By the time Ludger’s column reached the docks, the ship was already alive.

Viola stood on deck with her arms crossed, watching the embarkation like she was daring someone to trip. Luna was nearby, quiet as ever, eyes sweeping the pier, the rigging, the rooftops, anything that could hide a problem.

Rathen was there too, talking with a cluster of Ironhand syndicate members who looked completely at home aboard a vessel. Not “passengers.” Workers. The kind of people who treated a ship like a moving workplace instead of a romantic adventure.

And they were already working. Ludger counted without meaning to.

Lines being checked. Sails folded and secured. Knots retied. Cargo shifting to balance. Someone greasing a block. Someone else inspecting the hull seams along the inner edge like they expected the ocean to reach up and chew.

At least twenty Ironhand members moved with constant purpose, crew rotation, maintenance, readiness. Even while docked, they acted like the sea was already trying to kill them. Ludger watched them and felt a familiar irritation crawl up his spine.

Is it really a good idea to have teenagers learn ship work during a mission?

Training at sea was one thing. Learning knots and basic deck sense under controlled conditions… But this wasn’t controlled.

This was a mission. A spider labyrinth expedition. Unknown threats. Unknown weather. Unknown sea monsters. The ocean didn’t care that you were “still learning.”

One mistake on deck could turn into a man overboard. One mistake with rigging could break a mast. One mistake during a hard maneuver could feed half the ship to something hungry in the deep.

Still… he’d brought them here to become useful, not comfortable. He just didn’t like the timing.

The trainees filed aboard in organized lines, officers guiding them into assigned sections. Packs stowed. Weapons secured. The last of the supplies came up. The stone cart and sealed container were hauled and anchored with enough care that even Ludger didn’t argue.

Once everyone was on deck and accounted for, Rathen stepped forward and raised his voice.

“Direction?” he asked.

It wasn’t a challenge. It was a procedure. The question still pulled everyone’s attention like a hook. Heads turned. Eyes shifted. Not toward Ludger. Not toward Rathen. Toward Raukor.

The beastman blacksmith stood near the center of the deck, arms thick as ship beams, expression unreadable. He looked almost out of place among ropes and sailcloth, like someone had brought a forge into a prayer hall.

He didn’t answer immediately. A brief silence stretched, long enough for the sea to hiss against the pier and for gulls to scream overhead. Then Raukor finally spoke, voice deep and certain.

“Southeast,” he rumbled.

He paused, as if tasting the direction.

“For now.”

Ludger felt the ship shift under his feet, subtle, like it had heard the order and accepted it. Then he nodded once. Southeast meant leaving the comfort of mapped waters. Southeast meant committing… And committing meant there was no room left for mistakes.

Ironhand moved first, because they were the only ones on deck who treated the sea like an enemy instead of scenery. Twenty of them spread out in practiced lanes, each person sliding into a station without needing to be told twice.

Rathen climbed to the quarterdeck and started turning people into structure.

“Lines first. No one touches the sail until we’re clean.” His voice cut through the noise without shouting. “Cargo check. Then rigs. Then the crew count. Then we move.”

On the main deck, two Ironhand hands dropped to a knee and ran fingers along the mooring ropes, checking tension, checking wear, checking knots. Another pair checked the fenders along the dockside, making sure the hull wouldn’t grind against stone when the ship shifted.

A boatswain-type, old scar, salt in his beard, walked the line of trainees like he was inspecting tools.

“You,” he pointed. “You’re on coil duty. Clean loops, no tangles. If you throw a rope nest at my feet, I throw you in the sea and see if you can swim back intelligently.”

Some of the teenagers paled. A few nodded too quickly. One tried to joke and immediately decided against it when the man didn’t blink.

Ludger watched the whole thing, expression flat, mind quietly counting failure points.

He didn’t like the idea of teenagers learning ship work during a mission.

But he liked the idea of teenagers learning ship work under Ironhand supervision more than he liked the idea of them learning later under panic. He walked to the cargo section and checked the sealed earth container himself. No mana leak. No slosh shift that might loosen the lid.

Then he pressed his palm to the deck and shaped a set of stone clamps up around the cart frame, simple braces that locked it into the ship’s ribline like teeth. He didn’t want the ocean testing his patience with a surprise roll and a half-ton of stone deciding to become a projectile.

Nearby, Raukor’s forge wagon was already lashed down with thick rope and wedge blocks. The beastman stood beside it like a silent threat to anyone who thought “loose cargo” was acceptable.

Luna moved without being seen, then suddenly was seen, at the starboard rail, scanning the pier and the rooftops beyond the dock market. She wasn’t looking for enemies with weapons. She was looking for watchers.

Viola stood near the mast, arms crossed, face unreadable, pretending she wasn’t watching every knot like it personally offended her.

“Crew count!” Rathen called.

Ironhand answered in clipped responses. Trainees repeated their names when ordered, hands raised so they didn’t vanish into the crowd. Officers, Renn, Marie, Bramm, Jorin, Tali, kept their people grouped and quiet, handling the herd so the professionals could work.

Then came the final checks. Hatches: sealed. Bilge: checked. Deck: cleared of loose junk. Oars: stowed and ready. Rudder: tested. Anchor: set and ready to drop in a heartbeat.

The boatswain spat over the side, glanced at the waterline, then lifted a hand.

“Current’s good. Wind’s steady. We go.”

Rathen looked toward Raukor. “Direction confirmed?”

Raukor’s eyes stayed on the horizon. “Southeast. For now.”

Rathen nodded once and raised his arm in a sharp, practiced signal.

“Cast off!”

The dock lines came free in sequence, bow line first, then stern, then spring lines, each released with controlled slack so the ship didn’t lurch sideways into the pier. Ironhand hands hauled the ropes aboard fast, coiling them clean, feeding them into racks like the ship was swallowing its own tether.

“Push off!”

Poles went down against the dock. The hull shifted away with a low creak, slow at first, then smoother as water took the weight. A few trainees stumbled as the deck moved under them for the first time like something alive.

“Feet wide,” the boatswain barked. “Sea doesn’t care if you’re surprised!”

Then the sails. Not all at once. Not dramatically.

A controlled raise, first the smaller canvas to catch enough wind without snapping lines, then the main sail loosened and lifted, the rigging singing softly as it took load. Ironhand adjusted angles in tight, efficient movements, trimming like they were carving wind into shape.

The ship turned its nose away from the pier. The port town began to slide backward.

Ludger felt the moment the sea claimed them, when the dock stopped being “near” and became “behind.” The water deepened. The sound changed. The air turned sharper with salt.

They were moving… And that meant mistakes got expensive.

Rathen’s voice came again, steadier now. “Set watches. Ironhand stays primary. Trainees rotate under supervision. No lone work..”

A few groans died before they were born. Even the loud ones understood that rule.

The ship cleared the harbor mouth, and the open coast stretched out ahead like a promise and a threat stitched together.

Only then, only after the departure was done and there was nothing left to do but sail, did Viola drift closer to Ludger. He was at the side rail, watching the town shrink, eyes cold.

“Why didn’t we go home for a bit?” she asked. “Rest. Reset. Report properly. Instead we’re sailing immediately like we’re being chased.”

Ludger frowned, not at the question, at the fact that the question was fair. Then his gaze flicked to her and something in his expression shifted. A different realization. Viola caught it instantly.

He wasn’t thinking about rest. He was thinking: Why are you still here? Her only goal coming south had been Lucius. They’d found him. Alive. Messy, but alive. By normal logic… she should’ve gone home.

Viola’s mouth tightened. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Ludger replied.

“You were about to.” She leaned closer, voice low enough that only Luna, somewhere nearby, would still hear it. “This is a good chance for me.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed. “A chance to do what?”

Viola’s tone sharpened, more serious than her usual fire. “More experience. Handling the work. Conquering a labyrinth is one thing. Managing what comes after is another. Resources. Deals. Logistics. People trying to steal it from you with paper instead of swords.”

She jabbed a thumb toward the deck. “At least watching how it’s done. Learning how you actually run something like this.”

Ludger stared at her for a moment, as if weighing whether she meant it, or whether she was just looking for an excuse to keep moving because standing still would make her think about Lucius too much.

Viola held his gaze and didn’t blink. Finally, Ludger exhaled through his nose.

“…Fine,” he said. “Stay.”

Viola’s shoulders loosened a fraction, victory without celebration.

Ludger didn’t bother looking impressed with himself. He just said it like it was another item on a checklist.

“I sent a large sample to Aronia,” he told Viola.

Viola blinked, then looked down at the sealed container like it had offended her. “Sent it… how?”

“Through the underground tunnels,” Ludger said. “With a report. Everything that happened. Lucius. The other side. The lake. The guardian repairing itself. All of it.”

Viola’s frown deepened. “Who’s delivering it?”

She jabbed a finger toward him. “You didn’t go home and come back in a day. Don’t tell me you did.”

Ludger gave her a flat look that said use your brain.

“Yvar is ready at the guild to receive any kind of message,” he said. “And Maurien’s nearby.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. “So you used wind.”

“Yes.”

He leaned his forearms on the rail, watching the waves chew at the hull. “With Maurien controlling wind currents inside the tunnels, moving a piece of paper is easy. Even through the entire empire. Once I used wind as well, he would sense it and follow through. We talked about this before I left.”

Viola stared. “Inside tunnels.”

“Air moves,” Ludger replied. “Tunnels are just long lungs. Control the pressure, control the current.”

That was the part that sounded insane until you remembered Maurien was the kind of mage who treated weather like a personal argument.

Viola’s gaze flicked back to the container. “And the water sample?”

Ludger’s mouth tightened. “That’s the hard part.”

Paper could ride a wind stream. Cargo couldn’t, at least not without planning, muscle, and routes that didn’t collapse on you halfway through.

“So what did you do?” Viola pressed.

“I wrote that part on the paper,” Ludger said. “They should head south to pick it up.”

Viola’s eyes widened slightly. “You told Aronia to come here?”

“Not Aronia,” Ludger corrected. “She has her work. But someone. A team. Whoever Yvar trusts to move fast and keep their mouth shut.”

He paused, then added, tone dry, “Ideally someone who won’t drink it just because it glows.”

Viola let out a breath, half disbelief and half respect. “You really don’t stop.”

Ludger’s gaze stayed on the sea. “Stopping is how people take things from you.”

He glanced back at her, eyes cold and practical.

“And I’m not losing this water to politics because we were slow.”

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