Rishmond counted at least ten bodies floating nearby, still and facedown, their limbs drifting in the cold water. He watched as other rowboats pulled a few more living souls from the sea—barely moving, but alive.

On the main deck below, several people sat wrapped in blankets, their faces pale, their eyes distant. Medical staff moved among them with quiet efficiency. It was hard to tell how many had been swept overboard in the night—or how many had come from somewhere else.

Somewhere else.

His eyes shifted again to the scattered wreckage floating all around them—broken barrels, twisted crates, shattered timber. Far too much debris for just this ship. His stomach twisted.

He scanned the horizon, turning full circle where he stood.

The Porpoise was nowhere to be seen.

Maybe it had just been separated in the storm. Maybe it would appear again, rising over the next swell like a ghost rejoining the fleet.

But Rishmond didn’t believe that. The tightness in his gut told him otherwise.

He looked back down at the deck. Eight bodies, wrapped tightly in white sailcloth, lay in a neat row. As he watched, another sodden form was carried up and laid beside them. Two sailors immediately began the grim process of binding it in canvas like the others.

A line of the dead.

Then, over the starboard railing, a tall, red-haired woman climbed aboard. Rishmond recognized her at once: the first mate of the Porpoise. They’d spoken just yesterday in Retinor, before departure. She’d struck him as composed, sharp-eyed, entirely competent. She wouldn’t have simply been swept overboard.

Her presence here, dripping and exhausted, confirmed what he feared.

Something had happened to the Porpoise.

Inside the wheelhouse, voices spoke in low, urgent tones. Rishmond kept low, careful not to be seen. He pressed closer, listening.

A voice he didn’t recognize—male, rough from salt and wind—said, “We watched the lights from the Porpoise sink beneath the waves, saw her going under in the lightning flashes. No mistaking it, sir. No idea what happened. She was as sturdy a ship as any built in Malminar.”

Another voice answered. Calm. Commanding. Rishmond knew it—Captain Wholden of the Emberly’s Pride.

“Aye. We’ll need to hear from the survivors, see if any can tell us what went wrong. But first, get everyone out of the drink, and recover who we can for a proper accounting and burial. Let’s get the survivors seen by the healers, warmed and fed. We’ll raise enough sail to keep our heading once the boats are back aboard. Once things are stable, we move.”

"Aye, Cap’n. Should we keep the passengers below?"

“For now. But let them know the Porpoise went down. No use hiding that.”

There was a pause. Then: “Tell them we’re cleaning up and preparing to get back underway as soon as possible. The Porpoise is lost. Don’t try to soften it.”

Rishmond climbed back down the stairs to the main deck.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt yet.

He’d known some of the soldiers, Wizards, and sailors aboard the Porpoise—not well, but enough to remember names and faces. The loss of the ship and all its supplies, including the equipment they needed for the overland journey to the Glittergreen Mountains, was a serious blow. But it was the loss of life that should have hit hardest.

And yet… it hadn’t. Not fully. Not yet.

The sadness hovered somewhere just outside him, like a figure standing in a doorway, waiting to decide whether to step inside. Rishmond knew it would come. It always did. But for now, he had a small window of stillness, a space in which he could be useful.

He intended to use it.

He spotted Tybour on the far side of the deck, speaking with Haningway, Ele Walsing, and a short woman dressed all in green—someone Rishmond didn’t recognize.

“Tybour,” he said as he approached. “Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?”

Tybour turned, his expression worn but steady. “Rishmond. No, I don’t think there’s much to be done at the moment. The crew has things well in hand. Recovery’s nearly finished. It appears the Porpoise went down in the storm last night.”

His voice held a tight edge—tired, and maybe just a little angry.

Then he glanced back at Rishmond, and his tone shifted.

“Actually—you’re a damn fine healer. Feel up to helping the ship’s Doc? A few of the survivors we pulled from the water could use attention. And I believe the doctor mentioned some storm-related injuries among the crew—broken bones, maybe.”

He placed a hand on Rishmond’s shoulder and offered a tired, genuine smile.

“Of course,” Rishmond said. “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Good.” Tybour exhaled. “Meet me back in the dining room in three hours. I’ll send someone to explain to the others what’s happened, but we’ll need to replan—figure out how to proceed without the equipment and people we’d expected. And we’ll arrange a proper service for those lost. I expect Captain Wholden will be preparing something too, so we’ll coordinate then.”

He sounded steadier now—less exhausted, sharpened by the necessity of a plan.

“Go on, then,” he said, giving Rishmond a small nod. “See you in three hours.”

Tybour turned back to the group, already issuing quiet orders to Haningway and the others.

As Rishmond crossed the deck toward where the ship’s doctor had been working just minutes before, he heard Tybour’s voice call out behind him: “VanLief!”

The doctor was still where Rishmond had last seen him—kneeling on a section of deck smeared with blood. A female Alteman lay on her side, a long, jagged shard of wood impaled deep in her abdomen. She hissed and cursed between sharp breaths, her muscular body writhing. Two strong sailors held down her arms, while two more sat atop her thick tail, straining to keep her from thrashing.

"Doctor, I'm here to help," Rishmond said quickly. "I'm Rishmond—I’ve got decent healing magic. Can I assist?"

"I don’t know what you could do here, kid," the doctor muttered, not looking up. "This one’s bad. Maybe help my nurse with the bruised and busted. We’ve got this—Doater! Kid wants to help!" He shouted over his shoulder.

The Alteman woman bucked violently. A spurt of blood arced from her side as the wood shifted.

“Damn it! Hold her still!” the doctor roared.

Rishmond didn’t move away. Instead, he stepped closer, standing just behind the doctor, eyes focused. He reached out—not physically, but with his will. With his magic.

He pulled on the deep flow of Rit itself, lotrar, and held it, then gathered lotret from the storm-thick air. It hung around him in shimmering strands, more potent than he’d ever felt. It welcomed him.

He funneled lotret gently into the woman's mind—calming her, dulling her pain. A wave of stillness washed over her body as she slumped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

With the second thread of magic, he reached into her body, shaping lotrar into a barrier—one that wrapped the damaged tissues and staunched the bleeding. A clear, detailed vision of her wound formed in his mind, overlaid perfectly on her body. He saw where the wood had splintered. Where blood had pooled. Where muscle had torn.

Carefully, slowly, he drew each shard from the wound, using his magic to hold the blood at bay.

Behind him, the doctor fell back onto his heels, staring.

The last piece of wood came free, and the bleeding did not resume.

Rishmond pressed forward with the spell, sealing the wound with rough, fibrous threads of magic—sturdy but not graceful. She’d have a scar. There’d be some muscle loss. But she’d live.

He let his senses sweep through her body, confirming the damage. She was still in danger—weak from blood loss, hovering on the edge.

He turned his head, remembering. He’d seen another Alteman nearby.

She’d stay asleep a while longer.

"Doctor,” Rishmond said, not taking his eyes off the woman, “she needs blood. And she’ll need painkillers before she wakes up—ten, maybe fifteen minutes from now. Otherwise, the pain might send her into shock."

He scanned the deck—then spotted him. “You! There!” he called, pointing at an Alteman sailor helping haul a dinghy back aboard.

The sailor hesitated. He clearly heard Rishmond, but didn’t move—just kept pulling, confused and reluctant.

Doater acted first. He sprang up from where he was treating another patient and sprinted to the sailor, taking the rope from his hands and pushing him toward Rishmond.

The Alteman slithered across the deck, eyes narrowed, uncertain.

“I don’t know anything about medicine,” he said cautiously. “And I don’t know her. What do you need me for?”

Rishmond kept his voice calm, steady. “Just some of your blood. That’s all. It won’t hurt. You’ll feel tired after, but nothing worse. She needs it to live.”

The man blinked. “Blood?”

“Yes,” Rishmond repeated gently. “About a pint. That’s it. You’ll be fine. No worse off than after a good bender.”

“I don’t drink, sir,” the Alteman replied, almost sheepishly. He looked to the doctor. “You want my blood?”

“Your blood could save her life, yes,” the doctor said, finally understanding what Rishmond intended. “It’ll be fine. But we need to do it now.”

The sailor nodded slowly, still unsure, but trusting.

“Lay down here,” Rishmond instructed, gesturing beside the wounded woman. “I’ll do the rest.”

The Alteman complied, curling his long frame onto the cleared deck space. Rishmond inhaled, gathered the flow again, and conjured a delicate needle—a folded, hollow tube of air and pressure, honed with magic. He guided it into a vein above the elbow, capping it gently as blood began to flow.

Then, with matching precision, he opened a vein in the woman’s arm, connecting the two magical tubes. The blood began to flow from donor to recipient, pushed gently along with his will. Rishmond smelled and tasted antiseptic and citrus.

He watched the volume carefully, mindful not to take too much.

When it was enough, he gave a nod to the doctor, who quickly clamped off the donor’s arm and applied a bandage. Rishmond sent the remaining blood into the woman’s vein, then dismissed the spell and sealed the tiny puncture on her arm.

“She’ll need rest,” Rishmond said. “And fluids. But she’ll make it.”

The doctor stared at him, then shook his head slowly.

“Sorry, son,” he murmured. “I didn’t know what you could do. Had no idea.”

Rishmond looked up at him, a little flushed, but steady. “It’s okay, Doctor. How could you have known?”

He stood, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Shall we take a look at the next patient?”

"Yes, of course," the doctor said. The next patient was brought forward. 

Three hours later, Rishmond made his way wearily to the dining area at the rear of the ship.

He hadn’t slept more than a couple hours the night before, and the day’s work—wielding powerful healing magic for multiple patients—had drained him deeply. His muscles ached. His thoughts drifted like smoke. But the smell of hot food and the rich, bitter tang of acradious brew in the air cut through his haze, pulling him forward.

He quickened his pace for the last few yards.

The dining room was crowded, alive with low conversation and the clatter of plates. People stood around the bolted tables or leaned in quiet clusters in the open spaces between. The doors to the small balcony remained locked, but the outer shutters had been opened at some point. Sunlight now poured in from the starboard side, bright and warm, banishing the last lingering traces of the storm.

Rishmond moved straight to the table laid out with food and drink along the wall. He poured himself a large mug of steaming acradious brew, added three heaping spoons of sugar, and splashed in a generous measure of thick cream. He gave it a brief stir, then brought the cup to his lips.

The first sip was nearly scalding—but glorious. The creamy bitterness wrapped around his tongue, and the warmth surged through his chest like fire. It didn’t erase the exhaustion, but it pushed it back enough to let him breathe.

He filled a plate with food—something hot, something breaded, something sweet—and turned to find a quiet place to sit. The tables were crowded. Too many people, too much noise.

He glanced toward the starboard hallway, thinking he might just retreat to his cabin. Eat in peace. Change out of the damp, sweat-soaked gear he still wore. Let the silence wrap him for a few minutes.

But before he could take a step, a figure stepped into his path.

“Impressive work today, young Rishmond.”

VanLief Aericksen stood before him—tall and lean, wrapped in an ash-gray long coat with a tall collar and a soft lambswool interior that peeked out at the sleeves and neck. The coat looked well-traveled, worn but cared for, much like the man himself. His gaze was sharp, his tone even, but kind.

“You live up to your reputation,” VanLief continued. “Tybour told me you were level-headed and handy in a crisis. He wasn’t exaggerating. Nicely done.”

Rishmond straightened slightly, caught off-guard by the compliment—and by who it came from.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, managing not to sound too stunned.

Praise from VanLief Aericksen was no small thing. Everyone in Malminar knew his name. Wizard. Explorer. Veteran of three expeditions into the Quouriobi Desert. He was a figure of legend, a man whose calm had stared down both Demons and mountain storms.

It was no mystery why Tybour had asked him to come on this journey.

And now… he was speaking to Rishmond.

Like a peer.

“Tybour is over here,” VanLief said. “He asked me to bring you. There’s a place to sit—and eat—while we talk.”

He led Rishmond to the far corner of the room, where a low round table had been set up with several chairs drawn close. The chairs were low to the deck, with backs angled for reclining rather than sitting upright. They didn’t look especially comfortable—more suited to lounging than sitting at a table.

Tybour sat at the far side of the table, perched on the edge of his chair, forearm braced on the tabletop. His hair was tied back tightly, his expression set in that focused, no-nonsense look Rishmond had come to know as his “working face.” Around him sat Haningway, Teilmein, Bantore, and two other Wizards Rishmond didn’t yet know by name. Only Bantore and Haningway seemed remotely comfortable in the strange chairs.

Tybour gestured to one of the two empty seats. “Rishmond. I heard you did pretty great. Just as I knew you would. Good job. Come—sit. Let’s discuss our next steps.”

Rishmond sat, placing his plate on the table and perching on the edge of the sloped seat. He cradled his steaming mug in both hands, breathing in the fragrant steam and sipping slowly but often.

“Eat,” Tybour said. “You’ll need your strength.”

He glanced around the table. “This has not been a fortuitous start to our expedition, but it will not deter us. We still have a job to do—and it is an important one. Finding the Gods is paramount.”

Tybour waited while Rishmond took a few more sips and began to eat before continuing.

“This isn’t common knowledge yet,” he said quietly, “but it will be soon, and can be shared with the others on board. The finding of Torg… could not have come at a better time.”

He paused, glancing around the circle.

“We’ve received reports from the Tribes of Uhl, from agents within the Arrangement of Peace, and from friends among the Ice Men of the Frozen North. There’s increased activity in the Demon Lands. Hordes of monsters and companies of Stonewolves with Trunbul riders have been spotted massing near the border. It looks like the Demons may be preparing for invasion—another Devil War, like a hundred turns ago.”

Rishmond’s stomach turned. He looked around the table, gauging the others’ reactions. Haningway’s face didn’t flicker. VanLief’s eyes were distant, knowing. The others—Teilmein included—looked just as stunned as Rishmond felt.

“So far,” Tybour continued, “we haven’t seen a rise in the number of devils. So this may be bluster, or probing. But we’d be fools to assume so.”

“The Wizard’s Council is preparing,” he added. “We’ve begun coordination with Kenit, Selioria, and the Uhl Tribes. Envoys have been sent to the Arrangement of Peace—no response from them so far.”

Tybour shifted in his seat, trying to find a less awkward angle on the unforgiving chair.

“A successful mission to find the Gods,” he said, “would make any demonic plans… irrelevant. Or so I believe.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Tybour asked, “Where is our little friend, Torg, anyway? Rishmond?”

Rishmond answered automatically. “He’s on the main deck, near the main mast. Standing in the sun. He likes the sun—it makes him feel warm.”

Tybour blinked, eyebrows rising slightly. “Did he follow you up there when you went to help with the wounded?”

“No,” Rishmond said, frowning slightly. “He went on his own—after I did. After the sun came out. I must’ve seen him there when I came back down… I don’t remember it, but I guess I must’ve. I was pretty out of it.”

He tried to replay the walk back in his mind but found only scattered impressions. He should have seen Torg.

Tybour nodded slowly. “No matter. I don’t think he can help with what we’re discussing—but maybe we should ask him to stay in your cabin. Just to be safe.”

Rishmond blinked. “Safe from what?” Concern edged his voice.

Tybour shook his head. “I don’t know. But you know I like to be prepared.”

Rishmond hesitated. “I don’t think he’d like that. Being shut in. Not without me. He likes to be around people. He likes to see what’s happening.”

He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of treating Torg like a thing—shutting him away like cargo—made his chest tighten. Feelings or not, Torg mattered. Torg was someone.

Tybour studied him a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough. Then let’s keep him near you, so we know where he is. Just in case. I’d hate to see him go overboard. I doubt he can swim—and this is deep water. We’d never get him back.”

Rishmond nodded slowly. “All right, Tybour. I’ll ask him to stay near me. Within sight. If that’ll ease your mind.”

He said it gently, without accusation. He trusted Tybour—and he knew the man didn’t make suggestions without reason. He’d seen more than once how Tybour's planning had a way of catching trouble before it bloomed.

The small group spent the next hour discussing the expedition’s next steps. Unsurprisingly to any of them, the mission would continue—albeit with adjustments. They would account for the loss of personnel and equipment, make do with what remained, and press on.

They would still sail to Swarve. From there, they would journey overland to the Glittergreen Mountains.

It wasn’t ideal. But the stakes were too high for delay.

They made plans to convene again the next morning to speak with the first mate of the Porpoise. If anyone could provide insight into what had happened during the storm—what had brought such a sturdy vessel down—it would be her.

For the rest of the day, preparations would continue. Supplies would be reorganized. Equipment inventories redrawn.

And at sundown, they held the burials at sea.

The ceremony was solemn. Twenty-seven sailors and eighteen soldiers from the ill-fated Porpoise were committed to the deep beneath the crimson hues of the setting sun. The nearly 300 others who had not been recovered were mourned with equal reverence.

Tybour, his voice thick with grief, spoke first. He honored the soldiers, mentioning several by name and sharing personal memories of their service and character. Then the first mate of the Porpoise, Evenara Uleeta, spoke of her crew. She praised their bravery and composure, even as the ship succumbed to the storm. She paid special tribute to Captain Joppin, who had gone down with his vessel while saving as many lives as he could.

By the time the final rites were spoken, night had fully descended. The crowd dispersed quietly, melting away from the lonely dark.

Rishmond found himself in his cabin, seated on the edge of his bunk. Torg rested silently in the corner by the dresser. Cantor leaned against the opposite wall, her arms crossed, eyes distant. A heavy quiet hung over them.

“Did you know any of them?” Cantor asked, her voice barely audible.

Rishmond exhaled. “No… I mean, I’d met a few. Knew of some through friends in the company. But no one close. And the sailors—I didn’t know them at all. Captain Joppin… I’d only met him once, before we left port.” His voice trailed off. The tragedy already felt like something that had happened ages ago.

“I didn’t know any of them,” Cantor said softly. Her voice sounded hollow. She swallowed hard.

Rishmond looked up. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She blinked quickly, trying to keep control. “I can’t believe the whole ship sank. That’s not normal, right? Storms don’t just… sink ships. Do they?”

He shook his head. “No, not usually. But the sea’s unforgiving. Maybe an anchor came loose, or the hull was breached. One mistake in a storm like that… it can lead to disaster.”

Instead of calming her, his words brought a fresh wave of distress. Her lips trembled, and the tears spilled.

“I mean… I just… I’m sorry,” Rishmond stammered. He rose quickly, stepped toward her, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

Cantor looked up at him with glistening green eyes—and then, without warning, she pulled him into a tight embrace.

He caught her instinctively, arms wrapping around her waist to keep them both from falling. She pressed her face into his shoulder and sobbed. He stood there, holding her, unsure what to say. He murmured useless comforts—You’re safe. It’s going to be alright.—while tears stung his own eyes.

They stood that way for a long time.

A knock at the door broke the spell.

Cantor pulled back, brushing her sleeve across her cheeks. Rishmond let her go and turned to the door.

“Y-yes?” His voice cracked. “Who is it?”

The door opened. Illiar stepped in, her sharp eyes scanning from Rishmond to Cantor and back again. Without a word, she strode over and wrapped Cantor in an embrace, pulling her down onto the bunk.

“What did you do?” she asked Rishmond, arching an eyebrow. “Say something stupid to make an already awful day worse?”

“What?! No!” Rishmond stepped back, wounded. “Why would you think that?”

“No,” Cantor said softly, still holding on to Illiar. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He was trying to help. We just… needed a good cry. It’s been a terrible day.”

Illiar nodded, her voice gentler. “Yeah. I get it.” She rubbed Cantor’s back. “Crying helps. Better to get it out than bottle it up. Like Rishmond is doing.”

Rishmond turned away, wiping his face quickly. “You can make fun if you want,” he muttered. “But crying isn’t weak—for anyone. It just means you care.”

Illiar winked at him. Cantor gave him a small smile.

He sighed. She was just teasing—as always. He let it go.

“Alright,” he said, voice steadier. “Can we talk about something other than death for a while?”

“Like what?” Cantor asked, her voice still a little shaky.

“Like the mines. Or the Reaches. What kind of creatures do you think we’ll see? I heard soldiers say there are beasts with necks so long they have to eat constantly because the food takes a whole day to reach their stomach!”

Cantor blinked. “That can’t be real.”

“And birds too big to fly but fast enough to outrun a beastman!”

“Seriously?” Illiar crossed her arms, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Do you believe every tall tale a soldier tells you?”

Cantor grinned. “Birds that run, I could believe. Like the sandpipers down south. They barely fly. And they’re fast.”

“Beastperson,” Illiar corrected with a mock glare.

“Right,” Cantor said, nodding. “Beastperson.”

They exchanged glances—and then all three burst into laughter. For no reason but release.

They spent the next two hours sharing stories, speculating on the wonders ahead, and asking Torg about the Reaches. The golem described strange animals and landscapes with mechanical precision but wide-eyed enthusiasm, clearly enjoying the chance to speak.

Rishmond considered the changes in the golem since they'd found him. Like being around living people was teaching him to be more like them.

When they finally parted near midnight, the ship rocked gently beneath them, sails catching a soft wind that carried them ever northward, toward their future.

The morning brought change.

The wind shifted, blowing in from the southeast, cold and sharp enough to steal the breath if you faced into it. The sky was clear, brilliant blue. The sails strained with the wind’s push, and the Emberly’s Pride skipped across the white-capped waves with ease. They were making good time.

Rishmond joined Tybour and Haningway in the dining room at the stern just after sunrise. They each filled mugs with acradious brew—Haningway took his black, Tybour and Rishmond both added cream and sugar generously.

Sometime in the night, the awkward reclining chairs had been replaced with proper Phoenix Company camp chairs. They weren’t plush like those in the Retinor barracks, but they were a vast improvement.

Before long, others arrived—VanLief, Teilmein, Lieutenant Norft, Bantore, and Evenara Uleeta. Once they had all gotten mugs of acradious brew and plates of meat-bread, they gathered around the newly positioned table, just large enough to seat the eight of them.

Rishmond saved a seat for Tybour until Bantore approached and, without asking, took the seat. His broad shoulders brushed against Rishmond’s as he settled in.

“Sir, that's Tybour's seat,” Rishmond said politely.

“It’s alright,” Bantore rumbled. “No assigned seats here. I’d like to sit next to you—if that’s alright?”

Rishmond looked up. The fox-like beastman smiled at him, and Rishmond nodded. “Sure. Tybour can find another seat.”

Before he could think of an excuse to stand, someone else sat to his left. Lieutenant Norft. The lion-headed officer set down his comically small plate and mug and smiled warmly.

“Rishmond. Good morning. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

“Lieutenant! It’s good to see you. I meant to find you sooner, but… things have been a little chaotic.”

“Indeed,” Norft replied, nodding gravely. “Still, I expect we’ll have many opportunities to catch up.”

Across the table, Rishmond caught Evenara Uleeta’s eye. Her face was battered—one eye swollen, bandages on her arms and cheek—but she looked rested. She offered him a small nod and a tired but genuine smile.

Tybour arrived late and stood behind a chair next to First Mate Uleeta, waiting for quiet. Once all had settled, he began.

“Good morning. Thank you for being here. First things first—Evenara, would you please share what you know?”

He extended his hand toward her, the gesture elegant and precise, as if inviting her to dance.

Rishmond had the strong sense that Tybour already knew what she would say. Haningway’s expression gave away nothing, but Rishmond could feel it. This wasn’t a discovery—it was a performance.

Evenara set down her cup and took a breath.

“Thank you, First Mage.” Her voice was clear, steady despite the bruise around her eye.

“The Porpoise was sabotaged.”