Chapter 5: Knotwork in the Deep

“Mistwing” by Chaiga T. Cheska

The moon stood sovereign in a vault of crystal winter sky, its argent light tumbling down over the river mist, painting the world in spectral blues and silvered whites. Drakkensund held its breath beneath this cold blessing, still as a painting, the quiet broken only by the distant whisper of wind chimes and the occasional long, melancholy groan of river ice shifting beneath its frosted carapace. Within the healer's hut, serenity reigned, a fragile world hemmed in by warm lamplight, the sweet tang of pine smoke, and the comforting clutter of dried herbs. Shadows, long and drowsy, danced upon the walls as the fire's embers breathed out their final golden sighs.

Yilda moved with the assurance of one long accustomed to journeys and departures. From a carved chest at the foot of her cot, she drew forth four sturdy travel packs, each well-seasoned and repaired with careful hands. One by one, she laid out the evening's offering: extra blankets folded with a soldier's precision, water skins inspected for fault and lined up in a neat row, dried venison and oatcakes swaddled in waxed cloth, neat coils of rope, flint and steel wrapped in oilskin, and small pouches of herbs redolent of summer meadows. Last of all, she slipped in a handful of talismans, river stones etched with Clan spirals and worn as smooth as old secrets, without word or explanation, guided by instinct and the kind of wisdom that moved quietly beneath the surface.

Bran shadowed her, quick and silent, his movements deft. At her call, he fetched what was named: marjoram, clean linen, a skein of thread. He checked each water skin for leaks, folded blankets against the cold, tied rope into neat, serviceable knots. His concentration was absolute, a quiet bulwark against the tide of emotions swirling in the room, though he seemed not to notice the soft murmur of voices threading through the lamplight.

Beyond the hut's sturdy walls, the sounds of preparation drifted in with each draught of cold air: a low exchange of words, boots stamping snow from the threshold, the solid thunk of chests being loaded and the muted clang of metal upon timber. Captain Sten's baritone was punctuated by Ingrid's steady alto, the laughter of the four river sailors blending with Chieftain Haldor's measured orders as the Mistwing's mooring was checked, the river's mood tested, and all set ready for the stealthy flight south.

In the half-shadow by the hearth, Nix lingered, the pack of remedies hugged to his chest, his green runes limned softly by the dying glow. His voice, when it came, was hesitant and low. "Oren, can you truly come with me? This is my trouble, not yours."

Oren, seated at the table with his hands loose and strong upon the wood, glanced up with a steadiness as reassuring as dawn. "It feels right that we should. There is nothing to keep us here, now. Besides, the fates do not often offer second chances." His gaze flicked, just briefly, towards Bran, who, though intent on his task, seemed always to have half an ear turned towards the door, expectation tightening his shoulders.

Nix followed the line of Oren's glance, and, in the tender stillness, comprehension dawned. He caught the way Bran's attention lingered where Ingrid's shadow might soon fall, and in that instant, the world shifted beneath him, soft, subtle, unspoken.

Tavik, ever the anchor in their small fellowship, reached over to clap Nix lightly on the back. "Of course we're coming. Friends stick together. There is not a force, be it wolf or river, that could drag us apart."

Nix felt the surge of gratitude rise within him, sharp and sweet enough to sting his eyes. He looked from Tavik to Oren, then finally to Bran, whose hands stilled for a heartbeat as if feeling the weight of unspoken loyalty. "Thank you," Nix murmured, earnest and small, but the words glowed in the quiet with the certainty of fire in the dark. "All of you. I do not know if I could do this alone."

"No one should have to," Oren returned, his smile gentle. "That is the truth of it."

Yilda, overhearing the exchange as she knelt to tuck the last of the supplies into place, straightened and fixed them with a look that blended pride and something fiercer, a hope invested across generations. "Strength is best shared, and courage borne together bends less beneath the storm," she said, her voice carrying the wisdom of winters past.

Outside, the wind lifted again, teasing the windchimes into a song both mournful and brave. The fire guttered low, shadows swaying, as if the hut itself leaned closer to listen. And so, in the golden calm before departure, with the moon high and merciful above, their hearts gathered courage, readying for the river's call.

Shoulders braced beneath the weight of freshly packed bags, the boys felt the heft of journey settle along their spines, a tangible promise of the unknown. Nix, swathed in a deep green cloak, its folds thick and warm against the night's chill, drew it closer as they stepped out. His brown tunic and dark breeches, sturdy beneath the cloak, were belted at the waist, his boots laced tight against the cold. Oren, Tavik, and Bran had reclaimed their own cloaks, now crisp from the fire's patient breath, the fabric still faintly fragrant with smoke and pine. Each wore tunics belted over thick breeches, fur wraps secured by leather straps, their boots bound against the snow. Each garment seemed to hold a memory of the hearth's comfort, now set as armour against the wild.

Yilda approached, her hands deft and certain upon the old latch, and with a gentle tug she opened the hut door. Moonlight spilt in, cool and liquid, turning the dust motes to silver and wreathing the threshold in pale luminescence. The breath of the river followed, sharp, brisk, tinged with ice and old secrets, curling about their ankles as they stepped into the still world outside.

The settlement lay in a reverent quiet, snow crisp beneath their boots, each step a soft crunch that joined the quiet of night. Windchimes sang in the darkness, their voices thin and crystalline, whispering old songs to the shadowed rooftops. Yilda led the way through mist-veiled paths, her skirts trailing the frost, the moon's cold eye catching the beaded sigils in her white-braided hair and setting them aglitter, each bead a shard of ice, each sigil a fragment of ancestral lore.

As the party reached the river's edge, the vessel rose before them, a vision as old as the legends and yet impossibly new. The Mistwing, long and sleek, awaited in the lantern's glow, its hull carved from the living wood of the sentient trees. The grain shifted subtly in the lamplight, alive with its own silent conversation, spirals of runes etched along every plank, their glow subdued yet steady, weaving stories in the wood. The prow lifted to the moon, proud and sharp, whilst the sails, vast and furled, hung heavy with magical cloth that drank the moonlight, shimmering with every breath of wind.

Nestled amidships, the Drakkensund hut offered shelter: its reed-thatched roof and driftwood walls formed a snug enclave against the river's wildness. Light spilt from within, golden and inviting, hinting at warmth and rest beyond the threshold.

Captain Sten stood broad by the helm, his silhouette a fortress against the night, his light brown hair and beard touched with silver in the moonlight. Bo moved quietly at the stern, fingers steady upon the ropes, testing their strength with the ease of long practice. Ingrid lingered at the bow, tracing the runes with her fingertips, her face illuminated in profile by the lantern's soft blaze.

The other river sailors gathered on the wharf, their boots planted firm in the snow, conversation barely more than breath and gesture. Chieftain Haldor's figure loomed at their centre, cloak thrown wide, eyes keen beneath his heavy brow as he oversaw the final moments of preparation. His presence was a silent promise of safe passage and watchful eyes.

Tavik nudged Nix with a friendly elbow. "That cloak suits you. Might keep you warmer than all my grumbling."

Nix grinned, clutching the folds about his shoulders. "It was Yilda's doing. She said green is for hope and for hiding, both things useful tonight."

Bran glimpsed Ingrid's form moving across the deck. The lantern's glow caught the pale sweep of her hair and the determined grace in her stride. His heart leapt in his chest, a surge sudden and embarrassing, and, as if fearing discovery, his gaze darted to her and away again, too quick for all but the most attentive. But Oren, ever watchful, caught the movement, a fleeting smile playing about his lips. Tavik's eyes followed Oren's glance; he grinned with a broad, knowing expression. Even Nix, who had heard enough to piece together such things, smiled to himself, the secret newness of it all a gentle warmth within.

Upon the shore, the last wishes of home were being woven. Yilda, her back to the moonlit huts, turned to face the departing travellers. Her face, lined and fierce with kindness, was illuminated by the cold blue wash of night. Oren, stepping forward, inclined his head with genuine reverence. "Thank you, Yilda, for all your care and guidance. We would not have reached this night without you."

Tavik's head bowed, his hands pressed together, the gesture solemn despite the restless energy about him. "My thanks as well. You made the path known."

Bran, restless as ever, could only murmur his gratitude, voice thick and low. "We carry your words with us."

Nix met Yilda's eyes, steady and unblinking, the memory of her tender care giving him the strength to stand before her now. "Thank you for seeing me as I am."

Yilda's reply was measured, warmth threading her tone as she reached out, her hand resting lightly upon each of their foreheads in turn, a gesture of farewell, cool as dew and bright with intent. "The river will test you, but it will also carry you, if you let it. Listen to the current, to the wind, and to each other. There is wisdom enough in the world if your ears are open."

Chieftain Haldor stepped forward, a shadow amongst the lantern-lit faces. He grasped Oren's forearm, the grip firm and reassuring. "Keep your feet under you, boy, even when the ground is moving. The river changes, but a steady heart holds fast."

Eirik, his hair tangled by the wind, raised two fingers in a salute. "Breathe with the river, not against it. You will find the way smoother."

Torren, his grin white in the dim, called across the stillness to Nix. "If you see shadows in the grasslands, do not follow them, no matter how they beckon."

Leif, silent and steadfast, offered only a nod, his gaze unwavering, a promise and a farewell both.

The plank that joined earth to river wood was narrow and slick with frost. Oren and Tavik went first, their steps sure, then turned to steady Nix as he set foot onto the flexing span, the river licking quietly below. Bran followed, his hand reaching out for balance, eyes darting to where Ingrid stood, her silhouette framed by the lantern's glow.

The deck welcomed them with a slow, sonorous creak, the ancient runes in the planks pulsing with a faint, amber light, as if recognising and measuring these new souls come aboard.

Beyond the hut's safe shelter, sailors spoke in the old way, not merely to one another, but into the very wood beneath their boots. Their low voices threaded through the keel timbers, sinking into the river's ancient mind.

Slowly, the great vessel stirred. She rocked with a careful deliberation, the gangplank eased back, then was drawn aboard as the anchoring lines were cast off. The Emaris sighed in answer, drawing her current beneath the hull, soft and inexorable.

They turned, raising arms in farewell, and watched as the faces of Drakkensund receded, half-shrouded in mist and memory. Beyond the settlement's scattered huts, the slope climbed into darkness, the Sentinel Forest brooding at the edge of vision, its branches restless and unknowable. Nix shivered, a prickling awareness running down his spine, as if unseen eyes peered out from the treeline: old spirits, perhaps, or the nameless watchfulness of the wild.

Oren noticed, his hand gentle at Nix's shoulder. "Come, let the river's voice carry us now."

With that, he ushered Nix and the others inside, the sails above sighing open at last. The Mistwing drew away from the shore, lanterns winking, the current gripping her with intent.

The passenger hut was a space of snug precision: beds lined the walls, their frames built into the structure itself, each mattress swathed in woollen throws and layered furs. A long table stretched beneath a low beam at the centre, flanked by stout chairs; every plate and cup was lashed or pegged in place. Along one wall, shelves brimmed with jars of herbs, rolled maps, bundles of dried roots, pots and pans, each secured with careful knots.

Nix pressed his palms to the strange windows, panels of flawless ice, cool only in memory and unyielding to touch. He recalled Captain Sten's tale: these were gifts from an Ice Wizard of the far north, magic wrought clear as glass, yet starkly charged with a clean, biting power.

At the far end of the hut, a hearth was set deep into the wall, its fire contained within a stone-lined well. The flames danced brightly, yet no ember leapt free to trouble the wooden floor. The air smelled of pine resin and spiced mead, and each crackle of flame joined the muted heartbeat of water against the hull.

The boys moved about the cabin, claiming spaces, settling packs. Nix trailed his fingers over the edge of one bed before lowering himself into it, surprised at the warmth rising from the bedding. He sat still, watching the play of firelight across the ceiling, whilst the others arranged their belongings.

The first hour on the river passed in quiet. The vessel rocked gently, a lullaby woven from water and wood. Oren sat at the table, checking supplies. Tavik had stretched out on his bed, eyes closed but not quite sleeping. Bran moved between the shelves, examining the provisions stored there: jars of preserved fish, dried herbs for cooking, sacks of grain, all the necessities for a long river journey.

Nix sat cross-legged on his bed, still as stone, his gaze fixed on nothing. His ears twitched occasionally, subtle movements that might have gone unnoticed if the firelight had not cast their shadows long against the wall.

Then his head tilted, listening.

Oren glanced up from the pack he had been examining. Nix's posture had changed, drawn taut as a bowstring, his breathing shallow. His pupils had dilated, swallowing the amber green of his irises until his eyes were black pools reflecting firelight.

"Nix?" Oren's voice was quiet, testing.

Nix did not respond. His gaze had turned inward, or perhaps downward, tracking something that moved beneath the hull. His fingers curled slowly into the furs, knuckles whitening, and a low sound escaped his throat, barely audible, something between a hum and a growl.

Tavik sat up, alarm flickering across his face. "What's he doing?"

"I do not know." Oren rose slowly, approaching with care, as one might approach a wild thing caught in a snare. "Nix, can you hear me?"

Nothing. Nix's ears flattened briefly against his skull, then pricked forward again, angling towards the floor. The runes on his skin had begun to glow, faint at first, then brighter, pulsing in rhythm with whatever he sensed below.

Bran moved closer, concern etched in every line of his face. "Should we wake him? Or... is he even asleep?"

"He is not asleep." Oren kept his voice level. "He is tracking something."

They watched, unsettled, as Nix's lips parted slightly, his breathing slowing until it was barely perceptible. His entire being seemed focused on something primal, attuned to currents his friends could not feel.

Minutes passed. The boat rocked on. The fire crackled.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the trance broke. Nix blinked, awareness flooding back, and he found three sets of eyes fixed on him with varying degrees of alarm and confusion.

"What?" His voice was rough, as though he had not used it in hours.

"You were..." Tavik gestured vaguely. "You looked like you were somewhere else."

"I was just thinking."

"That was not thinking," Oren said quietly. "What is down there, Nix?"

Nix's gaze slid away. "Nothing. Just... the river. It is different than I expected."

It was a lie, and they all knew it, but something in Nix's expression, closed and wary, told them he would not be pressed. Not yet.

Oren exchanged a glance with Bran, who shrugged helplessly. Tavik frowned, clearly dissatisfied, but said nothing.

"Right," Oren said at last. "Well. If something is wrong, you will tell us?"

"Of course."

Another lie. But Oren let it stand.

They returned to their tasks, the easy quiet of before now threaded with unease. And Nix, sitting small and contained on his bed, kept his secrets close, his ears twitching occasionally as he monitored whatever presence moved in the deep.

The hours wore on. The moon climbed higher, then began its slow descent. Inside the cabin, the fire burned low, casting long shadows that swayed with the boat's gentle rocking. Oren had dozed off in his chair, head pillowed on his arms at the table. Tavik snored softly from his bed, one arm flung over his face. Bran lay curled on his side, breathing deep and even.

Only Nix remained awake.

He sat upright, legs crossed, hands resting loose on his knees. His eyes were half-closed, but he was not sleeping. He was listening. Sensing. The creature in the water had been circling for hours, drawn to the residue of his magic like a moth to flame. It was not aggressive, not yet, but it was curious, testing, learning the shape and taste of him.

And further out, along the bank or perhaps in the forest beyond, something else prowled. Something familiar. Something that knew him.

Simi.

Nix's jaw tightened. Of course his brother was following. Simi always followed. Patient as death, clever as winter, he would wait until the moment was right, until Nix was vulnerable, until the others could not protect him.

But Nix would not tell them. Would not burden them with the knowledge that his elder half-brother stalked them through the night. They had enough to worry about.

He drew a slow breath, centring himself the way his mother had taught him, back when she had still been trapped in Ulfgar's thrall, back when she could only communicate through gesture and touch. He remembered her hands on his wrists, her eyes patient and kind, showing him how to quiet the panic, how to sink into stillness even when fear clawed at his throat.

The runes on his skin dimmed. His breathing deepened. And slowly, carefully, he reached out with senses his friends did not possess, mapping the darkness, tracking the things that hunted and waited.

The creature in the water continued its lazy circles. Simi's presence, distant but unmistakable, kept pace along the shore.

And Nix, small and strange and utterly alone in his awareness, kept watch through the long winter night.

Dawn came slowly, the sky lightening from black to deep blue to pale grey. The cabin stirred with the gradual wakening of its occupants. Tavik sat up first, groaning and stretching. Bran followed, blinking sleep from his eyes. Oren lifted his head from the table, neck stiff from his awkward position.

Nix had not moved. He sat exactly as he had hours before, still and watchful, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

"Did you sleep at all?" Bran asked, concern immediate in his voice.

"Some." Another lie.

Oren studied him, reading the tension in his frame, the way his ears kept twitching towards sounds the others could not hear. He had seen this before, years ago, but could not quite place the memory. Something about the quality of Nix's stillness, the hyper-awareness, felt disturbingly familiar.

"We should eat," Tavik said, already rummaging through the packs for bread and dried meat. "Long day ahead."

They broke their fast in relative quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the sailors called to one another in the old tongue, and the ship responded, adjusting her course to the river's mood. The morning was cold but clear, the sky a pale wash of winter blue.

Nix ate little, picking at his portion, his attention constantly drifting towards the windows, towards the water beyond. His friends noticed but did not comment. Whatever haunted him, whatever he sensed in the deep, he clearly was not ready to share.

With an effort, Nix gathered his energy later that day, drawing his senses inward, seeking not merely the surface of things, but that which prowled beneath. He recalled, through a fog of years, Lisera's silence, her muteness that had once been a cage, her glances laden with warnings and wisdom. Before Simi had killed Ulfgar and before she had returned to her beast form, before Ulfgar's death had restored her voice and freed her from his stepfather, she had been his silent guide.

In those shadowed years, it had been Simi who dominated, whose presence hung over their small lives like a thundercloud waiting to break. Lisera, armed only with her silence and the flicker of her fingers in the low candlelight, had taught them to listen as foxes do, not for words, but for the shifting air, the subtle tremors, the unvoiced intentions that moved like fish beneath still water. She had shown them, with gentle pressure on their wrists and the arch of a brow, how to open the ear of the soul. Simi learned quickly, eyes bright with hunger for any advantage, and Nix, smaller, watchful, had feared he would never catch up.

He remembered, with a pang both rueful and sharp, how he had strained to decipher the secret language of her hands, the stories told without sound, the cues so easy for Simi, so difficult for him. Often, he had worried that the knowledge would only be used by his brother to hunt him, to outpace him in the endless, wary games of his childhood. And so it had been. Simi's skills sometimes pressing him to the brink, teaching him to dodge and flee, to move quietly as a weasel in the underbrush.

Yet now, as the river pressed its chill against the Mistwing's hull, Nix found himself oddly grateful, a soft note of thanks hidden in the old ache. Simi, without meaning to, had helped him become quick, attuned to danger's presence, and perhaps to survival itself.

He forced himself out of reverie, narrowing his focus until the flickering hearth, the low murmurs, and the creak of timber faded into a distant hush. He fixed his gaze upon the floor, ears pricking in the fire-shadowed gloom. There, beneath the rhythmic surge of the current, beneath the cadence of quiet voices, he felt it: a pulse, a cold hunger circling, tasting the residue of his magic as a serpent tastes the scent-laden air.

His spine straightened, every sense drawn tight. The wound at his side throbbed with each beat of his heart, a counterpoint to the runes that began again to glow with a soft, insistent rhythm. The light, blue and green, like memory and moss, flickered along his skin, casting faint patterns on the cabin walls.

Oren, ever the first to sense a shift, glanced over, eyes sharpening. "Nix, are you with us?"

Bran, following Oren's gaze, put aside his jar and studied Nix with open alarm. "You are glowing again."

Oren, Tavik, and Bran pressed in a step, their movements deliberate, the lamplight painting their shadows long and uncertain on the boards. Nix did not respond, did not even seem to realise they were there. His breath came in shallow gasps, his gaze fixed beyond sight, as if he tracked some secret pulse in the grain of the timber.

Tavik's voice was scarcely more than a thread of sound. "Look at him. He is like a young predator, testing the air before the kill, weighing the nearness of another hunter."

Oren drew a fraction closer, his eyes never leaving the tense line of Nix's jaw. "His ears are not flat. Not yet threatened, then. Whatever is there, he does not mean to run from it."

Bran edged in, his hand outstretched, trembling slightly as he reached for Nix's shoulder. His fingers hovered, uncertain. "Nix..."

But Oren caught his wrist, firm as iron. "Wait. Watch him, Bran. He is not seeing us now. There is something else he is tracking."

They watched, breath held, as Nix's features shifted. The amber green of his eyes condensed, pupils sharpening, until he seemed less boy than creature, his gaze wild, ears pricking and twitching, orienting towards that which moved beneath their feet. He tilted his head, listening as only the hunted or the hunter might, his lips parted to taste the air.

Then, in an instant, his pupils widened, bottomless, animal, and his focus snapped from the unseen to the present. He fixed on his friends, voice jagged with urgency. "Hold on! Now!"

Oren, Tavik, and Bran lunged for the bolted table, fingers clutching for any certainty as the world convulsed. The Mistwing shuddered, a colossal force driving up from the river's depths, timbers roaring in protest, crockery and chairs thrown to chaos. The cacophony from outside the hut was immediate: Captain Sten's orders barked in the old tongue, Ingrid's voice raised in command, Bo's feet thundering as the sail thrashed and snapped in the wind.

In the wild carnival of sound and motion, the three youths clung to the shifting world, gazes wide and pale with fear. Through it all, Nix alone stood at the room's heart, a strange calm radiating from his stillness. The fire painted his cheeks and brow with gold, but his skin glowed from within, runes flickering blue and green, their light crawling in living geometry across his face, down his throat, along his arms.

A latticework of radiance unravelled from his fingertips, threads of brilliance looping into intricate patterns, coiling and twisting, as if spun from the air itself. His hands wove the glowing lines together, knotting them with precise, uncanny gestures, until the very air seemed spun with magic. Then, with a decisive motion, he cast the knotwork downwards, and the light streamed, fluid as water, through the floorboards into the deep where the darkness waited.

The pounding against the hull ceased. The shuddering eased. The boat floated steadily, and a great silence fell.

Nix drew in a breath and lifted his head towards his friends. Shadows rimmed his eyes, and his skin was pale blue beneath the glow. From each of his shoulders flared a point of light, blue-green and sharp against the dim. He turned his head to try to see what these lights were, and then his face took on an intense, pained expression. Whilst his friends lingered, mouths agape, their awe mingled quickly with bafflement as Nix faced them fully, then folded himself cross-legged in the centre of the room. His hands gripped his knees with white-knuckled tension, and he closed his eyes, beginning to breathe with a slow, rhythmic certainty, as if marshalling something wild and hidden beneath his breastbone.

The others rushed forward, but Bran halted their movement with a quiet urgency, his voice uncertain, as though the knowledge had just occurred to him. "He is in great pain, and he is trying to calm the pain. Let him be."

So Oren, Tavik, and Bran settled across from Nix, legs folded, silent sentinels. They watched as their companion's posture remained tall and grave, as if he were a monument enduring a storm. Gradually, his clenched fingers loosened their grip upon his knees; the strained mask upon his face eased, and his shoulders, once drawn taut as bowstrings, softened until he seemed a figure composed only of breath and will, no longer beset, but merely calm.

A residue of what he had endured hung in the air about him. The space was charged with a subtle, fading current, as if some invisible signature of pain lingered, woven through the lamplight and fire shadow. The chill from the river seemed subdued by it; the room's very timbers held their breath.

At last, Nix opened his eyes. The surprise upon his face was almost childlike, bemused to find himself the nucleus of his friends' intense, unwavering attention. He regarded their semicircle, then, a slow smile finding his lips, spoke with a crooked gentleness. "Next time, perhaps you should join me. You seem so very eager to participate."

A rush of curiosity immediately broke the spell, three voices overlapping, tripping over each other in their haste.

"Where did you learn that, Nix?" Oren demanded, eyes bright with questions.

Tavik leaned forward. "Is it a kind of healing? Some old magic?"

Bran, still pale, managed a faint, crooked grin. "You looked as though you were miles away. Was it difficult?"

Nix shrugged, a flicker of memory softening his gaze. "My mother would do this when pain found her. I watched. I suppose it seemed right, in the moment."

The door slammed open. Cold air and lamplight from the deck poured in with Captain Sten, Ingrid, and Bo hard on each other's heels. The room broke into sudden uproar, voices clashing, feet shifting, the rush of cold air funnelled through the open doorway as sailors and the captain spoke over one another. Demands and questions tangled together, all sharp with urgency.

Captain Sten and his companions came to an abrupt halt, their boots scuffing against the boards, the lamplight catching upon their faces, etched with concern and the residual tension of the attack. Ingrid, cheeks flushed from the river chill, scanned the circle of boys on the floor, her eyes darting to Nix, who remained at the centre, a calm in the aftermath's swirl.

"Are you all quite well?" Bo's voice was rough but sincere, his gaze lingering on Tavik's pale face, Bran's drawn expression, Oren's steadying touch on Nix's shoulder. Ingrid, not waiting for a reply, knelt beside them, searching their faces for injury or distress.

Captain Sten's attention, however, was fixed upon Nix with a narrowed gaze that missed little. There was a keen intelligence behind the captain's suspicion, the kind that saw beneath surfaces to the weight of unspoken knowledge. "You know more than you let on, boy. Whatever struck the Mistwing, I would wager you have met its shadow before."

A brief silence coiled between them. Ingrid looked back over her shoulder at her father, frowning, a plea for gentleness. "It is hardly fair, Father. None of this was their doing. Nix would sooner patch a torn sail than tear a hole in your hull."

Nix managed a tired smile, the effect spectral, as though he hovered between two worlds. "I felt it, yes. Only at the last did I know it meant to strike. Before that, it was simply present, a shape beneath the water."

Oren, his brow furrowed, asked, "Is it still there, Nix?"

Tavik echoed the question, shifting forward on his knees.

"It is," Nix murmured, nodding once. Tension flickered through the room, the fear swift and visible, a shiver along the surface of water before a wind. He lifted his hands, palms open in reassurance. "But you need not worry. The runes I set, woven tight as a fisherman's net, hold fast. Nothing will breach them now, not whilst we keep to the river's course."

A measure of relief passed over the group. Bran exhaled, shoulders slackening; Tavik's fingers uncurled from the fabric of his tunic. Bo and Ingrid exchanged glances, then rose, visibly steadied by Nix's assurance.

"We are glad everyone is in one piece," Bo said, voice lighter, as he herded Ingrid towards the door. She paused, offering Nix a brief nod of gratitude before following her crewmate out onto the deck, the door closing with a soft, definitive thud.

Captain Sten, left with the boys, moved amongst the toppled chairs, righting them with care. The scrape of wood over pine floor filled the room's corners, the rhythm grounding, a return to order after upheaval. At last, he settled himself near the table, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees. The lamp's glow caught the silver at his temples, the deep lines carved by years of river weather and command. He regarded the boys with an expression both grave and searching, awaiting the words that might explain the morning's encounter and the strange, silent fellowship that bound them together.

A quiet expectancy gathered in the lamplight, as though the room itself held its breath. Oren's gaze settled on Nix, steady, curious, a gentle anchor in the wake of so many revelations. "Nix, those points of light, just before you closed your eyes to meditate. What were they?"

Nix blinked, as if rousing himself from some distant shore, the lines of thought still softening his features. Slowly, almost uncertainly, he lifted his right arm and ran tentative fingers over his shoulders. His brow furrowed; the memory of sensation, of light springing from flesh, was both intimate and perplexing. For a moment, he did not speak, and the others leaned in, the lantern's glow painting their rapt faces in shades of gold and shadow.

At length, Nix spoke, each word deliberate, as though assembling meaning from fragments of a dream. "I think I am growing wings. They will be like my mother's, I believe. When Simi slew Ulfgar, it broke the spell that bound her. She changed, her true form returned. She became a Tiorian Lightweaver once again, her constellations restored to her. And now..." He gestured, faintly, shoulders rolling with the promise of change.

Mouths fell open in a collective gasp; even Captain Sten, so long unshakeable, seemed to sag in his chair, eyes round with astonishment. "Ulfgar is dead?" the captain stammered, disbelieving, his voice snagging on the enormity of it.

Tavik's face tightened in shock. "Nix, why on earth did you not mention this before? When we found you in the woods, when you were using that Time Tearing sorcery, running from something, why keep such silence?"

Oren's expression darkened. "Were you there, Nix? Did you witness Simi kill your stepfather? Are you in danger now, from Simi, or from anyone else?"

Nix looked from one to the next, bewilderment dawning like a slow sunrise. "I... I did not realise it was important. Simi killed Ulfgar, yes. It freed my mother. She was never truly human, but a captive in that form. When Simi struck, she was restored to what she once was. I suppose I thought you all understood."

The words ignited chaos. Questions tumbled over one another, voices vying to be heard, each battling to comprehend that the silent, blue-tinged woman glimpsed at clan gatherings, always half in shadow, was not a mortal at all but Lisera, a Tiorian Lightweaver, held in thrall by the very man whose absence now rippled through their hearts. And Simi, Nix's own half-brother, had shattered both bondage and blood with his act.

Bran, his worry plain, fixed Nix with a searching look. "Is Simi, your brother, a danger to you now, Nix? He has set Lisera free, but does that mean he will come after you as well?"

Nix considered this, the lengthening pause testing their patience. His eyes grew distant, as though he peered through the hull itself and far along the winding river. "He will hunt me, I expect. He always has. And now my mother, no longer chained, she may seek me too."

A shiver passed through those gathered, as if a shadow had swept across the firelit room. The air bristled with an ancient fear, their understanding deepening into a kind of dread. Out beyond the river's gentle song and the promise of spring, old powers stirred: kinship and enmity, the inheritance of wings and light and the unforgiving hunt. None dared speak, but the knowledge pressed upon them all. The world had shifted beneath their feet.