Rishmond had been running from an unusually tenacious press-gang for the better part of the day and into the evening.  

Usually they gave up after a few hours and a few good slips—but this group was particularly interested in him.

He’d doubled back. Hidden in alleys clogged with rot. Climbed over crumbling rooftops—even waded through sewers. Yet each time, they found him again.

And each time they did, the whispering instinct in his head urged him onward—to the next crack, the next shadow, the next narrow slip of escape.

He made for the cargo docks, hoping to lose them in the tide tunnels carved beneath the quay—a good place to hide at low tide. 

Unfortunately he ran headlong into a short, stocky sailor puffing on a pipe at the pier's edge.

"Sorry, sir," Rishmond muttered, head down as he backed away. He glanced over his shoulder—no sign of his pursuers. “Really sorry.”

“Damn it, boy! You'se oughta watch where you're goin’—not ery’one ’round here would let that slide without a good beatin’, ya know.”

The older man picked himself up, brushing off his short coat. A single, piercing eye studied Rishmond beneath the light of the flickering dock torches.

Rishmond kept his head down and tried to look smaller and filthier—a proven method for keeping most people from looking too closely or caring enough to do more than kick him aside. He turned to slip away—then froze as the sailor’s voice cut through the night.

“Hey, wait! Where ya off to in such a hurry? You’se OK, kid?”

The sailor reached out with the hand still holding his pipe. “You in some kinda trouble?”

Rishmond turned back to keep the sailor in his sight.

"No sir, just fine, just in a bit of a hurry, so..." 

The sailor cut him off. "Come on son.  I seen hurry and I seen gettin' away from somethin’.  You, boy, is doin' the gettin' away part." 

His tone had shifted—from annoyed  to concerned. 

Why would a stranger care about some street rat—running or not? Maybe he thought there was a reward for turning him in.

Rishmond nearly bolted—then hesitated. Something deeper than instinct made him pause. Not to trust—but wait. As if the air itself had tilted slightly, nudging him toward a different kind of danger.

“A gang’s after me,” he said. “You know how it is on the street. They think I owe ’em something I don’t. I just don’t wanna take a beating if I don’t have to, mister.”

The sailor glanced up the wharf—toward the warehouses and the alley Rishmond had come tearing out of.

Rishmond frowned.

Didn’t think he saw me until I ran into him. But… did he? If he did, why didn’t he move? Or yell?

Was he waiting for me?

Rishmond kept his head down but studied the man through lowered lashes. Stocky, not tall—but heavy enough that even at a full sprint, he shouldn’t have knocked him over.

Unless he’d let it happen.

The feeling in his gut twisted. This stank like a setup. The wordless voice in his head that had kept him alive all his life was telling him something wasn't quite right.

Perhaps his unnatural good luck was finally run out.

A faint sound—boot leather scraping wood.

Two men emerged from the shadows up the berth, big and broad, much larger than the one-eyed sailor. They moved into position, casually blocking Rishmond’s escape route.

The torches guttered in the sea breeze, casting long, shifting shadows across the dock.

Waves slapped against the docks and ships. The wood of shifting ships creaked as if commenting on what they were watching.

This wasn’t happenstance.

They’d herded him here. This was the play.

Were they working with this sailor? If he even was a sailor?

“Look, kid—this can be hard, or it can be easy. Life 'board a ship’d be good for ya. Damn sight better 'n' scratchin’ around the streets in this piss-hole town.”

The man stepped closer, pipe tucked away now, hands raised in what might’ve been a friendly gesture.

“Ain’t sayin’ it’s all sunshine and sugar, but you get fed. That’s somethin’, ain’t it? For a kid with no family. No ties. Just come with us. No one gets hurt.”

This man knew more about Rishmond than he should.

This was definitely a setup.

Giving up might be easier, but Rishmond's experience so far in life made it clear—those like him were used and thrown away by those in power.

Street life was hard but it was mostly on his terms and that meant something.

He didn't fear death.

He feared giving up.

That strange pull—the wordless feeling that had always kept him a step ahead—was silent as death now. Gone like dust before a storm wind.

Rishmond bolted—straight for the edge of the quay. If he could make it into the tide tunnels and the sewers beyond, he could easily lose these men there and make his way to the edge of town and out to the caves near the old church.  Unlikely they'd follow him that far. 

Shouts rang out behind him.

Then—a whir, a metallic snap.

Something struck his calves. Hard.

Heavy ropes whipped around his legs, weighted ends slamming into his shins. He hit the ground face-first, skull cracking against the dock.

For a heartbeat, he saw stars. Heard the blood thrum in his ears.

He tried to roll, to sit up, to free his legs—

Too slow.

A second impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Hands grabbed at him pinning his arms. A knee drove down on his chest. His head bounced again—back this time. Harder.

All the air driven from his lungs. His limbs useless.

The voice in his head remained silent—as if resigned to his fate.

The last thing Rishmond saw before everything went black was the old sailor lighting his pipe—calm as still water.

Service aboard a cargo ship wasn't nearly as bad as many things Rishmond had endured before.  The captain was hard, and not at all fair, but Rishmond learned quickly to accomplish tasks before he was told and then get out of sight if he could.  

He expected neither praise nor reward and received neither even though he put in twice the work of most of the young deckhands—conscripts and volunteers alike.  His diligence wasn't entirely in vain as it did save him half the lashings others got.

All in all, much better than the starvation and abuse he'd taken as an orphan on the streets of Mott. Aboard the Dutchess' Teat he was fed and had a place to lay his head that wasn't under the open sky or in a rotten sewer. The work was hard and hours long—but no one had tried to kill him since he came aboard.

The only person who showed him any kindness—or interest that wasn’t unwanted—was a younger kid named Toby. Twelve turns old. Too young for conscripted shipwork, really—but there he was.

Toby had taken to Rishmond right away. He’d already been aboard a few weeks by the time Rishmond woke in the fo’c’sle below the main deck. Rishmond had no memory of being hauled down there—only of waking up chained to a deck fitting, head pounding, sprawled half-conscious in a low-slung hammock.

Toby had taken it upon himself to wipe the dried blood from Rishmond’s scalp and make him as comfortable as possible.

When Rishmond stirred, Toby was there, offering water from a tin cup and watching him with wide, solemn eyes.

"Hi." Toby's voice was soft and concerned.  "Ya'ight? Looks like they hit yer head pretty hard." 

Rishmond blinked at him, disoriented. The boy’s accent was strange—one he didn’t recognize. Not from Mott, not from the docks, not from any sailor or gutter-rat he’d met.

Despite his usual mistrust, Rishmond had taken to the kid. Toby had a surprisingly bright spirit for a wretch pressed into sea labor, and it paired oddly well with Rishmond’s grim pragmatism.

Rishmond did his best to teach Toby what he could and keep him out of trouble whenever possible. For the most part, it worked. The kid was a quick learner and a hard worker—but more than once, Rishmond took a lashing for something Toby did or forgot to do.

Not that he really minded. Beatings were just a part of life, as far as Rishmond was concerned. Even some of the officers aboard the Dutchess’ Teat had taken lashes during the voyage. The first mate got fifteen stripes after two recruits went overboard during a storm. Apparently, the captain didn’t appreciate being short-handed.

Worse punishment, in Rishmond’s opinion, came in the form of missed meals—even if the food was as foul-tasting as anything he’d ever eaten. The only flavor—besides bad—in any of it came from the sharp, sour pickles served with every dish

A supposed preventative against scurvy, or so they claimed.

The only sailor besides Toby who showed any interest in him was one Rishmond went out of his way to avoid: the ship’s cook, Plug.

A bent and scarred cripple, Plug made Rishmond’s skin crawl—not because of his deformities, but because of something colder. Something darker.

Malice clung to the man like sweat.

Rishmond wasn’t the only one who felt it; most of the crew kept their distance.

More than once, Rishmond had woken in the night to find the man staring across the berths at him.

There was something about him—something that whispered of cruelty. The kind of man who would hurt a small animal just to watch it suffer.

Why Plug wanted to befriend Rishmond was a mystery.

And not one he cared to solve.

Being conscripted on to the crew of a cargo ship got him out of the country of The Arrangement of Peace and it's capital city of Mott.  He'd most likely be dead by now if he hadn't stumbled in to the recruiter from the Dutchess' Teat.

Of course, death was still a very real possibility aboard ship.

Two other street urchins from Mott—'recruits' the crew called them—had come aboard at the same time as Rishmond. Both had been swept overboard during a storm on the twentieth night of the voyage.

They hadn't been recovered.

The Dutchess' Teat had been making good time before a following west wind. That morning, the captain had ordered her tack adjusted to run due east, directly ahead of the driving gusts. Many among the crew grumbled—quietly, of course, and well out of earshot of any officers or priests. Their current heading would take them dangerously close to the cursed Shattered Islands.

Storms and sea monsters were said to dwell there, among the isles torn from the mainland during the years of upheaval after the Blessing. Every sailor knew better than to sail too near; the storms there could swallow a ship whole, or worse—Demon-spawned horrors could rise from the depths and drag her under. Only those who lived among the Shattered Islands—Demons themselves, if the stories were true—dared to sail those waters.

All the seasoned hands aboard would have preferred a more southerly route, far from even the sight of the islands, adding days to their journey but avoiding the dangers that lurked there. But the captain scoffed at superstition, and the Priests were unwavering: the Gods protected all ships consecrated by the Church.

In the late afternoon hours the call came from high in the crow's nest, "Land ho!" as the first of the Shattered Islands came into view. As if in response to the call, the west wind died and a sudden chill filled the air. The Dutchess' Teat foundered and slowed, her sails suddenly slack, her flag limp against its mast.

The sound of the ship cutting through the water—the wind in her sails, the shouted commands of the crew—vanished in an instant. A hush fell over the Dutchess' Teat. Tough, seasoned sailors exchanged uneasy glances, their superstitions rising up to smother reason.

Rishmond stood at the port railing, eyes fixed on a barely visible speck of land far across the sea.

The moment stretched unnaturally long. Then came a murmur—soft whispers among the crew, hushed talk of the Curse of the Shattered Islands. The spell broke as experienced sailors began barking quiet orders, nudging the rest of the crew into action. The mainsail was struck, the ship prepared for the wind's return.

Rishmond stepped away from the rail, dread heavy in the still air. He found Toby and leaned in close.

“Stay near,” he said, quietly. The two returned to their work, staying within sight of each other.

A nervous charge hung in the air, invisible but palpable. Even as the crew resumed their duties, men kept casting wary glances northward—toward the cursed isles.

Hours passed without the wind's return. Each time Rishmond looked up, the island seemed closer. It had grown from a distant speck into a distinct rise of browns and greens above the horizon. The Dutchess' Teat was drifting slowly, almost imperceptibly, northward—toward the Shattered Islands.

To make matters worse, dark clouds had begun to gather above the isles, like a shadow stretching out from the island itself. As the sun dipped low in the west, its light flared blood-red across the waves. The air turned colder.

The storm descended on the ship with sudden, brutal force as night fell around them. The magical lights—normally a comfort, casting a gentle glow across the deck—now flickered uselessly against the howling wind, crashing waves, and the oppressive dark.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the sails still aloft just before they caught the wind. Moments later, the gusts rose to gale force, and the crew scrambled to strike the canvas before it could tear free.

A great boom of thunder cracked across the sky, as if the heavens themselves were splitting apart. Cold, hard rain followed, driven sideways by the whipping winds—each drop a stinging punishment from above.

Waves tossed the ship like a toy, swamping the deck and threatening to sweep men overboard. The first mate ordered safety ropes strung along the railings and lines for the deckhands to keep themselves tethered as they fought to keep the ship afloat. All hands were called to the deck—except for Plug, who remained below to secure the galley. Toby and a handful of crew sent to stabilize the cargo and man the bilge pumps.

Rishmond found himself on the main deck, a rope tied around his waist and fastened to a trunnion near the stairs to the poop deck, working to lash down anything that wasn’t already secured.

Wave after wave broke over the rails, water surging across the deck. Twice in just minutes, he’d lunged to catch men nearly swept away. More than once, he himself had been knocked off his feet, caught only by the rope tethering him to the ship. Rain and darkness turned everything more than a few feet away into a blur of shifting shadow. Lightning flashed frequently, offering brief glimpses that seemed to hinder more than help.

A barrel broke loose, crashing past him and slamming into the base of the stairs before rolling toward the port rail. Rishmond released his coil of rope and let himself slide across the slick deck. He collided with the barrel and wrapped himself around it, clutching the rope in one fist. In moments, he looped the line around the barrel and the nearest baluster, anchoring himself with his legs as he worked. He made several passes with the rope, looping it over the top rail for good measure, and tied it off.

Pressing his face close, squinting against the rain, he inspected the knot.

It would hold.

The barrel still rocked with the ship’s motion, bumping wetly against the railing. Rishmond decided to secure it further. He shifted to reach the next baluster forward, fighting the movement of the ship and the slick wood beneath him.

A flickering burst of lightning lit the sea below. Rishmond froze.

Something massive moved beneath the surface—a purplish-grey shape gliding just under the waves, followed by several long, sucker-covered tentacles. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be natural.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. Then a wave smashed into him, slamming him against the rail and snapping him out of his incoherent fear. Whatever it was, as long as it stayed in the ocean and he stayed on the ship, it didn’t matter.

His heart pounded and his stomach knotted. He ripped his eyes away from the water. Shoving the vision from his mind he turned back to the task at hand.

He reached for the safety rope strung along the rail, trying to steady himself—but the line went slack in his hand.

His gaze snapped to where the rope should’ve been anchored, just yards away. He could see next to nothing through the sheets of rain—only shifting shapes in the dark. A flash of lightning silhouetted the scene for a single, harrowing moment.

Figures. At least three, struggling on the deck. Was one of them missing an arm?

A wave crashed over Rishmond, blinding him. He shook his head furiously, blinking through the rain and sea.

A bright blue flash of light from the struggling shapes.

Another lightning flash—and two figures tumbled over the side, vanishing into the sea.

Rishmond scanned the darkness for the third.

Nothing.

The ship heaved hard to starboard, and the deck tilted beneath his feet.

Rishmond was thrown sideways. His line snapped taut—then snapped.

He slammed into the railing and went over.

The sea swallowed him whole.

Cold, black water swallowed him. He spun in the dark—lungs tightening, limbs flailing.

Up. Which way was up?

He kicked, thrashed—reached for anything—but the pressure closed in. Panic clamped around his chest like iron.

He shut his eyes.

A flash—lightning? No… something else.

He screamed inside his own head, a cry no one would hear.

I don’t want to die.

Then—something surged inside him.

And against him.

A shove.

He imagined himself directing the water, as if he could will it to move. To eject him back onto the boat.

Water rushed past his skin. His body lurched upward like a shot from a sling.

His lungs were on fire.

Then, all at once—air.

He exploded out of the sea and slammed back onto the deck with a splatter and a gasp, coughing seawater and rain.

Like the ocean itself had rejected him.

Gasping, trembling, he crawled toward the stairwell alcove, toward what little shelter it could provide. He collapsed against the wall, bracing his back to the cold, soaked wood.

Breathing. Just breathing.

Alive.

What had he just seen?

What had he just felt?

Energy ebbed away from inside of his chest.

Nothing was clear in the inky storm—but it looked like Plug had been fighting with two other men. Had he actually seen them go overboard? Had Plug gone too?

Rishmond felt numb, his thoughts reeling.

He pulled himself to his feet, clinging to the stair rail. Someone had to know. The captain or the first mate—they’d be at the helm.

He started up the stairs.

Unseen by Rishmond, Plug watched from the dark.

Just off the port side, a column of seawater had exploded skyward, flinging a limp body back onto the deck. At its peak had been the boy he’d been watching—the one with the spark inside him.

A golden glow had emanated from Rishmond as the wave lifted him. The unmistakable resonance of lotrar—true lotrar—had rolled outward like the ringing of a silent bell.

Not borrowed. Not ambient.

Not stolen.

Wielded.

Plug’s eyes narrowed and a cruel smile curled his lips in the dark.

So. The boy didn’t even know.

The storm shifted without warning. The rain still fell—hard and cold—but now it fell straight down in dense, heavy sheets instead of lashing sideways. The near-constant thunder faded to sporadic rumbles echoing from far away.

The violent bucking of the deck eased to a steady, heaving roll. Waves still broke over the sides, but no longer threatened to swamp the ship and drag it to the ocean floor.

Rishmond burst up the stairs, slipping on the wet boards, and screamed at the figures barely visible through the rain—“Man overboard! Man overboard!”

"Bosun! Man overboard!” the captain’s voice rang out, sharp and immediate. The bosun’s whistle shrieked from the main deck, quickly echoed by another from the bow. The call rippled through the crew: Man overboard!

"Where?!" the captain barked.

"There!" Rishmond turned and pointed to the port railing just beyond where he'd tied the barrel. "Two men, Captain! Maybe three!"

Men rushed to the rail, peering into the sea, straining their eyes against the rain and dark.

Buoys and ropes were tossed out into the black water.

No one was found. 

The storm abated to a light drizzle. The magical lights once again cast their glow upon the decks. The Charge Priest conducted a count of the crew.

"Two of the new recruits missing, Captain."

The wind returned, steady and strong. The captain gave the order to raise the sails. The Dutchess' Teat lurched into motion, cutting through the heavy swells—leaving the lost behind.

Rishmond made no mention of Plug—except to Toby. Together, they agreed it was best that way. 

Plug still watched—but from a distance now.