My dreams are more gentle this time, though their fluid nature is even more apparent. Detached scraps of soft, fluttering heat caress my cheek and graze my fingertips. Brilliant sunshine makes me squint. Colours blur and merge, endlessly vibrant, blue and green and violet. It's somewhat jarring to rise from the stream to a vision of only darkness.

Scrubbing at my eyes, I push myself up, heels dug into the dirt. The last fragments of the dream break away, and I realise not all is dark. Faint light seeps through the net of trees. My gaze sweeps the dimly lit clearing, but it is empty, the only movement the slow dance of bare branches in the wind.

Discontent clings to my skin like sweat. Edita must not have returned yet. The loneliness is a solid feeling, a weight on my chest, a lump in my throat.

Drizzle patters the ground a short distance away. Much to my relief, I've remained mostly sheltered by the trees; my clothes are dryer than they've been for the past two days, though still damp to the touch. I retreat against the nearest tree's trunk just to be sure. Rain doesn't even have the justifying beauty of snow.

I scan the area again. The same emptiness leers back at me, and I swallow. Perhaps I should've followed Edita last night despite what she said. Though every part of me begs to disbelieve it, there's a small voice that whispers of a hidden intent she may hold, a desire to drag me out here and wrap me in her whims before abandoning me to die alone. Anxiety grips my stomach.

"She'll be back," I tell myself in a murmur, running a thumb over my borrowed silver shirt. It's not like I have any choice other than to wait. I'm lost on my own.

A dull twinge races up my arm, snaring my thoughts. I clap a hand over it. The serrated edge of a memory drags over me, bringing with it the sight of a man painted in stiff rage and an axe sinking into my flesh, and I curl my fingers around the edge of my sleeve with a wince. My heart is wrapped in thorns.

Sure enough, drawing back the sleeve reveals the thick, winding ribbon of a scar, tinged a sickly grey. The wound never scarred before. I can't take my eyes from it, sure the sour taste of death is pooled on my tongue.

"They will only keep appearing."

Shock ripples through me, though it doesn't take long to settle into the smooth waters of relief. Edita stands a few paces in front of me, skin a dusty white in the early light, hair lit in a chestnut shade. Droplets of rain settle over it like dew. Her black eyes are solemn. "Your scars," she adds. "There will be more."

My mouth is dry. I swallow. "Will they all be old wounds?"

"I assume so." She shrugs, strolling over to me. Her boots are coated in fresh mud. "It feels... right for it to be that way. Every wound your black flame ever healed, each bled outward, worked through backward in time until the last."

She speaks it like some kind of prophecy, a foretelling of doom, and there certainly seems to be an accuracy to that. I let my sleeve fall back into place, half afraid to breathe in the thickness in the air.

Backward in time. Curiosity coaxes my gaze to my leg.

"That will not happen, though."

The steady, enticing flow of a promise threads Edita's words together. I set my jaw and nod in reply. Keeping hold of my hope is a far wiser choice than dwelling on these blackened reminders of the past. Still, as I climb to my feet, resting a hand on the tree for support, I'm sure the echo of pain lances a spear through my thigh.

I do my best to shake off the sensation, yet the memory of Fiesi's grin, his mask of enjoyment, must invoke some element of wariness into me. My hand jerks away from Edita's attempt to grab it. "Where did you go last night?"

If she notices my suspicion, she doesn't seem to care. There's an excited twinkle in her eye. "I bring good news," she says. "We will not spend another night in the mountains."

My aching muscles practically sigh at the prospect. I keep my expression flat. "Why?" We can't possibly be there already. It took the regiment three long weeks to traverse the breadth of the range, and we must be moving far slower.

"We are little more than a couple hours' walk from the sea." She steps back, gesturing to the space behind her. "There will be a boat leaving at midday. It will stop off at Oscensi's northern port." A fanged smile curves her lips. "If you catch my drift."

The reality of the concept sinks in, stamping out any unsettled feeling. "We can ride it?"

"We can." She offers her hand again, and this time I take it, an eagerness building in my chest. "Granted, there will still be a sizable distance to go once we reach land again, but I like to think the terrain will be much easier." She squeezes my hand. "And you are more than due a decent rest."

My scars fade into the back of my mind, shoved back further as I return her smile. "Thank you, Edita."

"It is my job to keep you alive." She elbows aside a clawing branch and guides me out of the trees. "It will not be long now."

- ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ -

The clifftop path is a beast of its own, forever jagged and far too narrow, yet the view from it is incredible enough for me to forgive its threatening nature. When I first laid eyes upon the River Oscei, I thought that was the most water I would ever see. The Neyai Sea is something else entirely.

It takes my breath away. Edita teases me about not looking where I'm going, but I can't stop stealing peeks at the glittering expanse, the flat, endless stretch of blue. Winter has tinted it with a shade akin to slate, yet the addition of grey hardly diminishes the beauty of it. The sea meets the sky far in the distance at a sharp line. If I had no knowledge of the world's maps, I'd think it travelled on forever, bordered only by the horizon.

By the time we reach the base of the cliff, the sun is high in the sky, and Edita is too caught up in haste to have any patience for my wonder. The town clustered around the port is small and reeks of fish. She drags me into it, marching so fast that I nearly trip over every rut and pothole. My arm feels as if it might be wrenched from its socket.

A kinder scent of spice and stew drifts beneath the initial noxious odour, seasoned by the air's salty tang. Its taste seeps in through my nose. My stomach rumbles.

"Come on," Edita mutters, and I break into an unsteady jog, racing to keep up with her.

My feet slap against wood panels, and the sea is suddenly very close. Its waves froth and break apart, lashing at the pillars that support the jutting structure before us, spray scattered upwards to mingle with the spits of rain. A breeze rolls off the murky water. It yanks at my clothing and tangles my hair, knocking adrift my sense of balance until I'm sure the ground is tipping. The feeling only worsens as we hurry onto the pier. Its platform is only a thin strip amongst the vastness of the ocean roaring around it.

Edita jerks me to a halt. Cold metal presses into my palm, shards of it clinking as they rub over one another. Coins. Chipped and dirty, but silver. "For the fare," she whispers, closing my fingers over them. "It is best that we pay separately."

Beyond her, the sea heaves and buckles, lunging at the pier. The boards creak under my feet. I nod silently, an odd sense of nausea climbing up my throat.

She hesitates, jaw locked, but then resumes walking. Her stride is more even now, imbued with confidence. She doesn't seize my arm again. "And if they ask your name," she adds, voice low and unusually serious, "do not say Nathaniel."

There isn't time to ask. We've reached the boat.

Sarielle and Dalton's tale of the pirate ship springs to mind instinctively. It's the closest reference I have to this mess of wood and rope, the thin, fluttering fabric stretched across the pole jutting from its centre just barely attaching itself to the term sail. Its structure is a blocky curve, pointed at one end, fatter at the other. A second, smaller sail perches atop its rear. Automatically, my hand drifts to touch a spot on my chest, though I'm relieved to remember that the tunic beneath my shirt does not bear the crest of a ship. I can't help but think of that silver silhouette regardless. The watery tendrils of fear swimming in my stomach are beginning to surge upward, rust eating into my resolve.

Edita isn't fazed. In a single, easy jump, she hops from the pier and onto the boat. One of the men fiddling with a rope looks up. "Yes?"

His voice is gruff, as weathered as the rough shape of his jawline. Edita smiles pleasantly back at him. "Passage to the northern shores?" She holds out a hand, another pair of silver coins sitting proudly within the cup of her palm.

The man blinks, and a startled puzzlement cracks apart his disinterested mask. "What's wrong with your eyes, girl?"

She gives a strangely girlish giggle in response, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Oh, apologies. I get this a lot." Her finger lifts to twist a strand of hair around her finger. "An unfortunate medical condition. You will get used to it."

He smiles in response, although it's thin and strained, unmatched to his uncertain stare. Even so, he scoops the coins from her palm. "Welcome aboard."

Another giggle accompanies her thanks. She turns away, though not before shooting me a meaningful glance over her shoulder. I need to follow. I draw in a sharp breath, water splashing in the corners of my vision, watching the boat's deck bob up and down. Clenching my fists, I make my step quick to dodge the bout of dizziness. It pounces on me anyway, sinking a tide of regret as I sway. It slipped my mind just how much I hate this sensation. Part of me wonders whether braving the remainder of the mountains might have been worth it simply to avoid this.

The man's gaze bores into me. "You as well?"

Digging for my voice, I straighten, prising my fist open to offer my coins. They've practically dented my gloves. "Yes, please."

His cloudy stare lingers on me as he takes the money. His brow furrows in scrutiny. Tongue caught between my teeth, I mumble a shaky, "Thank you," and hurry to follow Edita. At least she could help to anchor me.

Yet I barely make it a step before he speaks again. "What's your name, boy?"

My muscles tense. He didn't ask Edita that question. There's a probe to it, a scrape of a rod dug between my ribs and poking in search of my heart. My eyes dart to his and away again as I scrabble for a response. Names crowd my mind. I extract one in haste. "Oswin."

"Right." He sounds doubtful, but he makes a sweeping gesture, one that must urge me to keep walking. Holding in my sigh of relief, I oblige.

A second man blocks my path.

Matted hair crawls across his scalp, matched well with the stains and tears in his roughspun tunic. He bares crooked, yellowing teeth in a grin. "You sure?"

My feet are stuck to the deck. "Yes," I say, struggling to catch my breath.

He grabs a fistful of my shirt, and all sense of control spirals from my fingertips. The world spins. I'm only aware of my toes scrabbling at the wooden boards as he yanks me closer, and the stench of his breath, filthy and foul. "I don't think so," he growls.

"I--I'm no-one." My words are as slippery as my thoughts. "No-one. Please--"

His laugh cuts me off. It's loud, painfully so, my skin crawling with the will to cringe away from it. My squirms are too feeble. A dangerous glint lights in his eyes. "We're going to make a killing from this one, boys."

Desperation coursing through my veins, I shove at his chest with both hands, and somehow it's enough to release his grip. I very nearly lose my footing as I stagger back. "I'm not going to kill anyone," I gasp out.

More raucous laughter bursts from him. This time, it peels from every corner of the boat, the man's companions each carrying its echo with glee. The sound is a prison. My heart thunders in protest, but I still can't stop hearing it. The deck keeps swaying. Ears buzzing, I spin around in search of the pier, only to find we've drifted away from it, a channel of seawater already blocking my path to land. It widens with every second. The shore retreats, bowed beneath the grey clouds above as if it averts its eyes to my fate.

The sea is endless, and now I'm entirely at its mercy.

"I'm afraid that's an expression, little Nathaniel." The man closes in, grabbing at my sleeve to drag me back around to face him. The sound of my name is yet another wriggling strand of fear to constrict my chest. From the joy in his gaze, he knows it. "You see, the new war general is desperate to find you. Rumours of your infamy and your antics spread like wildfire across the continent. The latest ones have been particularly interesting." He leans in closer. "How much do you think your father will pay for you, Nate?"

I've never known panic as violent as this. It's a flailing beast with fangs in everything, coughing up sprawling pools of acid, my blood burning hot and cold all at once. My head spins. My voice emerges strangled, squeezed too tight to convey any of the fierce anger I wish I could dig for. "He's not my father."

"Whether you're his son or his prize, you'll be worth plenty." His head tilts up, gaze sweeping over my head. "Set course for Neyaibet, boys. Cal, get him tied up." His attention flicks back to me with a wag of his finger. "I don't want you causing any trouble."

Burly arms snare me from behind, yanking me backwards. The panic lunges outward, uncontrollable. I can't breathe. I can't do anything. I'm imprisoned in the sea, on this boat, within my own skin.

Neyaibet is too far away.

These men aren't going to get paid. They're going to watch me die.

"No!" I scream, feeling it surge out all at once. I kick my legs, flail my fists, my feet skidding uselessly over the rain-slicked deck. They lift into the air as I'm gripped tighter. "Please, no! You don't understand!"

Wind whips at my face, a mix of salty droplets and icy rain stinging my cheeks. It's as deaf to my protests as my captors. The ocean roars louder beneath us. My shoulder hits the boat's rail first, the jarring impact leaving a pulsing throb, then my spine as I'm pinned there. I keep struggling, my pleas becoming indecipherable as they tumble breathlessly from my lips. The man holds me fast. Sharp metal digs into my shoulder blades. The water is so close that I can hear it splash against the boat's side, its spray tickling the back of my neck, the rocking even more noticeable at the edge. My lungs ache as if already filled with liquid.

A sword's sharp clatter snatches my attention. I jerk, a messy ball of fear and dread and faintest hope rolling through my chest. The latter winks out swiftly. It's Edita's shattered sword that lies abandoned on the deck. She's now tangled within the hold of another two of the men, her fangs bared as she snaps at both of them.

Coarse fibre rakes over my arm. Rope, snaking around it, binding me to the rail. Heart pounding so fast I'm sure it will leap from my chest, I yank my arm towards me, and somehow it gives way. The rope burns as my skin drags across it before breaking free. I clutch my hand close to my chest, barely managing to stumble along the rail before a hand plants on my chest and shoves me harder into them. Any more of this and I'm sure I'll tip right over the top of the barrier. The water swirls below, awaiting my fall.

If only to flee from that thought, my gaze sweeps the deck. The first man to recognise me, the man with the yellow teeth, stands there amidst it all with a look of pleasure on his face. A growl scrapes up my throat without warning. "I'm going to die," I snap, hoping the words aren't truly as broken as they sound to me. "You have to let me go."

There's nothing. Not a glimmer of remorse, not the tiniest hint of hesitancy. If anything, his voice is laced with amusement. "You're little more than a trinket, Nate. Alive or dead, you'll be worth plenty."

A lance of searing heat cuts through the flooded mix of fear and panic. It writhes with the same aggression as everything else, yet it wins the fight, slicing its way to the top and clawing the rest into dizzy shreds. My thoughts jitter and snap. A familiar gnawing ache blooms beneath my ribs.

A thunk. Edita is thrown into the rail beside me, her shoulder knocking into mine as she squirms. The depth of her eyes is dark, focused, boring into me. She jolts against her captors, leaning closer.

"Put him in his place," she hisses directly into my ear.

I might've asked her how if I didn't instantly feel something cool and solid press into my palm, shaped in the familiar curve of a sword's hilt.

There isn't time to think. Her whisper rings in my ears, sharp and clear as a bell's chime, and I simply let it lead.

The sword cuts a deadly line, its weight carrying my hand easily. Flesh gives way beneath it. The man holding me releases with a startled cry, pressing his hand to his midsection, a scarlet stain building behind his fingers. Adrenaline rushes through my veins in sugary waves. It feeds the heave and swell in my chest, the deafening chorus rising above all other sound. His gaze snaps to mine, dancing with furious pain, and I react in rhythm. My blade drives a second wound deep into his chest.

A blow connects with my side, and the hilt slides from my hand, left embedded in his chest. I scrabble for it uselessly as I skid backwards, crashing into the rail. My head hits the uppermost bar. Premature stars soar from beyond the sky to flicker in front of my eyes. I blink hard, the howl of the sea dripping into the edge of my awareness.

Fear somersaults in my stomach, landing solidly on steeled feet. I shove at the rail and dive blindly for my sword.

The man has hit the deck. Life ekes along with fire from his glassy gaze. The details graze my mind without feeling, a faded backbeat to the noteless song I follow. My blade resists my tug. Planting my foot on his still-warm chest, I grip the hilt harder and wrench it free. Blood coats my sole, seeps between my toes. My breathing sounds distant and strained.

I whip around. Edita is engaged in a fistfight with her captors, ducking and dodging their blows. She leaps up onto the rail and vaults off it, locking her leg around the neck of one man as she clings to his back.

"My sword, Noli!" she shouts. It very nearly drowns out the grating snap that follows.

I don't linger to watch his body fall. Spying the broken blade across the deck, I break into a sprint, feet slipping beneath me. It's snatched up before I get there. My momentum is too much. My legs keep going, and I topple over, landing hard on my back. I barely have time to heft up my sword before it clangs against the blade's jagged edge.

Gripping my own hilt with both hands, I glare upwards. Yellow teeth smile back at me. "The trinket has spunk."

Heat singes my blood. "Am I really just a price to you?"

"Aren't we all?" He pushes harder, my shaky strength wavering. "All worth is measured in price." The sour taste of his breath leaks into the air as he laughs. "You should be proud to be worth so much."

"Your hunger for coin will be the death of you," I spit.

"Oh?"

If he has more of a response to give, it's knocked from him. Edita's dark form swoops in, her boot connecting with his arm to shove the sword away from mine. It slides away, the metallic screech scraping over my bones, until I manage to wriggle out from underneath it and stumble to my feet. Edita clings to a rope hanging from the ship's sail. She twists, braced for another kick as she swings back our way.

But the man is ready. His swipe severs the rope and slices a deep wound into her side.

She drops unsteadily onto the deck, her knees buckling. I cry out, but I'm too late. Her own broken sword plunges into her chest.

If my ears were filled with song before, then the music that fills them now is a clamorous, tuneless tirade. My sword starts the charge for me. Its tip drags a sharp line over his wrist, his empty fingers, and then a handful of his shirt is bunched in my fist, his back shoved up against the rail, my blade at his throat.

Brighter blood trickles to join the scarlet coating already streaking its edge. For the first time, I see fear in his eyes. It's as bright as the twinkle of ocean waters: beautiful from far away, and yet oddly different up close, swimming with a darkness that stirs in my core. I can't tell whether I like it or not. I don't particularly care.

"Let's see if the stars believe in your worth, mili zoí," I hiss, already driving the blade deeper. He chokes. I keep cutting.

Mili zoí. The words reverberate at the back of my throat. They sound more cruel now than they ever have from Fiesi's tongue, and I can't help but relish in it. Its unknown meaning allows the term to be as terrible as I wish.

A rough hand grips my shoulder, the blade's gouged slit slanting as I'm wrenched to the side. Clinging to my hilt, I whirl, slashing the sword in a wide arc to follow the motion. A younger man leaps out of its path. Terror forms a chilling aura around him. It jitters in his clenched hands, shadows his face, shines like fragmented sunlight in his eyes. He draws a knife from his belt. In response, I aim my own blade at him, keeping our gazes locked. If he comes any closer, I'll fight.

There's a crazed edge to the phantom flames in my chest, one that threatens to tug on an old smile, though I keep it pinned. I don't feel like a monster. I just feel like myself: a desperate, dying boy with nothing left to lose.

Another blade slides into view. Half of a blade, split by a jagged edge, its bloody tip resting at the man's throat.

"Would you like to be next?" Edita growls.

The blinding whine in my ears fades, the haze dissipating. I steal a glance at her just to be sure. She's alive, her chest shifting with the steady rise and fall of her breath, entirely free of wounds. Far less blood than there should be splashes her torn navy tunic.

"Edita?" I breathe, unable to stop myself.

She casts me a pointed glance. The glazed, death-like black of her eyes is the same as ever. Rather than replying, she twitches her blade, forcing the man to lift his chin. "Drop the knife."

It clatters to the deck within the instant. I snatch it up, taking a wary step back. My prints remain etched in blood. More of it sticks my fingers together, staining my gloves, specks crawling up my arms. My sword drips.

Desperate and dying, but the marks of murder cling as fiercely as ever.

A shivering ache claws at the flesh on my arm, jarring my bones. I fight not to let it show even as my head grows light. A similar, fanged sensation gnaws into my side, throbs beneath my skin in a thousand unnamed places. My scars speak only through the medium of pain, and it's impossible to tell whether they whisper approval or snarl in protest of wrongdoing.

"You will take us to Oscensi's northern shores," Edita says, her voice ringing out loud and clear. She addresses the rest of the ship's inhabitants. The black threads of their fear wrap around her fingers, and she manipulates them, guiding their movements in a flawless dance. "You will do as Noli and I say, or there will be more blood to scrub from these rotting planks." She kicks at the wood beneath her as if providing a beat, her fangs slipping out somewhat purposefully, twisted into a harsher smile than I'm used to seeing. "So please, do what we say. I hate cleaning."

Agreement spreads like flowing water as if the sea's waves have leapt aboard, those fearful strings remaining slack, unchallenged. Edita holds control.

And lingering by the rail, I stand on the edge of it, stiff, coated in blood and breathing in death.

Did you prefer being the monster? she asked me on that quiet night, when she was nothing but a ghost, when I didn't pay as much heed to her words as I do now. Now, I watch the crimson on my blade glitter.

Now, I'm not so sure she was wrong.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Look it's the first time Nathan has murdered someone all book. He needed to let off some steam. And it's fun when he goes feral :D

- Pup