Each morning, my back aches and my pride aches worse.
I bring her food. Fresh water. An extra blanket when the wind cuts cold. She accepts them all with polite nods, never cruelty, never warmth. I wonder if I should be grateful for the courtesy.
One afternoon, I find her lingering outside the door to the brig, where the Golden Son is chained like a dog.
She doesn’t go in. Just… lingers. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides. Her hair whips in the wind, loose and wild, her back rigid and tense.
She turns before I can call out to her.
Later, I pass by again and see her there. Again.
She never speaks of it.
And I never ask.
Once, I try. I brush her shoulder gently as she passes me on the stairs.
“See him if you must,” I say, reluctantly giving permission if that is what she needs. Anything to bring her some semblance of joy.
She looks at me then, not with anger, but with exhaustion. Like I am something she once loved, now worn threadbare, and then she’s gone.
I throw myself into the rhythm of the ship. I spar with Zyphoro on the upper deck, play dice with Reon, watch Orios train Solena, oil my weapons, scrub the rust from my old gauntlets. Anything to move, to sweat, to keep from looking at that closed door to the brig.
Our daughter grows more alert each day, a miracle I do not deserve. I sing to her, quietly, at first, then louder when I realize Amara doesn’t mind or maybe just doesn’t hear me. I’m sure my daughter is smiling, but Solena is always quick to point out it’s most likely just gas.
Still, I treasure those smiles like hoarded treasure.
Especially as each time I glance up, hoping to see Amara smiling, I find nothing but her turned back or worse, her empty absence.
The nights are the hardest. Not because of the hammock, not anymore.
But because I am beginning to understand something I didn’t before.
That you can be on the same ship, breathing the same wind, caring for the same child and still be drifting apart in every way that matters.
That night, after Amara blows out the candle, I wait in silence, listening to her breath even out, slow and deep. Once I’m certain she’s asleep, I slip from the hammock and onto the floor, moving quietly. When Ashen stirs at the foot of the bed, I shoot him a sharp look. He blinks but stays still, sensing this isn't a moment for mischief.
I don’t go to my sister. I don’t seek out my companions. I head straight to the door that’s haunted me for days. The brig.
The wood creaks beneath my boots as I descend the narrow staircase. The air turns colder. A lantern swings from a hook overhead, casting weak gold light that sloshes back and forth like dirty water, revealing little but shadows and damp walls, barrels, crates. Then, in a sudden sway of light, I see him.
Ronin.
Asleep and slumped against the wall.
I step closer, the wet floor slapping under my boots. The ship groans around me, hiding the sound of my approach. My eyes catch a broken plank propped against a crate, and for a heartbeat, I consider it. One strike to the skull. Quick. Clean. Done.
But I leave it.
Because as much as I want him dead, he’s still the only man who might understand what’s happening to my wife. And right now, that makes him useful.
“Is this it?” His voice cuts the silence, hoarse but steady. “Is this how I die?”
He lifts his head and looks at me with one open eye. Calm. Curious.
“Sneaking up on a chained man. I thought you had more honor than that.”
I step closer. “It’s the best way to kill an enemy.”
