Hamdeni watched the people as the ship pulled free from the pier.

  Ropes slid off the bollards. Wood strained under tension. Fog lay low across the water and swallowed most sound until only the grind of chain remained.

  “Raise the anchor.” He did not raise his voice. His hand remained resting on the rail, fingers steady against the vibration.

  Torres straightened. “Anchor up!” He leaned into the call, one hand already gripping the signal rope.

  The chain tightened and screamed across the rollers. The deck vibrated beneath Hamdeni’s boots as the weight shifted through the hull. He adjusted his stance without looking down.

  “Apis. Check the bow lines. I don’t want slack once we clear the pier.” He turned his head slightly toward the bow, eyes narrowing as he tracked the line’s tension.

  “Aye.” Apis lifted a hand from the fog, already moving toward the cleat.

  “Kassandra. Brace the cargo. If something shifts before I see it, it’s your problem.” His gaze slid toward the stacked crates, lingering on the uppermost row.

  “Already moving.” Kassandra shoved a wedge beneath a crate with her boot and leaned her weight into it.

  “Auron. Eyes on the water.” Hamdeni shifted his shoulders toward starboard, giving the order without looking directly at him.

  A nod from the rail. Auron adjusted his stance, one hand resting near his blade.

  “Hekalé. Dim the lamps once we’re clear.” Hamdeni lifted two fingers briefly, signaling restraint.

  The lantern light lowered, pulling closer to the deck. Hekalé shielded the glass with her palm as she adjusted the wick.

  “Kikon. Keep the new hands working. If they freeze, move them.” Hamdeni’s eyes passed over the youngest faces, measuring hesitation.

  A rough laugh answered him. “They’ll move.” Kikon cracked his knuckles and clapped a nervous boy on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him forward.

  Good.

  The hull creaked as the ship leaned into the current. Hamdeni listened to it. A ship that didn’t complain was a ship that would fail when it mattered.

  He turned toward the gathered bodies on deck.

  Too many watching. Too many waiting for someone else to decide what this departure meant. Relief showed in their shoulders. Fear sat tighter, in their hands.

  “Listen,” he said, his voice carrying across the planks. He stepped forward as he spoke, boots striking the deck in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

  The murmuring thinned. Several heads lowered. Others squared their shoulders.

  “This ship doesn’t owe you comfort. It doesn’t owe you safety. You earn your space here.” He paced three steps, scanning faces one by one. “You work, you eat. You hesitate, you become weight.” His hand closed briefly into a fist before relaxing again.

  Silence held.

  “The sea keeps what slows it down.” He let the words settle and folded his hands behind his back.

  That got them. It always did.

  Hamdeni watched shoulders stiffen, hands curl tighter around nothing. He didn’t need belief, only obedience.

  His gaze shifted toward the starboard side.

  The Ogrin stood near a stack of crates, a blanket thrown loosely over one shoulder. The burn beneath it tightened his movement. He lifted with one arm, jaw locked, breath controlled through his nose.

  Hamdeni marked the strain in the way the Ogrin planted his feet.

  Beside him stood the other one. Quieter. Still. Watching everything.

  That one would be trouble.

  Hamdeni turned. “Healer.” He snapped the word across the deck and lifted his chin toward the mast.

  The woman near the mast looked up sharply. Her hands were folded in her lap. She rose too quickly, then steadied herself, pressing her palms against her thighs.

  “You said you can treat wounds.” He approached two steps, stopping just short of her reach.

  “Yes. I worked in a camp. I was assigned to—” Her fingers twisted together before she forced them still.

  “Save the details. You work for passage. Start.” His voice remained even. He pointed once toward the Ogrin without breaking eye contact.

  He nodded toward the Ogrin.

  She crossed the deck without further pause, swallowing once as she moved.

  “Sit,” she told the Ogrin. Her shoulders squared as she gestured to the coil of rope.

  The Ogrin glanced toward Hamdeni, nostrils flaring.

  “Unless you want it rotting,” Hamdeni said, folding his arms across his chest.

  The Ogrin lowered himself onto a coil of rope. “I’ve had worse.” His weight settled heavily, one hand braced against the deck to steady the pull in his shoulder.

  The healer peeled the blanket back and exposed the burn that spread across his shoulder and upper arm, the skin drawn tight and blistered where the heat had held. She began cleaning with slow, steady pressure, her movements controlled as a faint warmth moved from her palms into the damaged tissue. The Ogrin’s breath shortened, and his fingers tightened around the rope as the heat shifted under her touch.

  “You’re bleeding less,” she said, leaning closer while her thumb traced carefully along the edge of the wound.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “It still burns a little.” His jaw set and his claws pressed deeper into the rope fibers, tension running through his forearm.

  “That’s circulation.” She secured the bandage with a firm pull, binding the wound tight enough to restrict excess movement before tying it off with practiced precision. Bordo drew in a slow breath and rolled the shoulder once, testing the steadier tension beneath the pain.

  “You shouldn’t lift with that arm.” She looked up at him directly as she spoke.

  The Ogrin flexed his jaw. “I’ll manage.” He rolled the shoulder once and stopped when the muscle pulled.

  Hamdeni stepped closer. “You’ll follow orders.” His shadow fell across both of them as he planted his boots beside the rope coil.

  The Ogrin held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Understood.” His shoulders lowered a fraction as he accepted the command.

  Hamdeni looked at the healer. “Name.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her face.

  “Lysa.” She straightened fully this time, hands no longer trembling.

  “You treat when told. You stay where you’re assigned. You don’t decide who is worth your effort.” His tone remained steady while his eyes hardened.

  “I understand.” She held his gaze and gave a single firm nod.

  He studied her face. She held eye contact longer this time.

  He turned away.

  “Arure. Trim the port sail. We’re taking a wider line.” He lifted one hand and angled it outward toward open water.

  A hand rose in acknowledgment. Arure leaned into the rope, hauling with controlled strength.

  The sail shifted, canvas tightening. The Sangre Grande leaned and began cutting across open water with steady momentum.

  The deck settled into rhythm. Lines secured. Cargo braced. Orders passed in short exchanges.

  Hamdeni walked the length of the ship.

  He noted who leaned too heavily on the rail. Who kept glancing back toward the shrinking pier. Who watched him directly.

  The quiet one stood with his back near the mast, posture relaxed but balanced. His eyes tracked crew movement, not the sea.

  Hamdeni stopped in front of him. “Ever worked a ship?” He rested one hand on the mast beside them, blocking half the lantern light.

  “No.” The young man met his gaze without lowering his chin.

  “You will.” Hamdeni gave a short nod and stepped past him.

  A single nod followed behind him.

  Hamdeni moved on.

  He climbed to the quarterdeck. The wind hit harder there. Colder. Cleaner.

  Torres joined him. “All lines secure. Course set.” He wiped salt from his brow with the back of his wrist.

  “Mercadia.” Hamdeni kept his eyes forward as he spoke.

  “No deviation?” Torres shifted his stance closer to the wheel.

  “None.” Hamdeni’s fingers tightened briefly around the rail.

  “Speed’s good.” Torres adjusted the wheel by a fraction.

  Hamdeni rested his hands on the rail and looked ahead. The fog thinned into open dark water.

  “Father?” he asked. He did not look at Torres as he spoke.

  “Inside,” Torres replied. He inclined his head toward the cabin door.

  “Good.”

  Below, the ogrin rolled his shoulder carefully, testing range. Pain pulled at his movement, but he kept his stance grounded.

  The quiet one leaned toward him and spoke low. The Ogrin gave a short, dry laugh, one hand bracing his side.

  The Sangre Grande pushed forward.

  The water ahead moved in longer swells. The surface shifted with a heavier rhythm.

  Hamdeni felt the change through the rail.

  “Not yet,” he murmured. His grip tightened slightly, knuckles paling against the dark wood.

  Behind him, the crew worked.

  Ahead, the Abyss waited.

  -

  Days passed without ceremony. The sea wore down the sense of time until morning and evening blended into a pale, endless stretch. The Sangre Grande kept its rhythm.

  Bordo regained strength after several evenings under Lysa’s care. The crew gave him work that matched his frame—lifting, bracing, holding lines under strain. The burn slowed his reach, yet he adjusted his stance and favored the other arm without instruction. When pain caught his breath, he buried it beneath a rough laugh or a curse that carried across the deck.

  Each evening, Lysa checked the wound. She waited until the deck quieted and the lanterns dimmed. She pressed her palms to the bandage, eyes half-lidded, breath slowing until warmth moved into his skin. Bordo endured it in silence the first night. By the third, he offered a dry joke. On the fifth, he studied her hands.

  “Where did you learn that?” he asked, shifting slightly to ease the pull in his shoulder.

  “From the trees,” she answered, almost distracted, as her palms remained against his skin.

  “Trees?” He tilted his head, brow furrowing.

  She glanced up, the tips of her ears twitching before she steadied them. “Life Aspect,” she said. “My people learn it young. If you listen long enough, the trees answer. They show you how to return what was taken.”

  A thin dwarf nearby snorted and crossed his scarred arms. “Leaf-folk always trust the forest to mend everything.”

  Lysa’s spine straightened, though her hands stayed in place.

  Bordo turned his head toward the dwarf. “Seems to be mending me.” He rolled his shoulder once, then looked back at Lysa. “Thank you for the treatment.” His voice lowered as he inclined his head to her.

  Lysa drew her hands back. “I was glad to.” Her gaze stayed on the wound for a moment. “It will leave a scar.”

  Bordo gave a short nod. “No problem. A warrior’s honor is his scars.” He tapped his chest lightly with two fingers.

  The dwarf snorted and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “It’ll fade once you reach Tier One.” He glanced at Bordo’s shoulder. “Most of it will.”

  The dwarf held her gaze for a moment, then looked away.

  -

  Tension moved across the deck in small increments. A step taken too close. A glance held too long. The slaves slept in clusters with their backs to crates or rails, shoulders touching as if contact alone offered security. When someone woke screaming from a dream, no one asked what they’d seen.

  Rumors traveled in low voices. That the Bloody Baron remained aboard and kept to his cabin. That Mercadia paid well for strong backs. That ships sometimes reached port lighter than when they departed. Each version shifted as it passed from mouth to mouth.

  Arvey listened and kept his thoughts to himself.

  He noticed other changes. Hamdeni spent more hours on deck with each passing day. He stood at the rail longer and paced less. Conversations with Torres grew shorter and quieter. Orders came clipped. Lamps were checked and adjusted twice in a watch. Crews rotated more often, as if movement itself kept them sharp.

  The mood shifted with it. Laughter thinned. Conversations ended mid-sentence. Apis inspected the bow lines twice per watch. Hekalé dimmed the lamps earlier than before.

  On the seventh day, the sea changed.

  The steady slap of water against the hull softened until it dulled into a low hush. The wind thinned, and the sails drew less force. The deck felt heavier beneath Arvey’s boots, as though the ship dragged through unseen resistance. The hull’s creak stretched longer, deeper.

  Arvey felt it while coiling line beside Bordo. His hands slowed slightly as the rhythm shifted.

  Bordo frowned. “You feel that?” He paused, rope looped over his forearm.

  “Yeah.” Arvey set the coil down and rose, wiping salt from his brow.

  They moved aside and lowered themselves onto a crate near the mast. Muscles ached. Salt crusted their skin.

  “If this is what ships do,” Bordo muttered, rubbing at his neck, “I don’t get why people like it.”

  Arvey kept his eyes on the horizon. “They like the distance.”

  “From what?” Bordo leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

  “Everything.” Arvey looked toward the quarterdeck.

  Hamdeni stood at the rail, palms flat against the wood, eyes narrowed toward the water ahead. Torres stood beside him. Their focus did not waver.

  Auron’s voice carried across the deck. “Captain.” He leaned over the rail.

  Heads turned.

  “Something’s off,” Auron added, his grip tightening on the railing.

  Hamdeni remained still. “Explain.” His fingers pressed more firmly into the wood.

  “The surface,” Auron said. “It’s still.” He swallowed and kept his arm raised.

  Murmurs moved through the deck. A prayer began in a low whisper and faded unfinished.

  Lysa rose from where she had been sitting. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves as her brow furrowed. She closed her eyes briefly, as if listening for something beneath the silence.

  Bordo pushed to his feet. “Are you alright?” he asked her, voice lowered as he placed a hand near her elbow.

  She drew a shallow breath. “The nature is absent.”

  The words settled heavily across those close enough to hear.

  Hamdeni inhaled and lifted his chin slightly. “It begins,” he said, his voice low but clear.

  The hull answered with a long groan that carried through the deck. The water alongside lay smooth and dark, without ripple.

  Hamdeni turned sharply toward the rigging.

  “Furl the sails.” He raised one arm, palm cutting downward.

  The order moved across the deck.

  He drew in a breath and lifted his voice.

  “FURL THE SAILS. WE’RE APPROACHING THE ABYSS.” His hand remained raised until the first lines were seized.