fingers.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Azalea exhaled slowly and muttered, “Wife?”

  Lark scratched his head, embarrassed. “It’s the easiest cover I could think of. Besides, your glare was about to peel the paint off the deck.”

  “You didn’t have to touch me,” she said, though her voice lacked bite.

  He tilted his head toward her. “You didn’t push me away.”

  Azalea glanced out at the water, silent. He shifted beside her, still wary of her distantness.

  For a while, neither of them spoke. The ship moved on, carving its way through blue.

  Lark resumed his mop duty after lunch, but this time the boatswain gave him an approving nod. Less splashing. Fewer accidents. He started to find a rhythm in the ship’s movement, the same way he had once done with dance or swordwork—swaying with the boards, learning to anticipate. He’d never be a sailor. But he could be useful.

  Later, when the sun began to dip and shadows stretched long across the deck, Lark returned to Azalea’s side. She’d taken to sitting near the aft rail, where the sea wind felt stronger, her hood still up.

  He leaned on the railing next to her.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  “For what?” she asked.

  “For coming with. Anddd—not attacking me for referring to you as my dearly beloved.”

  He added, a bit out of breath.

  She remained silent for a moment. Then, so quietly he nearly missed it: “You’re lucky I like the ring.”

  He grinned. “Then I guess Turaleth’s taste saved my life.”

  Azalea didn’t smile, but her shoulder bumped softly against his as the ship moved.

  The stars would come soon. And with them, the slow lull of night.

  The first two days at sea were kind. The water shimmered like a blessing, and the wind remained steady. Lark woke sore every morning, joints stiff from the unfamiliar rocking of the ship and the relentless work. But he adapted quickly.

  He had to.

  By day three, storm clouds swallowed the horizon. Thick gray towers loomed above the water, and the ship battened down under heavy wind. Lark’s knuckles turned white holding onto rope lines while rain lashed his face. Azalea remained on deck longer than she should have—rain soaking her hood, wind tossing her hair—until Lark wordlessly ushered her below and blocked a door with his body, refusing to let her return until the wind had calmed. She threatened him with a dagger, but he surprisingly came out alive.

  The storm passed, but it left the sea wild in its wake. Twice, the crew pointed out long, slithering shadows cresting just beneath the waves—sea drakes, rarely seen near the surface. Once, one broke the surface far behind them, its head long and crowned in curling horns, trailing beneath like a tattered god’s banner. Azalea stared into the water for a long time after that. Lark never asked what she was looking for.

  By day five, Lark moved like a sailor.

  He was quick to the ropes when sails needed tightening. He carried heavy barrels and fixed the jammed hatch when it caught in the rain. His back and arms began to ache in new, sharper ways—ways that Azalea noticed when he peeled off his tunic to wring it dry one afternoon.

  She didn’t say anything. But she watched.

  And when he helped her up the steps with the ship pitching sharply beneath them, his hand on her back, firm and cautious, she didn’t complain. Her glares had softened into wary glances. She still didn’t laugh at his jokes. But she didn’t ignore them, either.

  They fell into a rhythm. At meals, they sat side by side. Lark noticed the subtle way Azalea learned the ship—how she moved with the current of people, how she sometimes leaned into the passengers antics. Once, she‘d clap along during a nightly sing-along. The other ship patrons danced in small circles on deck, laughing and singing to tunes awkwardly played by Lark. He had made do with a rusting accordion Marien owned.

  The captain, for his part, enjoyed their company more than Lark expected. He spoke often of Turaleth—fondly, like an old friend—or lover, whose hands still smelled of sun-warmed bark and sandalwood. He never pried too deeply into their reasons for travel, nor questioned Azalea’s odd silence at times. When asked, Lark only said they were on a pilgrimage of sorts, and the captain gave a knowing nod, as if the word meant many things to many people.

  By the seventh morning, the wind had turned warmer. The salt in the air softened. Lark climbed the rigging just after sunrise, his hair wild from the sea spray, muscles taut with the strain of the climb. Azalea stood below, arms crossed, watching him ascend. She didn’t say anything when he returned to the deck, breathless and triumphant, but there was the faintest flicker of a smile on her lips.

  And then, at last—land.

  It came into view like a promise.

  Sel’Vareth’s high cliffs stood distant but clear, jutting from the sea like ancient bones, ringed by gulls and fog. The port town sprawled around the harbor in a series of stacked stone terraces and steep roofs, the scent of fish, spice, and smoke riding the wind.

  Azalea stepped forward, wind pushing her hair back, her eyes fixed on the rising shoreline. Beside her, Lark stood straight, one hand on the ship’s rail, his jaw set—not in fear, but in purpose. He was ready, becoming.

  They were almost there.

  The continent waited.