A west wind sped the two ships of the expedition out to sea faster than expected. The coast of Malminar dwindled and vanished beyond the horizon even before nightfall. The wind, though weaker after dark, continued to push them steadily onward.

Full dark found Rishmond on the deck beneath the stars with Tybour and the otter-man Wizard Teilmein. Teilmein had requested a demonstration of Rishmond's magic, eager to see firsthand the strength the Wizard's Council had praised.

"Let’s begin with something simple. Can you light up this section of the deck?" Teilmein gestured to the open area of the poop deck.

"Of course," Rishmond said with a respectful nod. He lifted a hand slightly. A sphere of golden light bloomed overhead, bathing the deck in a soft, contained glow.

Teilmein nodded, impressed. "Excellent control. Most students your age would struggle to keep the light that contained."

The light shifted to blue.

"Red."

The glow transformed into a crimson hue, tinting their skin like blood.

"Green."

The light changed again. Rishmond inhaled the scent of juniper berries and lettuce, then shifting to juniper and cabbage. The shifting always came with flavors, as if spells lived in his senses.

"Rainbow spots," Tybour added.

Rishmond focused, and the orb fractured into a constellation of colored points, shifting in slow orbit. Teilmein clapped his paws together softly.

"Marvelous. Now, can you hold it against interference?"

"Yes, sir. Tybour taught me how."

"Very well.  I will start easy and move on until I extinguish it, are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"I’ll begin gently," Teilmein said, his expression turning serious.

Rishmond smelled and tasted it before he felt it—salty licorice in his nose and on his tongue. The otter-man’s pressure nudged at the spell. Rishmond had no trouble redirecting the pressure. Shunting it aside from his light so the pressure moved sideways instead of snuffing out the light.

The challenge intensified. Teilmein's brow furrowed. Rishmond pushed back, calmly maintaining the light. Tybour offered a subtle shake of the head: don’t let him win.

Eventually, Teilmein gasped and lowered his arm, panting. "Incredible. You’re barely winded."

"I hope I didn’t overtax you," Rishmond said sincerely.

Teilmein laughed softly and leaned on the railing. "No harm done. I underestimated you. A mistake I won't make again."

Rishmond smiled, then adjusted the light to a warm amber and set it to persist without concentration. He sat beside Teilmein as the ship gently rocked beneath them. The Wizard followed, bracing himself with an arm through the railing.

"This is my first time at sea," Teilmein admitted. "Strange for someone of the Otter clan, isn’t it?"

Rishmond raised a brow. "I wouldn’t say so. Many never leave home."

Teilmein studied him a moment, then smiled. "Diplomatic and kind. You’ve been well taught."

They shared a quiet moment, then Teilmein asked, "What else has Tybour taught you that he shouldn’t have?"

"Tybour’s honorable. He’d never teach me forbidden magic."

Tybour chuckled. "Teilmein is teasing. Mostly."

Teilmein nodded. "Even so, some bending of the rules is inevitable. Just be cautious, Rishmond. Power doesn’t excuse recklessness."

He leaned forward. "Speaking of which—your luck. Has your awareness changed how it manifests?"

Rishmond considered. "Not really. I don’t sense it coming. But even bad luck turns good. If I hadn’t been conscripted onto the Dutchess’ Teat, I’d still be homeless in Mott."

Teilmein grew thoughtful. "Interesting. Rumors are hard to contain, but your abilities are harder still. I’ll be overseeing your education during this expedition—with Tybour and others helping."

Tybour added, "Swordplay from Haningway and Ueet. Bantore too. Teilmein handles the cerebral."

Teilmein smiled. "Now, tell me what you can actually do. Magic-wise."

Before Rishmond could answer, a thunk and scrape echoed from the main deck ladder. Torg, the golem, climbed into view and settled beside them, limbs braced against the ship’s motion.

"I’ve mastered all spells taught to advanced students and first- and second-year University spells," Rishmond said. "I’ve learned the seven Phoenix protection spells and can extend them to a ten-meter radius."

Torg added, "You are indeed worthy. Even I am impressed."

Rishmond nodded. "I can also taste and smell spells. Tybour says it's rare."

Teilmein’s eyes widened. "You’re a marvel, but a dangerous one if untrained. Offensive magic?"

"Yes. Force projection, binding, and blast."

Teilmein turned to Tybour. "He’s a boy!"

Tybour shrugged. "A boy who’s likely to be targeted. He must defend himself."

Teilmein exhaled, resigned. "Then let’s focus on control and defense. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

Teilmein shifted. "Now—exhaustion. Tybour taken you there?"

"Three times," Rishmond said. "Also once with Ele Walsing. She seemed surprised by my threshold."

Teilmein nodded. "We’ll test again tomorrow. Be prepared."

He turned to Torg. "Is there knowledge of your creation we can recover?"

"Please, just Torg. I have general instructions and know of Denisisie’s retreat near Retinor."

Both Teilmein and Tybour were suddenly very interested in what Torg was saying. 

"A retreat?"

"Near Retinor?"

Teilmein and Tybour spoke over each other in excitement. "A retreat? A library? Near Retinor?"

"Yes. A protected site. She kept books, records, even her workshop there."

Teilmein gushed. "A God’s personal archive. Imagine the knowledge!"

"It’s inaccessible without me," Torg said. "Only Rishmond has entered since the Blessing."

Tybour stood. "Only Rishmond? Care to explain?"

Rishmond confessed. They’d gone to the forbidden island. He told the truth about Torg’s discovery. Tybour's disappointment was performative, more for Teilmein than himself.

After the conversation, Tybour pulled Rishmond aside. "I understand why you did it. But others may not. Say it was your idea. Protect your friends."

Rishmond agreed.

He located the flow of lotrar keeping the light above brightly lit—and terminated it.

Sudden darkness settled, broken only by the dim lanterns swaying fore and aft. It hung heavy as Rishmond descended the stairs. Lightning flared on the horizon, momentarily illuminating the cloud-choked sky. Several seconds passed before the distant rumble of thunder reached the ship, soft and far-off.

Rishmond caught up with Torg as the little golem made his way across the now rolling deck. Torg moved with surprising ease, his footing sure even as the planks heaved under the force of rising waves. Rishmond passed him and reached the low door leading to the ship’s interior. He turned the handle and pulled it open, stepping aside to let Torg enter the warmly lit hall beyond.

Rishmond pulled the door shut behind him, securing it with the large lever handle. The light inside was warm and golden; the brass lamps lining the hallway shone steady and bright, though not nearly as bright as the lotrar-lit glow he had extinguished outside. The small portholes along the outer wall of the corridor were pitch black, broken only now and then by silver flashes of distant lightning.

Illiar leaned against one wall, arms crossed under her chest, an unreadable look on her face. She tilted her head slightly, and both her ears twisted forward toward him.

"Hey. You three done plotting and scheming?" she asked, voice light. "I hope Tybour wasn’t trying to talk you into something rash and dangerous, was he?"

Her mouth curled into an almost-smile, her eyes softening. She pushed off the wall with a sway of her hips, arms uncrossing to fall casually at her sides.

Rishmond’s gaze flicked downward despite himself. Her hips were full, and her breasts bounced slightly with the motion. She’d changed since earlier, now dressed far more casually in a sleeveless white shirt that showed off her toned arms and a generous amount of cleavage. Her dark red hair faded into a light coat of bright red fur across the tops of her shoulders. Her arms were smooth, her skin a sun-kissed brown, and a spray of freckles dotted the upper swell of her chest.

He forced his eyes back up to her face.

She was grinning now—fully, confidently—her sharp canines on display. Her teeth gleamed bright white, and her gold-brown eyes locked onto his.

Rishmond felt the heat rise to his cheeks. She was stunning.

He blinked, pulled himself back to the present, and returned her grin, doing his best to mask the effect she had on him.

“We were discussing my ongoing training,” he said, careful with his tone. “Since I’ll be away from school. Magical and mundane.”

He gave the word a little extra weight.

“As I’m sure you know, that includes your part in being my teacher for the mundane subjects. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the chance to boss me around. Show me just how much more you know about everything than I do.”

“Oh, Rishy, you’re always so cute when you’re being defensive.”

She stepped in close, slipping her arm through his, and tugged him gently along the corridor. The hallway was too narrow for space between them, and she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she pressed just a little closer than necessary.

Rishmond, startled but not resisting, moved with her—awkward in the tight space, hyper-aware of every point of contact. Her arm was warm in his, her fingers resting lightly on the crook of his elbow. Her presence filled his senses.

He realized, almost absently, that he was taller than her. Just barely. An inch or two at most. She had always felt taller somehow—larger than life, intimidating, confident in ways he hadn’t been. Maybe it was because she used to babysit him, back when he was just a quiet, skittish boy with too many questions and too few friends. But here and now, watching their reflection in the glass of a night-dark porthole, he saw the truth: her perked-up ears just brushed the top of his head.

He instinctively bent his arm to fit more snugly around hers, and she rewarded him with a slight tightening of her grip and a soft, thoughtful hum. She didn’t look at him, but he felt her smile shift—genuine, wistful.

It felt intimate. More than teasing. And it rattled him.

“So,” she said as they neared the door to his cabin, her tone light but with a glint of mischief underneath, “Cantor told me all about how you really came to find Torg.”

Just ahead, the little golem froze mid-step. Sparks in his obsidian skull snapped into overdrive, and the lines of glowing lotrar that wove through his body pulsed erratically. The flow of magic surged like he’d been struck.

Rishmond stiffened and glanced down at her, mouth agape.

She smiled wider. She’d gotten a reaction.

“Did you think you could keep that secret from me?” she added, eyes sliding sideways toward Rishmond—but only for a heartbeat.

It was safer not to hold his gaze too long. Safer not to hope.

Rishmond thought furiously. He had to be careful here. Illiar wasn’t above bluffing to get under his skin—but she and Cantor were close. With Cantor having turned eighteen just a few months ago, there was every chance something had come up between them in conversation, the same way things had come up between Rishmond and Tybour.

“She did?” he asked, trying to sound curious, not panicked. “What did she say? There’s nothing more to the story than what I already told. We found him buried on the beach. Simple enough.”

“Rishmond,” Illiar said, voice soft but certain, “you fooled some with your story, but not me. I know when you’re lying.”

She didn’t sound angry—just quietly amused. Like she expected him to lie, and wasn’t even bothered by it. That tone told him everything: maybe Cantor had told her something. Or maybe she just knew him well enough to catch the lie on her own.

Well, as long as she wasn’t going to press it or make a scene, he could hold the line. He’d talk to Cantor soon.

She let it go, for now. Leaned into him a little more, her head tilting toward his, brushing his ear with the fine hair on hers. They both stopped walking. She stayed close, resting her head on his shoulder as they stood together, gazing out through the darkened porthole. It was all blackness and storm—but in that moment, he could feel her breath, warm against his neck, and the closeness of her body pressed gently into his side.

A long, jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, reflected in the glass. The silence between them felt somehow louder than the distant thunder that followed.

At last, she straightened and gently pulled away.

“Well,” she said, her voice low and smooth, “it appears we’re at your door.”

Rishmond felt the absence of her against his side like a sudden wind, cold and immediate. His mood dropped before he could catch it.

“I’ll see you in the morning for lessons, then.” She gave him a sly smile. “Looks like we’ll have a bit of a storm tonight. I hope it doesn’t keep you from sleep, Rishy.”

She leaned in, rising on her toes, and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. The warmth of it stayed long after she turned and walked away, her footsteps quiet but confident down the narrow hall.

Rishmond stood frozen. He watched her go, the gentle roll of the deck matched by the motion of her hips. He wasn’t sure which was steadier.

Rishmond fell asleep around the ten o’clock hour, rocked by the storm as it built outside. The sound of rain had just begun tapping softly against the hull when he drifted off, a rhythmic whisper that grew darker in his dreams.

The storm mounted through the night. By morning, the waves had grown monstrous.

A heavy crack of thunder jolted Rishmond awake around five. He blinked into the dimness of his cabin, disoriented for a moment as the ship pitched beneath him. The hull groaned with each wave, and rain pounded in a constant, hammering rhythm on the deck above. Thunder rumbled in a near-continuous roar, interrupted only by the blinding strikes of lightning that exploded nearby.

He swung down from his bunk—and was immediately tossed sideways by the violent sway of the ship. He caught himself, knees slamming into the floor, but he was up again quickly, muscle memory snapping into place. He dressed fast, tugging on his utility clothes and cinching his wet-weather gear over them. His boots took longer than they should have. It had been more than a full turn since he’d last ridden out a storm at sea, and even then, boots hadn’t been part of his equipment. Just bare feet, rope, and instinct.

He tied off the laces and cinched the pant legs around his ankles to keep water from rushing in. Then he braced himself and moved to the door, adjusting to the rhythm of the ship’s rocking as best he could. The walls helped—he used them like rails, steadying each step until he made it out into the hallway and turned toward the stern.

Cantor was already bracing herself in the doorway of her cabin, holding on to the frame with both hands, feet wedged against either side. Her eyes were wide but steady.

“Put on your clothes, your wet-proof gear, and grab your float-vest,” Rishmond said without preamble. “The poofy one that floats. Go to the dining area at the aft of the ship.” He pointed toward the rear. “Take anyone you find with you. If you haven’t been through a storm at sea and you don’t know the duties or procedures, you’ll just get in the way on deck.”

Cantor blinked, then nodded. “Okay,” she said quickly. She turned, already moving.

Then she hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“You know I was a sailor,” said Rishmond, managing a quick smile. “I can help out. I’ll at least figure out what’s going on and come back to update everyone.”

Before Cantor could respond, the ship lurched violently—an enormous wave heaved the deck skyward, tilting the hallway at a dangerous angle. Cantor tumbled backward into her cabin, and Rishmond slammed hard into the opposite wall, only keeping upright by grabbing the edge of her doorframe.

Then the deck pitched the other way—harder—and the sudden drop hurled him down the hallway toward the stern. He didn’t fight the momentum, instead using it to propel himself toward the upper deck access.

He reached the door and forced it open in rhythm with the rocking ship. Rain and seawater burst through the gap, soaking him instantly as he stepped over the threshold and onto the heaving deck. He pulled the door shut behind him and latched it with both hands, bracing himself against the storm.

Wind howled. Waves crashed violently over the bow, momentarily blotting out the dark shapes of sailors scrambling across the slick deck. Lanterns had long gone out, but someone had cast a magical light globe—it hovered a couple yards above the aft cockpit, casting sharp, narrow beams that illuminated only a small section of the chaos. Rishmond considered adding his own light, but hesitated. More illumination might ruin the crew’s night vision. Instead, he whispered a quick spell, one Tybour had taught him, and the world sharpened—his eyes now picking up faint red and upper blue bands of the spectrum.

With enhanced vision, he rushed toward the nearest bitts. A coil of rope not yet in use lay nearby. He tied it around his waist, fighting the ship’s wild sway, then moved along the starboard railing in search of an officer—or anyone in command.

The storm roared around him. Spray stung his face. Sailcloth snapped somewhere above.

Then—Tybour’s face emerged from the mist and rain, startlingly close.

“Rishmond!” he bellowed, voice barely cutting through the gale. “Get back below! This storm’s getting worse. The crew can handle it—they’re the best in the Malminar Navy. We won’t help up here!”

Rishmond opened his mouth to protest—but then noticed: Tybour wasn’t tethered. The First Mage stood braced but unanchored on a deck that was all but trying to throw them both into the sea.

Rishmond lunged forward, grabbing Tybour by the waist. He hauled the slack of his own rope, looped it fast around the older man, and knotted them both into the same tether.

Tybour gave him a sharp look—but didn’t argue.

Together, they moved back toward the cabin door. Rishmond twisted the latch open, and the two of them tumbled inside.

“Go down the starboard hallway,” Tybour ordered, panting. “Wake everyone. Get them dressed, gear on, float-vests too. Get them to the dining room. Stay there.”

Rishmond nodded, water streaming from his face.

Tybour turned toward the port side, already shouting for the next group, knowing Rishmond would handle his part.

Rishmond made sure all the cabins were empty before stepping into the dining area behind them.

The large double doors at the back of the room shuddered under the force of the wind and the pitch of the ship, despite being locked down with two heavy bolts and a network of thick levers securing them into their frame. Someone had wisely shut the wooden outer shutters before the worst of the storm had rolled in. The side portholes—with their thick, rounded glass—held steady, latched tight, in no immediate danger of blowing open. Still, a thin stream of seawater leaked in beneath the aft doors, threading across the floor.

The sound of the storm was overwhelming. Thunder rolled like boulders tumbling down a mountainside, relentless and near-constant. Lightning flashed with startling frequency, sending pulses of light through the portholes, casting eerie shadows that danced across the room in time with the waves.

The ship’s motion was worsening. Each roll of the hull came harder and at sharper angles, shifting direction with stomach-turning unpredictability. Standing had become nearly impossible.

The tables—heavy, bolted to the floor—were the only reliable anchors in the chaos. The chairs had been locked away in their storage racks earlier in the evening, a decision Rishmond was now grateful for.

He moved among the passengers and crew, issuing instructions as calmly as he could manage. “Sit at the tables. Hold onto the legs. Wrap your legs around the posts if you can. Brace yourselves.”

Most obeyed quickly, their faces pale with fear or determination.

Rishmond’s eyes found Cantor and Illiar at the same table, huddled low with their arms wrapped around the central support. Their hands were clasped tightly beneath the table, knuckles white with tension. Illiar looked up and met Rishmond’s eyes—just for a moment—and then nodded, her expression grim but steady.

Torg had found a place near the side wall. The little golem had wedged himself between a cabinet and the wall, his limbs braced at awkward angles that only he could manage. Rishmond noted the magical energy he could see within was calm, the golem and unshaken by the storm.

Rishmond steadied himself near the center of the room, eyes scanning for anything unsecured, anything dangerous. The ship groaned again, louder this time—somewhere deep in the bones of it—and the flickering lanterns swayed harder in their hooks.

The worst might still be coming.

Tybour appeared a few moments after Rishmond, ushering Teilmein, Ele Walsing, and VanLief Aericksen into the room ahead of him. It seemed everyone staying in this section of the ship was now accounted for.

He steadied himself with one hand on the wall, his white robes clinging wetly to his legs, and crossed the room to check the aft doors. They rattled violently under his grip, but the bolts and levers held firm. Satisfied—or at least as much as one could be in such a storm—he made his way to Rishmond’s table.

Tybour slid in beside him, gripping the table leg and wedging his shoulder beneath it for stability. As he settled in, he reached out and gave Rishmond’s knee a firm squeeze—wordless reassurance that said I'm here, you did well.

And then… they waited.

For what felt like hours, the storm howled around them, growing worse instead of better. The ship pitched at angles that seemed impossible, climbing towering waves only to fall again—each descent a gut-wrenching drop that ended in a jarring crash, like the ship had hit stone instead of water. It twisted and slid across the unseen slopes of the ocean like a toy in a god’s hand, creaking and groaning so loud it drowned out thought.

Each time the ship slammed down, Rishmond was sure it would be the last. Sure the hull would shatter, that the water would rush in, and that the next moment would be spent either sinking or swimming in the cold black void.

Water now sloshed freely across the floor, surging with the ship’s motion. It soaked through his pants, numbingly cold, pooling beneath him and seeping into his legs and buttocks until his skin burned with the chill.

No one spoke.

No one dared.

Rishmond huddled under the table with Cantor and Illiar, the three of them pressed together tightly, seeking warmth and comfort against the storm’s rage. The cold water pooled beneath them, soaking their clothes and numbing their skin, but none of them moved. They held onto each other more tightly than the table legs, wrapped in shared fear and unspoken understanding.

The usual tension between Rishmond and Illiar had vanished, dissolved like mist in the face of the storm. Whatever snark or guarded distance usually passed between them had no place here. In its absence, something quieter had taken root—strength, solidarity, and a strange, fragile closeness born from surviving side by side.

Illiar’s arm rested against his, firm and unflinching. Cantor’s hand gripped his tightly. No one spoke. They didn’t need to.

They just waited, hearts beating together in the dark.

The fear was thick, but quiet. No panicked screams, no prayers shouted into the dark—just the steady, bracing silence of people holding fast to what they could, their faces pale and turned toward nothing. Each crash of thunder lit their eyes with white fire. Each flicker of lightning made their shadows lurch across the walls like drowned ghosts.

No one said it aloud—but many of them, Rishmond included, wondered if they’d soon be floating among the wreckage, or slipping beneath the waves in a ship that couldn’t take one more fall.

At long last, the thunder began to fade. The lightning slowed to intermittent flashes and then stopped altogether. The waves, once towering and wild, grew smaller with each passing minute—until they seemed to still entirely in comparison to what had come before.

The silence that followed was not true silence, but the absence of chaos. Water still moved, wind still whispered, but after the roar of the storm, it felt like the world had exhaled.

A few minutes passed. Then the door to the dining hall slammed open.

Bantore burst into the room, boots skidding on the wet floor. He scanned the gathered group, breath fast and eyes sharp.

“Illiar—are you okay? Rishmond?”

“Yes, Father,” Illiar replied, her voice steady but worn. “We’re alive. Unhurt. Cantor too.”

Bantore nodded, shoulders loosening just slightly. “Good. Thank the Gods.”

Then he turned, eyes locking onto Tybour.

“You should come with me.”

Without hesitation, Tybour rose and followed. Rishmond stood too, moving quickly after them, his boots splashing through the inch-deep water across the floor.

They emerged onto the deck.

The air was cool and heavy with salt. The sky overhead remained thick with clouds, but the day had broken behind them—sunlight poured in from the north, where the sky glowed pale blue beyond the storm’s edge. The wind was almost eerily calm.

Rishmond paused, blinking against the brightness, his feet steady now on the slick deck.

Around them, the sailors were busy. Lines were being reeled in. Ropes passed quickly between hands. Crew moved back and forth between the port and starboard rails with a focused urgency.

It took Rishmond a moment to realize what they were doing.

They were pulling people out of the water.

Rishmond kept carefully out of the crew’s way as he made his way to a small vantage point beside the helm. From there, he could see the full sweep of the ocean around them.

The water was gray and deceptively calm now, the waves low and lazy—but the sea was far from still.

Debris floated everywhere. Planks, barrels, torn bits of canvas, crates smashed apart and leaking their contents. The remains of something that had once been whole.

Their ship sat motionless in the swell, sails still secured, the masts creaking as the ship bobbed gently with no wind to push it. Around them, rowboats moved with grim purpose, oars dipping methodically as the sailors worked their way through the flotsam.

Rishmond watched in silence as one of the boats paused and pulled a figure from the sea—a woman in soaked navy blue, her limbs sluggish, her face pale. But she was alive. Exhausted, shivering, but alive.

He leaned out slightly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the wreckage. His gaze caught on a grouping of boards… and then another shape. A person, face-down in the water. Then another.

Unmoving.

Rishmond swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry. He couldn’t look away.

This was no rescue mission. Not entirely.

This was recovery.