The Emberwake was quieter than it had any right to be.
Not silent.
Never silent.
Wood creaked gently beneath the rhythm of the tide. Rope shifted. Somewhere below deck, metal tapped softly against metal as Sir Wilkinson adjusted something that did not strictly need adjusting.
Roald sat propped against a coil of thick rope near the stern, bandages visible at the collar of his shirt. He still looked irritated at the idea of resting, but the tightness in his shoulders had eased.
Across from him, Liora leaned against the railing, elbows resting on worn wood smoothed by salt and years of hands.
She held a small bundle of blue cornflowers, stems wrapped carefully in twine.
She lifted them to her nose.
Inhaled.
Roald watched her for a long moment.
"…They don't smell anymore."
She didn't look at him.
"They do."
"They don't."
She inhaled again. Slower this time. Deliberate.
Roald narrowed his eyes at her.
"You've been sniffing them every day for weeks."
A pause.
"They've surrendered."
That made her turn her head toward him.
Her expression flattened into a long, unimpressed stare.
Roald grinned.
She returned her attention to the flowers.
Lifted them again.
Inhaled.
Deliberately.
"Unbelievable," Roald muttered, leaning his head back against the mast.
The wind shifted softly across the deck.
Liora's gaze drifted.
Not toward the horizon.
Toward Sir Wilkinson.
He stood near the center of the deck, prosthetic arm catching the afternoon light as he studied a spread of parchments weighed down by a wrench. His brow was furrowed in quiet concentration. Every adjustment precise. Every motion measured.
He didn't notice her watching.
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Roald followed her line of sight.
His expression softened.
Near the forward hatch, half-shadowed by a folded sail, Isobel rested against a crate.
She had meant only to sit.
One hand remained near the hilt of her blade. Even in sleep, her posture held a quiet readiness. But her breathing was deep now. Uninterrupted.
There were faint shadows beneath her eyes.
Roald watched her for a moment longer than he meant to.
She had stayed awake for three days.
For him.
She had been there since the beginning — pulling him from hunger, from danger, from himself. And now again.
A quiet smile formed on his face.
Next time, he would be the one standing.
The Emberwake rocked gently beneath them.
For a moment, the world felt almost still.
The river was quiet when they arrived.
Not the nervous kind of quiet.
The working kind.
Emberwake breathed like it always did—wood creaking, distant hammering, low conversation drifting across the docks. Smoke rose thin from chimneys. It looked… stable.
Winch stepped into the open first.
Springtrap appeared a heartbeat later, like she had grown out of the shadows against her will. Kingfisher remained at the treeline, still as a drawn line of ink, watching angles, measuring exits.
Sir. Wilkinson saw them before anyone else did.
He didn't reach for a weapon.
He simply straightened.
"Well," he said evenly, adjusting the fit of his prosthetic hand against his sleeve, "this is either very inconvenient… or very necessary."
Winch stopped several paces away. No theatrics. No mask adjustments. No posture games.
"We're not here to fight."
Springtrap leaned slightly to the side and stage-whispered, "Unless you start it."
Winch didn't look at her. "We're not here to fight."
Sir. Wilkinson's gaze flicked between them. Calculating. Weighing.
"You've chosen a poor week for social visits."
Winch nodded once.
"We know."
A pause.
Then, flat. Controlled.
"We believed your boy was executed in the square."
The air shifted.
Not violently. Just—tightened.
Springtrap's usual kinetic hum dimmed slightly.
Winch continued.
"We misread the operation. We misjudged the risk. That's on us."
No excuses. No softness. Just ownership.
From inside one of the workshop structures, a floorboard creaked.
Sir. Wilkinson's expression didn't change.
"That would have been unfortunate," he said carefully.
Springtrap blinked.
"Would have been?"
Footsteps approached.
Uneven. Slower than usual.
"Executed?" a familiar voice echoed from behind them.
The Debt Collectors turned.
Roald stood there.
Still pale. Bandages visible beneath his shirt collar. Thinner than before. But upright.
Very much upright.
Springtrap froze.
Her brain attempted to rearrange reality and failed.
She pointed at him with full, accusatory horror.
"Gghooossst!!!"
She physically took two steps back.
Winch stared.
Blink.
Once.
"…You're difficult to bury."
Kingfisher, from the treeline, did not move—but the rigid line of his shoulders dropped by a fraction.
Roald looked between them.
Deadpan.
"Disappointed?"
Springtrap squinted at him.
"You were publicly beheaded."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I wasn't."
She leaned closer, suspicious, then leaned back again.
"…Are you solid?"
Roald raised an eyebrow.
"You want to check?"
Springtrap looked tempted.
Winch cut in, dry as timber.
"He's breathing. That's sufficient."
Sir. Wilkinson folded his hands behind his back.
"As you can see," he said calmly, "Emberwake has not yet begun hosting spirits."
Springtrap muttered, "That's exactly what a haunted dock would say."
Roald shifted his weight slightly, but didn't waver.
"You came to apologize," he said, not unkindly.
Winch met his eyes directly.
"We did."
A beat.
Then, more quietly:
"We also came because Lomor's been taken."
And just like that—
The humor drained.
Roald's posture changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Springtrap's grin faded. Kingfisher stepped out from the trees at last.
Sir. Wilkinson's gaze sharpened.
The alliance line had just been drawn.
But for a moment—
Just a brief, ridiculous moment—
Springtrap was still staring at Roald like he might evaporate.
"…If you start walking through walls," she muttered, "I'm leaving."
Roald almost smiled.
Almost.
And Emberwake, for the first time in days, felt something close to alive again.