The interior of the clinic smelled of dried chamomile, iron-rich blood, and the ozone that lingered on Ghaith like a second skin. It was a small sanctuary of organized chaos, where the shelves were lined with jars of poultices and the floorboards were stained by the stories of those the city had tried to forget. May worked with a practiced, rhythmic intensity, her hands moving over the wounded laborer's arm as if she were weaving light back into his very cells. Ghaith watched her from the shadows of the corner, his back against the cold stone wall. His heart had slowed, but the phantom cold of the Void still bit at his fingertips.
He looked at his hands. They were still trembling. The clash with Lailan had cracked the seal on his chest in a way that felt permanent, a fracture in the foundation of his soul. He could feel the nothingness pressing against the edges of his consciousness, a silent hunger that whispered promises of absolute peace in exchange for his humanity. It was the siren song of the Village of Silence, the ultimate state they had trained him to achieve: the perfect weapon, unburdened by the weight of a name or a heart.
The laborer, a man whose skin was etched with the salt and grime of the docks, groaned as May's light touched him. The jagged wound on his forearm, caused by a snapping crane cable, began to knit together. The flesh puckered and smoothed, leaving behind only a thin, silver scar. May exhaled, a strand of hair falling across her damp forehead. She gave the man a small, weary smile and handed him a flask of herbal tea.
Drink this, she said softly. It will help with the spiritual exhaustion. And stay away from the heavy lifting for at least two days.
The man nodded, his eyes wide with a mixture of reverence and fear. He looked toward Ghaith, standing dark and motionless in the corner, and quickly looked away. He scrambled to his feet, murmured a disjointed thank you, and hurried out into the afternoon heat. The bell on the door jangled, a lonely sound that seemed to punctuate the silence that followed.
May did not turn around immediately. She began to clean her instruments, the clinking of metal against glass the only sound in the room. Ghaith waited. He knew the weight of her silence. He knew she was processing the frost on his cloak and the terrifying void that had briefly looked out of his eyes.
He is different, Ghaith said finally, his voice sounding brittle to his own ears. Lailan. He isn't just a survivor. He's a believer.
May stopped what she was doing. She turned, wiping her hands on her apron. Believers are more dangerous than mercenaries, she murmured. A mercenary can be bought. A believer will burn the world to see their vision realized. Is that what he wants? To burn Orval for the Empire?
He thinks he's building a lantern, Ghaith replied, repeating Lailan's words. He thinks the Black Portals are the only way to save our world from whatever is coming from the other side. He wants me to be the anchor. The key.
May walked over to him, her presence a warm counterpoint to the cold stone at his back. She didn't stop until she was inches away, her eyes searching his. She reached up and placed her hand over his heart, her palm pressing against the jagged seal beneath his shirt.
You are not a key, Ghaith. You are a man. And keys don't have wives who love them.
Ghaith closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against hers. The warmth of her touch began to pull the lingering chill from his bones. But for how long, May? They know where we are now. The Masked Legion will be back. If I stay here, I bring the Void to your doorstep every single night.
Then we change the doorstep, she said with a sudden, sharp clarity. We can't hide anymore. You said it yourself, we need a family. We need people who know how to fight the shadows because they have lived in them.
Ghaith pulled back, looking at her with a renewed intensity. There is a man. Rogan. They call him the Red. He used to captain a fleet before the Empire took his eye and his ships. He's been rotting in a tavern near the southern piers for a year, drinking away the memory of the Red Tide.
The pirate? May asked, her eyebrows rising.
He wasn't just a pirate, Ghaith said. He was a navigator who knew the currents of the spirit as well as he knew the sea. If we are going to challenge the Empire's control over the harbor, we need someone who isn't afraid of the deep.
May nodded slowly. Then we go to the southern piers. But you don't go as the Gray Ghost, Ghaith. You go as a man looking for a partner.
Ghaith felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope, tempered by a sharp, pragmatic edge. He straightened his cloak, checking the Twin Silences at his belt. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the city. The air was cooling, but the tension in the atmosphere was only tightening.
They left the clinic together, locking the door behind them. They walked through the shifting landscape of Orval, moving from the desperate commerce of the Silver District toward the raw, industrial grit of the southern piers. Here, the buildings were taller and leaning, draped in heavy fishing nets and stained by the black soot of the coal-fired heaters. The people here were different—thicker, harder, with eyes that held the relentless rhythm of the tide.
The Rusty Anchor was a tavern built into the hull of an overturned merchant ship. Its windows were small and thick with salt, and the light that spilled out of the open door was a murky, flickering orange. As they stepped inside, the smell of cheap rum, stale tobacco, and wet wool hit them like a physical blow. The room was crowded with sailors, dockworkers, and the low-life opportunistic shadows that thrived in the gaps of the law.
The conversation didn't stop when they entered, but it dipped in volume, a ripple of curiosity moving through the room. Ghaith's reputation as a quiet but dangerous presence in the lower districts was known, even if his true identity remained a secret. He led May toward a booth in the furthest, darkest corner of the room.
There, sitting alone behind a mountain of empty glass mugs, was a man who looked like he had been carved out of a storm-wracked cliff. His hair was a chaotic mane of deep red, and a thick, unkempt beard covered half of his scarred face. An eye patch made of darkened leather covered his left eye, while his right eye, a piercing, sea-glass blue, watched the room with a lazy but lethal intelligence.
Rogan, Ghaith said, standing by the table.
The man didn't look up. He took a long, slow draw from his current mug, the liquid disappearing into his beard. Go away, kid. I'm busy counting the bubbles in my drink.
I'm not here to buy you a drink, Rogan, Ghaith said, sliding into the opposite seat. I'm here to ask you if you still remember the taste of the salt.
Rogan's lone eye flickered, a momentary spark of fire appearing in the blue depths. He set the mug down with a heavy thud. The salt is bitter, kid. It tastes like dead men and broken wood. I'm quite happy with the taste of rot, thank you very much.
May sat down beside Ghaith, her presence causing Rogan to focus his gaze on her. His expression shifted from irritation to a strange, lingering sadness.
And who is this? he asked, his voice a low rumble. A lily in a graveyard?
I am May, she said, her voice steady and unafraid. And we aren't here for a graveyard. We are here for the sea.
Rogan laughed, a dry, hacking sound that ended in a cough. The sea belongs to the Empire now, little lily. They've got their conduits in the water, sucking the spirit out of the currents to feed those damned portals. The fish are dying, the spirits are screaming, and any ship that doesn't fly the Imperial sun is a target for the Iron Gaze.
Then we change the flag, Ghaith said.
Rogan leaned forward, his massive shoulders blocking out the light of the nearby candle. You're talking about treason, Ghaith. You're talking about starting a war you can't win. I've seen what their new seals can do. I've seen my men turn to ash because they tried to sail through a portal's wake.
I've seen them too, Ghaith replied. I fought Lailan today.
The tavern grew suddenly quiet, as if the very air had recognized the weight of the name. Rogan's hand, which had been reaching for his mug, froze. He looked at Ghaith with a new, sober intensity.
You fought the Weeping Mask? And you're still standing?
I'm still standing, Ghaith said. But I won't be for long if I stay alone. Orval is suffocating, Rogan. The Empire is turning the city into a cage. If we don't act now, there won't be any bubbles left for you to count.
Rogan looked at May, then back at Ghaith. He reached into his vest and pulled out a small, circular medallion. On it was the symbol of the Red Tide—a wave crashing against a broken sword. He gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white.
Why me? I'm a drunk. A failure.
Because you have the Seal of the Crimson Current, Ghaith said. Because you are the only one who can navigate the spiritual turbulence the portals are creating. And because deep down, beneath the rum and the bitterness, you want to see that Imperial sun sink beneath the horizon.
Rogan was silent for a long time. The tavern around them roared back to life, but their corner remained an island of stillness. He looked down at his empty mugs, then at the two young people who were asking him to step back into the storm.
I don't have a ship, he said finally.
We'll steal one, Ghaith answered without hesitation.
I don't have a crew.
I'm looking at the first three members right now, May added, her voice filled with a quiet confidence.
Rogan let out a long, heavy breath. He stood up, towering over the table. He was a massive man, his presence filling the booth with an almost physical pressure. He reached out a hand, his palm calloused and scarred from decades of hauling ropes and swinging steel. On the back of his hand, a faint, reddish ink began to glow with a dull heat.
If we do this, Ghaith, there's no turning back. We'll be hunted by every ship in the Shimmering Sea. We'll be ghosts before we're heroes.
I've been a ghost my whole life, Rogan, Ghaith said, taking the man's hand. I'm ready to be something else.
The pact was sealed with a grip that felt like iron. As they stood to leave, the door of the tavern swung open, and a squad of Imperial Peacekeepers stepped inside. Their visors were glowing a harsh, predatory red, and their Iron Gaze seals were pulsing in unison.
The room went cold. The laughter died. The Peacekeepers scanned the crowd, their eyes stopping on the corner where Ghaith, May, and Rogan stood.
Identification! the lead soldier barked, his voice amplified by his helmet.
Rogan looked at Ghaith, a wild, dangerous grin spreading across his face. It seemed the rum had finally been replaced by the fire of the old captain.
I think they're looking for us, kid, Rogan whispered.
Ghaith didn't reach for his blades. He felt the Flame of the Void simmering in his chest, but he kept it contained. He looked at May, who gave him a sharp, knowing nod. They didn't need to fight their way out. Not yet.
The back way? May suggested.
The back way, Ghaith agreed.
Rogan grabbed a heavy oak table with one hand and tossed it into the path of the advancing soldiers as if it were made of balsa wood. The crash was deafening, followed by the shouts of the Peacekeepers and the sudden, panicked scrambling of the other patrons. In the chaos, the three of them vanished through a small service door behind the bar.
They emerged into the salt-sprayed darkness of the docks, the sound of the ocean a constant, rhythmic thrumming against the piers. They ran along the wooden walkways, their footsteps echoed by the lapping of the water.
Where to? Rogan asked, his breath coming in heavy, rhythmic huffs.
The old shipyard, Ghaith said. There's a cutter there, the Ashen Moon. It was confiscated months ago. It's small, but it's fast. And its hull is lined with lead-spirit alloy. It can hide from the scanners.
Rogan let out a low whistle. You've been planning this, haven't you?
I've been surviving, Rogan. Planning is just what happens when you decide to stop running.
They reached the shipyard, a skeletal forest of half-finished hulls and rotting scaffolding. The Ashen Moon sat in a dry dock at the far end, guarded by two Imperial sentries. The soldiers were leaning against a stack of crates, their glowing spears held loosely.
May stepped forward into the pale moonlight. Stay here. I can handle this without a sound.
Ghaith watched as she moved with a terrifyingly graceful silence. She didn't use a weapon. She approached the soldiers from the side, her hands glowing with a soft, hypnotic gold. Before they could even turn their heads, she reached out and touched the backs of their necks.
The Seal of Vivification didn't just heal; it could also soothe. The soldiers' eyes glazed over, their bodies going limp as a wave of artificial calm washed over their nervous systems. They slid to the ground, unconscious but breathing, wrapped in a deep, dreamless sleep.
Rogan looked at May with a new level of respect. Remind me never to get on your bad side, little lily.
She looked back at him, her face pale in the moonlight. I don't like doing that. But I like the alternative even less.
They climbed onto the deck of the Ashen Moon. The ship felt cold and dead, its spirit dormant. Rogan walked to the helm, his hands hovering over the wooden wheel. He closed his eye, his breathing deepening as he connected with the ship's lingering energy.
On the back of his hand, the Crimson Current seal flared into a brilliant, bloody red. He slammed his palm against the center of the wheel.
Wake up, you old bucket of bolts! he roared. We've got a sea to reclaim!
A hum began to vibrate through the deck. The ship groaned, its spirit awakening as Rogan's energy poured into its conduits. The faint glow of spiritual light began to trace the lines of the hull, and the sails, made of a dark, woven fiber, began to unfurl on their own.
Ghaith stood at the bow, looking out at the harbor. In the distance, the Imperial warships were beginning to move, their lights flashing as they coordinated their pursuit. He could feel the pressure in the air—the Iron Gaze was searching for them.
But as the Ashen Moon slid into the dark water, moving with a silent, ghostly speed, Ghaith felt a shift in the world. They were no longer just two people running from a dark past. They were a crew. They were the beginning of something the Empire couldn't scan or quantify.
The harbor opened up before them, a vast, dark expanse of uncertainty. The wind caught their sails, and for the first time in three years, Ghaith felt the weight of the city begin to lift.
Where are we going? May asked, standing beside him.
Southwest, Rogan called out from the helm, his voice filled with a grim joy. Toward the Whispering Isles. There are others there. People who are tired of the sun. People who are waiting for the ash.
Ghaith looked at the horizon, where the first hints of dawn were beginning to bleed into the sky. The path ahead was dangerous, filled with monsters and portals and the relentless pursuit of a ghost from his childhood. But as he gripped the railing of the ship, he knew that the Ashen Oath was no longer a burden. It was a promise.
We aren't just building a family, May, he whispered, as the city of Orval faded into the mist behind them. We're building a storm.
And as the Ashen Moon vanished into the shadows of the sea, the Flame of the Void in Ghaith's chest didn't feel cold. It felt like the beginning of a fire that would one day burn the sky clean.