Dawn arrived like a shy visitor, spilling cautious light through the cabin's salt-crusted window. The first tentative rays found Vesper already at work, his gelatinous form shifting with the particular deliberation of someone executing a carefully planned mischief.

  The slime hovered beside Thristle's bunk, his translucent mass catching morning light in patterns that danced across the worn planks like underwater reflections. Within his body, the bear skull core rotated slowly, empty eye sockets somehow conveying both curiosity and determination as he studied his sleeping target. The various treasures he'd collected during their journey—bits of metal, colored glass—floated in orbits, suspended in his mass like stars in a private universe.

  Thristle slept curled tight, one hand clutching her blanket with surprising fierceness even in slumber. Her white hair splayed across the pillow, and her face—usually animated with nervous energy—had softened into something almost peaceful. Almost vulnerable.

  Vesper formed a delicate tendril and began the morning's gentle battle. The slime tugged at the blanket's edge. Thristle's fingers tightened instinctively, starting a silent tug-of-war. Vesper's surface rippled with patient amusement as it gradually increased its pull.

  The blanket slipped away gradually until it finally came free with a soft whisper of fabric. Thristle curled tighter, mumbling something without actually waking. Her brow furrowed with the distinctive annoyance of someone whose dreams had taken an inconveniently chilly turn.

  Vesper paused, considering his next move. A gentle nudge against her shoulder produced only an irritated grumble. A firmer prod was met with Thristle rolling away, presenting her back with the dismissive eloquence of a queen turning from an unwelcome petitioner.

  The slime's colors shifted toward something more determined—the deeper blues that suggested strategizing rather than mere mischief. With careful calculation, Vesper positioned himself at the edge of her bunk and began to rock it, creating a swaying motion just slightly out of rhythm with the ship's natural movements. The dissonance was subtle but impossible to sleep through.

  "Mmmmph," Thristle protested, her voice muffled against the pillow. She pulled the pillow over her head with the dramatic flair of someone being subjected to unthinkable torture. "Five more minutes..."

  Vesper's response was to increase the rocking, adding a gentle bounce that made the wooden bunk frame creak in protest.

  "Alright, alright!" Thristle finally cracked one eye open, fixing her gelatinous tormentor with a glare. "I'm awake! You absolute menace." She pushed herself upright, white hair sticking out in directions that defied gravity. "What kind of monster wakes someone at this unholy hour? Is the ship on fire? Are we sinking? No? Then there's no excuse for this... this... morning tyranny."

  The slime formed a tendril that pointed toward the window, where morning light streamed through in bright fingers.

  "That's not morning," Thristle grumbled, scrubbing at her face like she might wipe away consciousness itself. "That's just the sun being overenthusiastic. Like someone else I could name." She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, each movement a protest against the very concept of wakefulness. "The sun and I have an understanding. It stays in the sky, I acknowledge its existence after a proper, civilized hour. You're ruining a perfectly good arrangement."

  She reached for her boots with the resignation of someone performing an unpleasant but necessary task. The first boot slid on without incident. The second, however...

  "VESPER!" Thristle's outraged shriek echoed through the cabin like a seagull being strangled. She yanked her foot out, now coated in cold, gelatinous slime that clung between her toes with determined stickiness. "You didn't! You absolute— you complete— you PUDDLE!"

  The slime's surface danced with undisguised glee. From the doorway came a delicate cough, the sound of someone trying very hard not to laugh and not entirely succeeding. Seraphina stood framed in the doorway, already immaculate in her pressed uniform. Not a hair dared stray, not a wrinkle risked appearing on her apron. She might have stepped directly from a fine house's servants' quarters rather than spent days aboard a working vessel.

  "I see Vesper has taken over wake-up duties," she observed, her voice carrying the particular neutrality of someone enjoying a situation tremendously while maintaining professional composure. "How... efficient."

  "Efficient isn't the word I'd use," Thristle snarled, hopping on one foot while trying to wipe slime residue from the other. Her balance, precarious at the best of times, abandoned her entirely. She pinwheeled her arms, wobbled dramatically, and would have fallen had Vesper not quickly flowed beneath her, providing an unexpected but effective cushion. "Devious. Underhanded. COLD AND SLIMY—"

  "Can I assume you're properly awake now?" Seraphina inquired mildly, somehow managing to look both perfectly proper and quietly amused.

  "Oh, I'm awake alright," Thristle glared at Vesper as she regained her footing. The slime had retreated to a safe distance. "Awake enough to plot revenge. Just wait, you overgrown pudding. When you least expect it..."

  Vesper's answer was to form a small pseudopod and pat her head in a gesture that managed to be both affectionate and distinctly patronizing. The touch left a tiny residue of slime in her already chaotic hair, giving one section the appearance of having been styled with excessive pomade.

  "Just wait," Thristle promised darkly as she finally got her boot properly on. Her fingers worked quickly to fix her hair, though 'fix' might have been too generous a term for what her hasty smoothing accomplished. "One day I'll find something you hate waking up for. Then we'll see who's smug."

  The slime's surface patterns suggested it very much doubted that. He flowed toward the door with the particular bounce he adopted when pleased with himself, occasionally forming little ripples that looked suspiciously like giggles.

  "I hate both of you," Thristle declared without heat as she followed them into the corridor. "Conspirators. Bullies. Enemies of proper sleep."

  ---

  The ship's galley smelled of yeast and salt-cured meats, warm air clinging to Thristle's skin like an eager hug. The morning light caught the steam rising from pots, turning ordinary breakfast preparations into something almost magical—little clouds dancing between beams that had witnessed generations of sailors' morning grumbles.

  Marcus stood by the massive iron stove, his silhouette backlit like some benevolent cooking deity. Three different spoons protruded from his apron pockets, each worn smooth from years of tasting and stirring. His weathered hands moved with the certainty of someone who'd fed hungry crews through both calm seas and hurricanes, measuring spices by memory rather than recipe.

  "Ah! The princess awakens!" he called, his grin crinkling the corners of his eyes like folded parchment. "Though looks like ye took the scenic route through a slime puddle to get here."

  Thristle tried and failed to maintain her dignified outrage. "Weren't my fault," she muttered, as she accepted a steaming bowl. "Some of us have to deal with impossible creatures who think wakin' people up is a sport."

  Vesper jiggled innocently behind her, though the ripples across his surface looked suspiciously like barely contained laughter.

  "Port day today," Marcus announced, ladling something that smelled of cinnamon and sea salt into wooden bowls. "Special porridge for special occasions."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Thristle had already lifted her spoon halfway to her mouth when the word "port" registered properly. The utensil froze mid-journey, porridge dripping slowly back into the bowl like a tiny, doomed waterfall.

  "Port?" The word came out squeaky

  "Port Swallow," Jo announced through a mouthful of breakfast, bits of porridge clinging to his beard like tiny stalactites. "Wind picked up overnight. Should see it just after breakfast."

  "Oh." Not a word, more a punctured breath. "Port Swallow. Of course."

  Vesper's colors shifted instantly—playful blues darkening to watchful purples that swirled like storm clouds gathering. The slime flowed closer, pressing against her leg in what might have been reassurance or restraint. Perhaps both.

  "You've gone pale as sea foam," Marcus observed, his usual bluster softening into something gentler. "Bad memories in Swallow?"

  "Not... exactly." Thristle set her bowl down with fingers that weren't quite steady. "It's complicated."

  "It always is with ports," the cook nodded sagely. "Every sailor's got at least one they can't visit without lookin' over their shoulder. Why, in my younger days, I had three different harbors where I'd have to wear a disguise just to fetch supplies."

  Seraphina's eyebrow rose slightly—the maid equivalent of outright shock. "A disguise?"

  "Got mixed up with a governor's favorite racehorse. Wasn't my fault! How was I supposed to know those fancy sugared apples weren't for general consumption?" He sighed nostalgically. "The dye in the beard gave me a rash for weeks, though."

  Despite herself, Thristle felt a small smile tugging at her lips. The old cook's outrageous tale had done exactly what he'd intended—broken the cold grip of anxiety that had begun to tighten around her chest.

  "Eat," Seraphina instructed quietly, "You'll need your strength."

  "Won't help much," Thristle muttered, but she picked up her spoon again. "Not unless Marcus has a recipe for outrunning past mistakes."

  "Oh, maybe for that ye'd need my special rum pudding," the cook replied with a wink. "Nah, it's generally frowned upon to face port brass buttons while three sheets to the wind."

  The porridge tasted of honey and cinnamon, with something sharper underneath—ginger perhaps, or some sailor's spice Thristle couldn't name. It settled warm in her stomach even as cold dread pooled there too, old memories and fresh fears mixing like oil and water.

  ---

  The morning haze clung to Port Swallow like a jilted lover—unwilling to release its grip even as the morning sun tried to burn it away. What Thristle could see of the harbor looked like illustrations from a child's storybook left too long in the rain—once-bright colors faded to suggestions of themselves, landmarks blurring at the edges as if trying to escape their outlines.

  She stood at the rail, knuckles gone white against weathered wood. Each breath brought familiar scents teasing through the salt air—the distinctive reek of the tannery quarter, the sharp bite of pickling brine from the preservation warehouses, the ever-present undercurrent of fish and oak and tar that was Swallow's signature perfume. Scents that carried her backward through years with more power than any alchemist's memory potion.

  "Do you have enemies here?" Seraphina asked quietly, appearing at her elbow with the silent grace that still sometimes startled Thristle, despite their weeks together.

  "Enemies would be simpler," Thristle replied, her voice dropping to match Seraphina's discretion. "Enemies just want ye dead. It's the ones who want something from ye that's truly dangerous."

  Vesper flowed between them, his surface churning with those deeper blues that appeared whenever Thristle's past was mentioned. The bear skull core rotated slowly as the slime studied the approaching port through the fog, somehow managing to convey suspicion despite having no facial features to speak of.

  "We'll dock at Fisherman's Cut," Thristle said, her voice shifting as she spoke—each word smoothing away the rough village edges. Harsher consonants softened, vowels lengthened, until she sounded like someone who might navigate Port Swallow's better quarters without raising eyebrows. "Less official oversight. More amenable to... unconventional arrivals."

  Vesper's surface rippled with what looked remarkably like offense.

  "Not that you're unconventional," Thristle hastily corrected, patting the slime. "Well, you are, but in the best possible way. More like... an unscheduled diplomatic envoy?"

  The ripples intensified, somehow conveying both amusement and skepticism despite being nothing but patterns in transparent goo.

  "Fine, ye're proper weird and we both know it," Thristle's careful diction collapsed entirely as frustration broke through. "Can't exactly waltz ye through like a fancy lap dog, can I?"

  "A plan would be advisable," Seraphina noted, her eyes never ceasing their methodical scan of the approaching harbor. "Preferably one that doesn't involve property damage, guard intervention, or your former associates recognizing you."

  "Such faith in me," Thristle muttered, though her mind was already mapping possibilities. "There are passages beneath certain warehouses. Rat routes, the locals call 'em. Used for moving things that don't belong on manifests."

  "Smuggling tunnels," Seraphina translated, no judgment in her voice—just the practical assessment of someone calculating risks and advantages.

  "If ye wanna call 'em that." Thristle shrugged, then caught herself as her accent slipped again. "Though I prefer 'alternative import channels.' Much more professional, don't you think?"

  "And your familiarity with these 'channels' comes from...?" Seraphina's eyebrow arched again, this time with genuine curiosity.

  Thristle's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Let's just say my apprenticeship included some... practical field experience. Do you know how much the Guild charges in import tariffs for Nightshade essence? Highway robbery, that's what it is. Not that I'm admitting to anything," she added hastily.

  Vesper's surface darkened slightly, those deeper blues spreading like ink through water. The slime had developed a particular pattern that appeared whenever Thristle's past in Port Swallow came up—protective swirls that suggested it understood more than she'd directly told it.

  Through the thinning fog mixed with smoke, dock workers appeared—moving with the particular haste of men who were running late and trying not to let supervisors notice.

  "I'll need to go in first," Thristle said, her gaze tracing paths between warehouses, calculating timings and risks with the speed of someone who'd done this many times before. "Make sure the right people are still where they should be. Port Swallow changes its streets sometimes, but gold still opens the same doors."

  "Alone?" Seraphina's tone made it clear what she thought of that idea. "After our recent experiences, separating seems unwise."

  "It's safer that way." Thristle's fingers found the marks on her arm, tracing them through her sleeve without seeming to realize she was doing it. "Some of my contacts are... skittish around new faces. And with my reputation—" She caught herself, cheeks coloring slightly. "That is, with my existing connections, I can arrange secure passage."

  Vesper shifted closer, his surface rippling with patterns that somehow mirrored the invisible marks Thristle was touching. The slime had never seen them directly—she was always careful to keep her sleeves down—yet something in his movements suggested he knew exactly what lay beneath the fabric.

  Seraphina noticed this mimicry, filing it away with all the other small mysteries she'd observed during their journey. Instead of pressing, she focused on practicalities. "Lord Blackbriar's instructions were clear. We've evidence to deliver, confirmations to make."

  "And we will," Thristle promised, her eyes still mapping escape routes even as she spoke. "I just need to scout ahead. Make sure we won't be walking into a trap." She glanced at Vesper, who was now innocently examining a barrel, though his colors suggested he was listening intently. "Besides, someone needs to keep this menace contained. Imagine what might happen if he decided the harbormaster's office needed redecorating."

  The slime's surface rippled with what could only be described as offended dignity, though a mischievous undercurrent suggested the idea wasn't entirely unappealing.

  "Until sunset," Seraphina finally relented, though her posture remained rigid with disapproval. "Any longer, and I'll come looking—with or without discretion ."

  "Always known for your gentle touch," Thristle muttered, but her lips quirked slightly. "I'll be back before the lampmen make their rounds, promise."

  Vesper suddenly flowed forward, wrapping around her ankles in what might have been affection or an attempt to physically prevent her departure. His surface churned with concerned purples that stretched toward her like reaching hands.

  "It's just Port Swallow," Thristle told him, her voice gentle despite her nervous fidgeting. "Besides, it's only reconnaissance. Quick in and out. What's the worst that could happen?"

  Seraphina and Vesper exchanged a look loaded with centuries of collective wisdom about exactly what happens after someone asks that particular question.

  Wavechaser drew closer to her mooring, the wooden docks emerging from mist like skeletal fingers reaching for their ship. Somewhere in the harbor's deeper waters, something large breached the surface before disappearing again, leaving ripples behind that spoke of hunger and patience.

  Port Swallow waited, neither kind nor cruel—just watchful, like all cities built on secrets.

  ---