The stairs descending into the ship's hold were steep and narrow, jammed into a hallway that smelled faintly of blood and pine. Fyren had remained behind, questioning the captain on the capabilities of the ship, by Zephyriss had followed my guard and me into the depths of the ship.
One of the mages who had completely depleted his mana served as our guide, escorting us through the rooms of the lower deck to the hold. Light shone in thin beams through cracks in the ceiling from scars too minor to repair. I felt the movement of the ship in my stomach, the occasional lurch and sway as we headed toward the Grove, leaving me queasy.
As we entered the cargo hold, filled with nothing but crates now torn open for supplies and repairs, the ship jerked to the right, sending me against Zephyriss. The storm demon caught me with a giggle, setting me on my feet.
"Are you sure the ship's airworthy?" I asked the mage, gripping my staff a little too tightly.
