The ship kept moving toward it, and the spike grew clearer with each breath.

A landmark. Or a warning. Raukor stood, tools forgotten, and stared at it as if confirming something only he could read.

Then he spoke, short, decisive.

“East,” he rumbled.

He paused half a heartbeat, then added the only other word he felt was necessary.

“Next.”

Rathen didn’t waste time. He lifted his arm and barked to the Ironhand hands on rigging.

“Course change! East!”

The crew responded instantly, adjusting sail angle and line tension. The ship began to turn, slow and heavy, bow pivoting as wind caught the canvas differently.

Ludger watched the spear-rock approach from the corner of his eye. He didn’t like landmarks that stuck out of the sea like weapons… But Raukor had finally given a clear order. Which meant the waiting was over. Now they were headed somewhere specific…. And that was usually when the sea decided to introduce itself.

Ironhand adjusted the sails like it was routine, but the mood on deck shifted the moment the ship’s nose stopped following the coastline. Out here, the ocean stopped being a road and turned back into what it really was, an open mouth.

The syndicate had maps. Good ones, too, for what they cared about. Coastal routes, safe inlets, known shoals, the places where ships could trade and return without having to gamble their lives on superstition. But beyond that? It fell apart fast.

Ludger had heard it the night before while he and Viola stood near the rail, watching the dark water roll under moonlight.

“Ironhand’s charts are detailed up to a point,” Viola had said, voice low so the trainees wouldn’t hear and start imagining monsters in every wave. “They know the coast. They know the currents close to shore. They know where smugglers hide and where reefs eat hulls.”

She’d paused, then pointed out into the black.

“But anything beyond five hundred kilometers away from the coastline…” Her mouth tightened. “It’s mostly guesswork.”

Ludger had frowned. “Five hundred meters?”

Viola nodded. “They call it ‘mapped’ because they can see land. Because they can run if something goes wrong.”

It was a human kind of arrogance, pretending your fear was a strategy. Ludger remembered asking the obvious question.

“Why doesn’t anyone map farther?”

Viola’s answer had been simple.

“In the past, a lot of people tried,” she’d said. “Explorers, nobles chasing fame, merchant fleets trying to open new routes. Even imperial expeditions.”

She’d looked out into the darkness like she was staring at a memory.

“Few returned.”

Now, with the ship turning east and the spear-rock looming like a marker stabbed into the sea, Ludger understood why that answer carried weight.

Because even Ironhand, who worked the water every day, who treated ships like tools and storms like schedules, kept their comfort zone close enough to sprint back to land. They weren’t cowards. They were experienced… And experience didn’t make the ocean less hungry. It just taught you where its teeth usually were.

Ludger rested his forearms on the rail, eyes tracking the waves, and let his Seismic Sense brush outward through the hull. It wasn’t clean out here. Too much motion. Too much depth. Too much… empty.

The kind of empty that didn’t feel natural.

Behind him, trainees whispered and tried to act like this was just another day of travel. Officers kept them quiet. Ironhand kept working. Raukor stood like a statue, gaze fixed ahead, as if the sea was just another terrain feature.

Ludger watched the horizon and thought, flat and practical:

Five hundred kilometers. That’s how far people stay brave.

Then he tightened his grip on the rail.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s see what lives past brave.”

The ship didn’t feel like it was moving much.

It was large enough that the waves had to argue with it, and the ocean was cooperative—no storm winds, no angry swells, no sudden sideways rolls that threw men into rails.

Still, for a lot of the kids, “barely moving” was more than enough.

A few trainees turned pale within the first hour. One tried to look tough, then leaned over the side and made a noise like his organs were filing for divorce. Another sat with his back to the mast, eyes half-lidded, breathing through his mouth like air was a complicated concept.

The deck smelled like salt and shame.

Ironhand didn’t mock them. They’d seen it too many times. They just handed out practical advice, drink water, eat small, keep your eyes on the horizon, don’t stare at the deck, don’t lie down unless you want the world to spin faster.

Ludger watched the situation like it was a training problem. Weak stomachs weren’t a moral failure. They were a variable. One that could kill you if you ignored it.

By the end of the day, most of them stabilized. Bodies adapted. Legs learned the ship’s rhythm. The dizziness faded into an annoyed heaviness instead of a full-body betrayal. The worst cases still looked miserable, but even they weren’t collapsing anymore.

Competence always won, eventually. Raukor spent that same day doing what he did when he wasn’t smashing things into shape. Maintenance.

He sat by his forge wagon, cleaning tools until they looked like they’d never been used, checking edges, tightening bindings, wiping salt off metal like it personally insulted him. When he finished, he packed everything away with slow certainty, then stood.

And for the first time since he’d given direction, he approached Ludger directly.

Ludger was at the rail line in the water again, not actively fishing this time, more like listening through the tension. He felt Raukor’s shadow before he heard the footfall.

“What,” Ludger said, not rude, just efficient.

Raukor’s eyes stayed on the open sea. “Prepare.”

Ludger squinted. “For what.”

Raukor didn’t answer immediately, as if considering whether Ludger deserved the words. Then he spoke.

“We head into an area filled with monsters.”

That got a real shift out of Ludger. His eyes narrowed further, gaze snapping toward the horizon, then down to the water like he expected something to surface on cue.

“Define ‘filled,’” he said.

Raukor’s ears flicked. “Many.”

Ludger’s mouth tightened. Of course it was “many.” Beastmen didn’t warn you about some.

Raukor continued, voice low, steady. “Beastmen don’t find this labyrinth worth the hassle.”

Ludger stared at him. “Because of monsters?”

Raukor’s gaze finally shifted to Ludger, calm, almost amused in a way that didn’t involve smiling.

“You will learn soon,” he rumbled.

Then he turned and walked away like he’d just informed Ludger the weather might be unpleasant.

Ludger watched his back for a moment, then looked out over the sea again. The horizon was empty. The water was calm… And that, more than anything, made his skin itch. Because “area filled with monsters” didn’t look like anything from up here. Which meant the sea was doing what it always did before it tried to kill you. It was waiting until you got comfortable.

Ludger caught Raukor again before the beastman could disappear back into his quiet corner.

He wasn’t subtle about it. He just stepped into Raukor’s path like a wall that learned to walk.

“What kind of monsters?” Ludger asked.

Raukor looked at him, expression flat.

Ludger gestured at the sea. “Fish? Something underwater?”

His eyes flicked to the hull, the rigging, the thick timbers. “This ship is sturdy enough to endure a lot. Unless you’re talking about something bigger than the ship.”

For the first time, Raukor’s response came faster. He shook his head.

“No,” he rumbled.

Ludger’s brow tightened. “Then what.”

Raukor’s ears flicked once, then he tilted his head upward, toward the open sky.

“Flying.”

Ludger stared. “Flying monsters.”

Raukor nodded. “Probably from another labyrinth.”

That made Ludger’s stomach tighten in a way the sea hadn’t managed all day. Underwater threats were at least predictable. You could map depth, watch for shadows, feel pressure changes through the hull. But flying meant angles. Speed. Harpoons from above. Creatures that didn’t care about water and could pick targets right off the deck.

Ludger kept his voice calm anyway. “What kind. Birds?”

Raukor shrugged. “Not birds.”

That was, somehow, the most beastman answer possible.

He continued, slow and certain. “Beastmen never found where they come from. They appear. They attack. Then they leave.”

Ludger narrowed his eyes. “Always?”

Raukor’s gaze slid toward the distant horizon like he was seeing a memory instead of water. “Always. When ship approaches spider labyrinth.”

A warning. A pattern. A guard-dog behavior from something no one owned.

Ludger’s mind moved immediately, positions, cover, anti-air, shielding, ropes becoming hazards, trainees becoming liabilities.

He glanced back at the deck, at the kids still learning how not to fall over, at the officers trying to keep the line between “training” and “panic.”

Then he looked at the sky again, expression hard.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “So the ocean isn’t the problem.”

Raukor’s ears flicked, the closest thing he had to agreement. Ludger exhaled once.

“And the moment we get close,” he added, voice flat, “the sky tries to eat us.”

“How much time?” Ludger asked.

Raukor didn’t answer right away. He looked out over the waves instead, then at the sail angle, then at the ship’s steady cut through the water. Like he was weighing speed the way he weighed steel.

“Two to three hours,” he rumbled.

Ludger nodded once. No complaint. No dramatics. Just a mental clock starting to tick.

He turned and walked to the middle of the deck, where he could be seen and heard without having to shout himself hoarse. The ship rocked gently underfoot, and the trainees clustered in loose groups, some still green around the gills, some trying to look tough, all of them watching the horizon like it might suddenly grow teeth.

Ludger raised a hand.

“Recruits. Trainees. Center.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Officers snapped into action immediately, herding the line into order with quiet commands. Boots shuffled. Packs were tightened. Hands found weapons. A few kids exchanged looks that tried to be casual and failed.

When they were gathered, Ludger spoke.

“We’re about to enter enemy territory,” he said, voice flat and clear. “That means it’s time to get ready for fighting.”

The words landed like a thrown stone. For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then faces changed.

Some went pale so fast it looked like the blood had been yanked out of them. A few swallowed hard, Adam’s apples bobbing. One kid’s eyes widened and didn’t blink for several seconds, like his brain had gotten stuck on the concept of fighting on a ship.

Others reacted the opposite way, shoulders squaring, jaw setting, trying to turn fear into posture. A couple of the bolder ones actually looked excited for half a second before reality caught up and shoved that excitement back down their throats.

Because this wasn’t a drill yard. There were no clean boundaries here. No controlled sparring. No healer standing two steps away with a calm smile.

There was water on all sides, a moving deck under their feet, rigging overhead that could kill you if you tripped, and an enemy that didn’t care whether you knew how to swim.

Ludger watched it play out in their expressions: the first-time realization that combat didn’t wait for comfort. He could tell this would be tense. Not because they were weak.

Because fighting on a ship was different. Every swing changed your balance. Every dodge risked a fall. Every burst of magic risked tearing the sail or snapping the mast if you weren’t careful.

And fear, out here, had nowhere to run except over the rail.

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