Several days passed without incident.
That alone felt wrong.
The sea remained calm, but not in the comforting way sailors prayed for. . It simply existed—flat, gray, and watchful. Waves rolled beneath the ship with mechanical regularity, as if the water had settled into a pattern and refused to deviate from it.
The crew adjusted accordingly.
Watches grew longer. Sleep came in shallow fragments, broken by instinct rather than sound. No one complained openly, but conversations shifted. Fewer jokes. Fewer glances over the railing. When sailors spoke of the sea now, they did so indirectly, as if naming it too clearly might draw its attention back.
Noel felt the change as well.
He stood alone near the bow, cloak pulled tight against the cold wind, eyes fixed on the endless stretch ahead. Noir lingered close, her shadow pooling at his feet even when she wasn't fully visible. She hadn't wandered far in days. Neither had he.
