The docks were veiled in morning mist, sea-grey and rising like breath from the mouths of ghosts. Sailors moved like shadows through the fog, voices low, boots muffled against damp planks. Ropes creaked and gulls cried overhead, but the usual bustle was subdued tightened by something unseen.
August stood at the edge of the pier, cloak drawn close against the chill. The harbor smelled of tar and salt and fish guts, but also faintly gunpowder. He didn't trust coincidences.
Behind him, Elias finished a terse exchange with the ship's quartermaster. When he approached, his expression was unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.
"She's clean," Elias said. "Mostly. A few crates weren't listed on the manifest. Barrels marked as lamp oil, but they don't slosh right. I had one opened."
"And?" August asked, eyes still scanning the fog.
"Dried figs. Smuggling cover, probably." Elias lowered his voice. "Or a decoy. Either way, someone's hiding something, but it's not explosive. Yet."
August's gaze lingered on a figure moving quickly up the gangplank—too quickly for a deckhand. He nodded discreetly. "Keep an eye on that one."
Elias followed his glance. "Already clocked him. Southern boots. Not local."
They boarded together, not speaking, letting their silence settle like dust over the frayed nerves between them. The ship, The Indigo Mare, was sleeker than most merchant vessels, with reinforced rails and ballista mounts half-hidden beneath tarps. A courier ship disguised as a cargo hauler.
Below deck, the air was thicker salt, mildew, the musk of old ropes. August ducked into his quarters, where bolts of silk had already been stacked like offerings to a fickle god. He unrolled one, fingers brushing over the delicate gold threads running along the weft.
Each thread a lie. Each pattern a secret.
He pulled out a needle and began to work.
Above deck, Elias leaned on the railing, scanning the horizon. His knife was strapped beneath his sleeve, his pistol oiled and loaded. He didn't like ships. He didn't like being surrounded by people who smiled too easily or drank too little. And he especially didn't like that he was beginning to memorize the exact way August furrowed his brow when concentrating.
The captain approached. A woman in her forties with storm-grey braids and a voice like cracked stone.
"You're not here to guard silk, are you?" she asked.
Elias didn't blink. "Do you need me to lie?"
"No," she said. "Just don't get in my way."
He smirked. "Deal."
Later that night, the ship was hours from port, cutting through waves like a blade. Stars hung heavy overhead, and somewhere on the open deck, a song drifted from a sailor's lips a lullaby in a language Elias didn't know.
August stood by the prow, cloak rippling in the wind. Elias joined him without speaking.
"They'll make their move soon," August said softly.
Elias studied him. "You sure?"
"Yes. There's too much money riding on this. They won't risk letting us reach the capital without trying to take us out."
A beat passed.
"If they come tonight, we don't hold back," Elias said.
August nodded. "I won't hesitate."
But his hands trembled slightly, hidden beneath his cloak. Elias noticed—but said nothing.
Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice low and near his ear. "When it starts—don't be brave. Be smart."
August turned to face him, and for a heartbeat, the world stilled.
"You're not responsible for me, Elias."
Elias's gaze was steady. "I will be. Until you give me a reason not to be."
And then gunfire
Gunfire cracked through the night.
Elias didn't hesitate—he pivoted toward the stairwell as a figure burst from below deck, swinging a boarding axe. Steel clanged. Sparks flew.
"August, down!" Elias shouted.
But August was already moving, slipping sideways behind a stack of crates. The blade glanced off wood where his head had been.
He countered with precision his poisoned needle drove into the man's neck. No wasted motion. The saboteur stumbled, collapsed without a sound.
More figures surged onto the deck. Shouts rose. The captain storm-braided, commanding fought off two assailants at the helm.
Elias met them head-on. A knife to the gut. A cracked jaw. He fought like a storm himself, savage and fast.
Then,
Steel bit flesh.
A choked cry from the quarterdeck. Elias turned just in time to see the captain stagger, blood soaking her side. She gripped the wheel, trying to keep the ship straight, but her knees buckled.
August was already there.
He caught her before she hit the deck not gently, just enough to keep her from cracking her skull. His face was pale under the lantern light, but hard as carved stone.
"She's alive," he said, fingers pressing to her pulse. "We need to take the helm."
A fresh explosion rocked the ship. Smoke curled from below deck. Firelight danced at the hatch.
"Ballast is gone," a sailor shouted. "She's taking on water fast!"
Elias threw a grappling hook into a saboteur's leg and yanked him down hard. "If we lose the rudder, we're dead."
August didn't flinch. "Then we don't lose it."
He stepped over the captain's fallen blade, gritted his teeth, and climbed the wheel. Blood was seeping under the deck boards now, black in the moonlight.
"Secure the helm!" he barked. "I need all non-combatants bailing water—now!"
Elias paused at that. He wasn't used to hearing that tone from August—clear, clipped, cold. But it worked.
The crew jumped to obey.
August tightened the wheel, jaw locked. Wind battered the sails, but the ship began to correct. Fire spread down one rail, but he didn't blink just shouted orders over the roar.
"We need to seal the lower deck!" he called. "Elias—scuttle the water barrels. We'll flood the flame!"
Elias raised a brow. "That'll ruin the food stores."
"We won't need rations if we're dead."
Elias didn't argue.
He ran.
Below deck, August's voice rang out like flint striking steel. No panic. No doubt. When flames licked too close, he didn't back away he wrapped his cloak around his arm, grabbed a flaming timber, and shoved it aside. His hands burned, but he didn't cry out.
Didn't even wince.
He, Just grit his teeth and kept moving.
Minutes later, the worst of the fire was out. The saboteurs dead or thrown to the sea. The captain had been carried to her cabin, still breathing, barely. The ship groaned, but floated.
August leaned against the rail, blood running from his burned hand, hidden beneath his sleeve. He stared out at the sea, chest rising slow and steady.
Elias approached, still catching his breath. "You saved the ship."
August didn't turn. "She saved herself. I only kept her pointed in the right direction."
Silence stretched between them.
"You're hurt."
August finally looked at him, gaze unreadable. "Not enough to matter."
Elias reached for his arm. August didn't flinch, didn't pull away just allowed it, silent and stiff, as Elias gently unwrapped the scorched fabric and saw the damage underneath.
"Stubborn bastard," Elias muttered.
"You can dress it," August said flatly. "But I don't want a speech."
"You're not getting one." Elias pulled out a cloth, started cleaning the wound.
Their closeness hung heavy in the air. August never spoke, never looked down, eyes fixed on the sea. But his fingers curled slightly, barely perceptible.
When the last embers died and the ship sailed on through moonlight, August remained standing at the bow alone, silent, unshaken.
He didn't bleed for sympathy.
He didn't break.
He simply endured.
And Elias, watching from the shadows, began to understand:
This wasn't silk they were guarding.
It was a man who had already been turned to steel,