The harbour of Galveston stretched along the coast like a scar that refused to fade. Its docks were splintered, remnants of night fog still clung in the air. Planks darkened by damp and neglect.

Ships creaked against their moorings as wind rolled in from open water, sails drawn tight while ropes strained and creaked. Merchants barked orders over the noise, crates struck wood with thuds, and the area reeked of salt, fish guts, and bodies that had gone too long without washing.

Gabriel moved through it without drawing attention. His cloak was pulled low, the hood shadowing his face, though the weight at his belt felt wrong with every step. The Church sword hung there, foreign and unwelcome, its sigil scraped away with a stone taken from the slums.

It was no replacement for the blades Lucius had broken, but it would cut, and that was enough for now.

He did not look back.

Gilbert lay unconscious on the church steps behind him, and the others would find him soon enough. Tess would rage. Mera would worry. They might even follow. Gabriel pushed the thought aside. He had no time for their plans or their concern.

Hanitz was dead.

Lucius was alive.

That needed to change.

The road ahead was his alone, shaped by each step he took toward it.

Vaelmir waited across the sea, with Adaranthe at its heart. A grand cathedral raised in stone and shaped with faith. Where the Church's power gathered and tightened its grip, and where Lucius now stood.

For now.

Gabriel scanned the docks with narrowed eyes, searching for a ship bound for Vaelmir's coast. It needed to be unremarkable, crewed by men who asked few questions and cared more about coin than names.

The coins in his pocket, taken from soldiers who would not miss them, clinked softly as he moved. There were more than he had seen in Eldenreach. More than enough if he bargained carefully and kept his demands simple.

A weathered vessel drew his attention. The Sea Wren sat low in the water, a merchant brig with a hull scarred by years of rough travel. Her sails were patched with mismatched canvas, fluttering faintly in the breeze.

Deckhands hauled crates of spice and cloth aboard with tired grunts, sweat streaking their faces. At the rail stood the captain, Small and thick-bearded, shouting at a crewman who fumbled a rope.

Gabriel approached, his boots thudding softly on the planks.

"Passage," he said, his voice low and even. "To Criston. Or anywhere along Vaelmir's shore."

The captain studied him in silence, eyes lingering on the cloak, the lack of baggage, and the faint red glint that slipped from beneath the hood when Gabriel looked up. Suspicion flickered, then faded as calculation took its place.

"Ten silver," the man said at last. "Up front. You work if needed. No dead weight."

Gabriel counted out the coins with care and dropped them into the captain's callused palm. "Erin," he said without hesitation.

The unremarkable junior adventurer was the first name that popped into his head.

The captain grunted. "Good enough. We sail with the tide. Below deck, and stay out of the way unless I say otherwise."

Gabriel nodded once and turned toward the hold.

The air below was heavy with tar and damp wood, a smell that clung to the lungs and refused to fade. He chose a corner among the stacked crates and settled into the shadows, positioning himself where no one would have reason to bother him.

The ship lurched as it cast off. Waves slammed against the hull with force, and the motion rolled through the deck beneath his feet. Galveston fell away behind them, swallowed by mist that closed over the harbour.

Gabriel felt nothing for the city as it vanished. No relief. No regret. Only the steady burn in his chest, the rage cooled into something slower and more patient than before.

The first day passed in silence. Gabriel stayed below deck while the sun was up, emerging only at night to stand near the rail and watch the black water stretch endlessly in every direction.

The crew whispered about him, the hooded stranger with ember-bright eyes, but they kept their distance. He ate sparingly from the rations he had taken in the slums, hard bread that cracked beneath his teeth and dried meat that was inedible.

His body still ached from Lucius's blows. His ribs remained tender, his shoulder stiff and slow to respond, pain flaring whenever he moved too carelessly.

The pain kept him focused, a reminder of failure and a fuel that sharpened his resolve.

Sleep brought broken dreams. They came apart without order, fragments slipping away before he could hold them. The voice returned, the same one that had followed his awakening in the tavern after the escape.

Dracamere. Complete the trial.

It had no shape, no presence he could see, only pressure, as if cold stone were pressed against his thoughts. There was no explanation and no sense of urgency. The words simply repeated until he woke, sweat clinging to his skin, his hand locked tight around the stolen sword.

What trial?

He forced the question down, burying it beneath memory instead. Hanitz falling at the gate. Lucius's blade catching the moonlight without hesitation or mercy. Angels bled. He would prove that truth, whatever it cost him.

By the second day, the sea turned violent without warning. Clouds gathered thick and dark along the horizon, swelling until they blotted out the sky. Wind screamed through the rigging and tore at the sails as the Sea Wren pitched hard beneath the assault. Waves broke over the deck, and the ship creaked as if it might split apart.

Gabriel braced himself in the hold while crates shifted and groaned around him. Hanitz's face rose unbidden in his mind. The giant's axe slipping from his grasp. Blood spreading across frozen ground.

The vision of his death had become vivid, as though his imagination was piecing together the information he had heard.

And it was because of him.

Because he had charged without restraint. Because his blades had shattered in Lucius's grip.

Four years, and you're still weak, brother.

The words burned deeper than any wound, carving themselves into his resolve as the storm raged on.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, the crimson fog stirring at the edge of his vision. It did not surge or lash out. He had learned restraint in Eldenreach, learned it by being ruthlessly beaten into submission by the giant's training.

Control mattered more than force. Absolute control was the difference between survival and failure.

In the dim hold, he practised quietly, careful to stay out of sight. The fog gathered along his arm, sliding from his skin and curling around his wrist before reaching the hilt of the sword. He tightened his grip and felt the power settle into the blade.

It did not explode outward or claw at its surroundings. It focused. The edge sharpened until it carried a low, contained hum beneath his fingers.

This was what he needed. Precision. No wasted strength. No reckless release.

When he reached Adaranthe, it would be different.

Above him, the storm worsened. Crewmen shouted as rain battered the deck and thunder rolled overhead, close enough to shake the timbers. Gabriel remained below while the ship groaned under the strain, beams creaking as waves slammed against the hull.

Time blurred into a relentless assault that tested every joint and seam.

Then the sound changed.

Voices rose sharp with alarm, cutting through the wind.

"Pirates. Starboard."

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