He spends the afternoon checking the hull. He patches a deep crack in the spire with warm resin. He tightens the kelp lashings on the porch.
He avoids my eyes.
The reason is clear to me. I map his mind like I map the ocean. We share a singular heart.
He waits for the royal regret to manifest in my mind. He waits for me to brand myself a Prince living in a garbage can with a monster, mourning a terrible error.
I let him work. I let him sweat the details, watching as the tension knits his brow and the muscles in his back shift with every calculated movement.
He needs to see it, to feel it without me speaking a word. He'll see my dedication not in grand gestures or hollow promises, but in the silent, unyielding fact of my presence. I will stay with him until my heart stops beating, until the last beat travels into the silent deep, because my existence is now woven into the very fabric of his. Kael is the only truth that matters to me.
I spend the time cleaning our home.
I sweep the diamond dust from the dark corners. I organize the scavenged supplies.
A leather pouch Mira left behind rests on the floorboards. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lies a map.
It is no Council map. It is a Smuggler’s Chart.
It details the hidden trade routes of the Silt, the secret vents of the Trench, and the dead zones lacking Vanguard patrols.
It holds another secret.
In the far south, past the Fire Ridges, sits a distinct marking. A drawing of a massive, spiraling structure.
The Graveyard of Giants, the faded label reads.Ancient Shells.
I trace the ink line with my fingertip.
"Bolt," I ask. "Can this beat-up shell survive a trip to the Fire Ridges?"
Bolt floats closer, studying the map through the bars of his cage.
"The Fire Ridges?" he crackles. "Volatile water, Royal. Boiling water. Sulfur storms."
"Can we make it?"
"You must patch the head-gasket," Bolt muses, his light pulsing. "And the shark must catch me some high-protein squid. A large one. Why?"
"We require an upgrade," I say, tapping the drawing of the giant shells. "Legends need a better castle."
Bolt grins. "I appreciate your ambition. This tin can has certainly performed its duty."
Kael swims through the hatch. He drips cold water, smelling of raw salt and hard labor.
He freezes, tracking our attention on the map.
Wary energy radiates from his frame.
"What are you doing?" he rasps.
"I have our next adventure at the ready," I say.
He frowns. He closes the distance.
He ignores the map, anchoring his dark eyes on my face.
Reaching out, his rough thumb brushes a dark smudge of engine grease from my cheek.
