Memories surged with each step he took, he felt the weight of them becoming greater and greater—he did not want to go forward but he had to. He was now standing in front of what was going to be his commanding officer, he contracted all of his muscles out of stress, he even grabbed the hilt of his sword and considered doing the unthinkable for a second, but the idea disappeared the moment the officer spoke.
"Hello, I am Elevated Lysander, I will be your new CO. What is your name ?"
Every word he said echoed in the room and shook everyone to their core, Fin felt his body trembled just by standing next to him—but he stood his ground and looked at him dead in the eyes and answered.
"I am awakened Fin… no last name either." Fin said with determination
Fin was scared he didn't try to supress it instead he braved it, crying about his fate was not something that he did—he had already shed all the tears attributed to that purpose, so now he just accepted his destiny and took it head on.
"Good, now get in line and follow me." Lysander said his tone still strict
Fin obliged, he got in line and followed the soldiers outside—before crossing the door he glanced at his friends, they did not cry or scream but he saw Deryn fiddling with her ring—that's when he realised that they might not be together physically but he will never be alone anymore.
Fin walked.
Not fast. Not slow. Just forward—because that's all he could do.
The line moved as one, boots scraping stone, the cold air outside biting harder than it should have. Maybe it was just in his head. Or maybe the moment really did change everything.
They crossed the courtyard in silence. No cheers. No goodbyes. Just the heavy sound of armor and nerves. Every step toward the dock felt like something was peeling away—some version of himself he'd never get back.
And then he saw the ship again.
Up close, it was even more monstrous. The kind of thing that didn't look like it belonged to the world, but had been forced into it anyway. Its hull groaned softly in the tide, black iron stained with years of salt and fire. A gangplank waited like a tongue stretching out to swallow them whole.
Fin's heart thudded against his ribs.
He clenched his jaw, shifted the sword at his side, and didn't look back. Not because he didn't want to—but because he couldn't. If he did, he might run. Or cry. Or both. And he'd done enough of that already.
So he stepped on.
The wood creaked underfoot. The ship didn't react. It didn't care who he was or what he felt. It was a thing built for war. And now he was part of it.
As the last soldier boarded behind him, the plank lifted.
The ship groaned again.
And just like that, the dock—his friends, the Academy, whatever kind of peace he'd scraped together—was gone.
Fin didn't breathe for a long time.
But he stood still.
And waited for the sea to take him.
It didn't wait long, before he could do anything someone threw him a uniform.
"Don't just stand there looking like a statue, put it on and follow me, I'll show you your quarters."
Fin caught the uniform mid-air, barely managing to keep hold of the folded fabric. It was rough, dark blue with brass buttons, and carried the scent of seawater and oil—freshly laundered, but old in spirit. Worn by a thousand soldiers before him, and maybe a thousand more after. He looked at it like it might bite.
Still, he changed. Slowly. Silently.
The soldier who handed it to him didn't wait. He was already halfway across the deck, boots clanging against iron, barking over his shoulder. "Name's Harrow. Don't fall behind, Fin-with-no-last-name."
Fin followed, footsteps slightly unsteady on the shifting planks. The ship swayed beneath him, but not like a normal boat—it felt deliberate, alive. Like it knew where it was going, and didn't care if you liked the path.
They passed towering bulkheads and narrow corridors lit by runestones glowing a dull amber. The air was thick with salt and metal. Every sound echoed like it was afraid to be forgotten.
Harrow stopped at a small room with a triple bunk jammed into the wall, a trunk at the foot, and a single slit of a window that showed nothing but grey sky and angry waves.
"Top bunk's free. You snore, you die," Harrow said casually. "Stow your stuff. Meet me on the middeck in five."
Then he was gone.
Fin sat for a moment. Touched the sword at his side, still sheathed and touched the ring on his finger to make sure it was still there. Still his. For now.
Then he got up, dropped the uniform bundle into the trunk, and left the room.
Middeck was a controlled storm of movement. Officers shouting. Ropes swinging. Sailors darting between masts. Soldiers lined up in rows like chess pieces, each being assigned tasks. This wasn't a simple transport. It was training on water.
"Fin, front and center!"
Harrow pointed to a barrel of rust-colored bristles and a long-handled mop beside it.
"Welcome to your first duty. Swab detail. Clean the deck until it shines. And don't use essence—I'll know if you do."
Fin blinked. "Seriously?"
Harrow smirked. "Dead serious, you never know what the sea has in store for you so save your essence as much as possible and everyone starts with the deck. You'll be lucky if your hands are still intact at the end of the day."
And so he started.
For hours.
Salt crusted the rails, grime caked the corners, and more than once the mop tried to launch itself overboard. But he kept going—he had to and on the upside having something to do cleared his mind, for the first time today he didn't feel sad, he simply didn't have the time for it.
Later, he'd be assigned rotation with the ship's spotters—standing for hours with a scope and watching the horizon like it owed him answers. After that, sparring drills without using their abilities. Ration sorting. Map study. Cleaning weapons that weren't his.