The sky had softened.
Where once the clouds had cracked and churned with grief, now they hung thick and grey, moving steadily over the ocean like something emptied. Each drop that struck the deck rang softer than the last. No more stormwinds. No more shrieking air. Only that long, dragging hush that followed ruin.
Onboard the Dead Sheep, the new wood smelled faintly of salt and flame. Runes etched by claw had darkened the hull with purpose, a lattice of strength wound deep through its frame. Arthur had drawn them without a word, circling the outer edges of the ship like a man tracing the boundaries of his own body. Each line carved slowly, intentionally, without magic, without Greed. His talons did the work, thick, white, steady.
He could have burned them in. Could have flared his fire and been done in seconds.
But he needed the time. Needed the silence.
And not every rune was essential.
