The sun had sunk hours ago, and the horizon became unseen. Jiro had flown from the valley of Aradack to the southern water port where shadows ate the sea, but the waves crashed on the shore, reminding him that the waters were nearby.

He landed on the docks lit by torchlights, a path leading to a single ship bobbing at its berth. Most ships that visited Aradack were traders; likely, this one was too. It rose three levels high, with masts sprouting tall into the night.

As he approached the gangway, he heard the busy crew on the deck—boots thumping over hardwood floors. He walked into the light of flames, and a sailor looked down from the gangway. "Who's there?" the shirtless man asked, wearing only his trousers and boots.

Jiro swallowed before he spoke. "I want to board your ship to Adar."

"Tough skies, boy. We're sailing for Kata, and we're not docking until we get there," the man said.

Kata, the holy city of the sun, was on the main island of Kimara, the same land as Kimracka. That was where Jiro needed to go. "Even better. Take me to Kata then."

The sailor chuckled. "It's a five-day sail. You won't be able to afford it."

"How much?" Jiro asked.

The man eyed Jiro with doubt. Then he walked up a few steps on the ramp. "Kapitan!" he called. "A boy here wants to board our ship to Kata!"

Jiro heard the crew members bustle toward the balustrade. More than ten men looked down at him from the deck. They all waited until another man came to stand at the top of the gangway—the captain of the ship. He was tall, wearing a white tunic with a thick baldric with which his bolo hung at his side. A congregation of thick black hair gathered on his head in a knot, and a tiny scar carved deep on the side of his chin.

"What do you want, boy?" The captain glared at Jiro, his hand resting on the hilt of his bolo, its handle laced with strips of rattan.

"I want to go to Kata," Jiro said, and the crewmen at the balustrade snickered.

One side of the captain's lips curved up in amusement. "Sure. We can take you there with food and lodging. That'll cost you only five heds."

Five heds! That was more than half the money Eskolar Kida gave Jiro. He could board the ship now or wait until morning for another boat to take him to Adar. It would be a longer route, but it would be less expensive. He weighed his options, but he still opted for the former and reached into the pouch tied to his belt and fished out five coins.

The sailor on the gangway rushed down to inspect the money Jiro held, studying the thorned vine symbols carved on the faces of the gold coins. When he seemed satisfied, he turned to his captain and nodded.

The captain grinned. "Climb aboard!" He called to Jiro as he stepped back to the deck, and the sailor snatched the coins from Jiro's hand.

As soon as Jiro stepped on the ship, his head became light. He'd never been on any water vessel before, not even a small boat. Now the bobbing sensation beneath his legs was unfamiliar. It was like flying, but he had no control over it, and he couldn't predict when the floor would go up and when it would go down.

When the ship set sail and moved away from the docks, the bobbing lessened, almost stopped, and he felt the drag of the wind. Within minutes, the light of the torches on the shore diminished into twinkles on the dark horizon. His chest tightened at the realization that he was leaving his home.

"Are you alright, boy?" The captain of the ship spoke, coming to stand beside Jiro on the deck and watching the disappearing shore. This close, the scar on his chin shimmered white and stretched when he smiled.

Jiro didn't speak.

The captain examined him from head to toe, his dark eyes lingering at Jiro's bare feet. "My men have some spare boots around here somewhere." Then his eyes traveled up to Jiro's belt.

Jiro looked down at what the captain found interesting—the coin pouch and the sheathed kampit. He protectively placed his hand over them.

"Is that what I think it is?" the captain asked.

"It's just a hunting knife." Jiro pressed his hand harder on it, wishing he had something to cover up the shiny green hilt.

The captain chuckled. "Did you steal it? Is that why you're running?"

"I didn't steal it," Jiro growled in defense. He had never been accused of thieving before. "It was my father's."

The captain's eyes narrowed. "So you're the son of the Kavisera?"

"What? No— How did you—?" Jiro's father wasn't the Kavisera, but he could have been if he hadn't died. It was tradition for the best among the Rakitt Maharlika to carry the green jadeite hilted kampit—the one next in line to lead Aradack. The rest of the warriors had blue turquoise hilted blades.

"That's got a beautiful grip." The captain looked up from the knife and watched Jiro's feared reaction. "Green like the colors of Ozaro. Only the highest ranking Rakitt Maharlika owned a knife like that." He stared at Jiro with a curious sinister smile. "Are you a Wingless?"

Jiro considered him. "Yes," he said, unsure why he lied.

The captain's smile faded, and his lips settled into a thin strip. "Best keep your knife and your money out of sight. My crew is not to be trusted. You don't want to get your throat slit while you sleep." Then a cunning grin spread across his face. He turned and strode to the helm, leaving Jiro anxious and shadowed by fear.

One of the sailors led Jiro to the deck below. A hammock was raised for him to sleep in. It was at the far corner of the hold beside barrels and crates, separated from where the crew settled in to rest. He was grateful for the bit of privacy. He would spend his days at sea hidden here, away from others' view. The men wouldn't bother him, and he would leave them alone in return.

Days passed, and they remained in the vast ocean with no other shelter from its dangers but the ship. Docked in Aradack, the vessel seemed massive, but out here, it was puny—a thing the waters could consume whenever it liked.

Once in a while, Jiro came up to the deck to feel the sun and the cold gust of the sea on his skin. He'd avoided the crew, which was challenging in an enclosed container.

During the first two days, he became wary of the men, looking over his shoulder and watching his back in the dark halls below the deck. He had sewn his coin pouch inside his trousers and sewn the sheath of his kampit inside his vest over his left chest. He had been cautious of his belongings, taking his rattan bag wherever he went on the ship. But the crew only eyed him, whispering rumors but never touching him.

On chances that they met, the captain had asked how he was doing, and Jiro always answered, "Alright," and the captain would leave him to himself. The man was true to his word, giving Jiro board and lodging. He had even provided Jiro with a pair of run-down boots—a pair Jiro would have to get used to wearing.

The waters were steady all the nights they had been at sea, but the captain warned Jiro of rough sailing when they reached the Wari Strait. Jiro had heard legends about the strait, all involving a full moon, shipwrecks, and death. But their crossing would be on a moonless night so that they would survive.

When the sun came down on the ninth day, the wind turned wild, howling savagely. The ship began to rock and bob. Jiro stayed in his hammock, where he couldn't see the outside, but the crash of waves on the hull painted a vivid image of the untamed ocean trying to crush their petty ship. He entertained the thought of a shipwreck. He would not be able to fly out in such weather. The winds would toss him aside, and the waters would take him, drowning him like it would the ship.

Jiro hugged his father's kampit to his chest, trying to find comfort. Though it was cold and hard, it gave him ease. He ignored the crying of the wind and the ramming of the ocean as he closed his eyes, letting the knife console him to sleep. And when he dozed, he dreamed.

"You won't be able to balance if you keep moving your feet," Nana Ricka said to Jiro.

"I'm trying, mama. I don't know how to keep my Lift," Jiro said as he got up and clumsily patted the dirt off himself. He had only risen a few feet from the ground and fallen from his flight training for the fifth time.

"Don't be too hard on him, my love. He's still only a child." Jiro turned to see his father walking down the small meadow where he and his mother had been practicing all morning.

"Papa!" Jiro ran to the man, jumping into his arms and letting himself be scooped up onto his father's shoulders. Jiro laughed, amazed.

"Don't coddle him, or he won't learn," Nana Ricka walked up to them and kissed her husband. "How was your hunt? It's good to have you back early."

"We caught two full-grown nouses. It wasn't easy taking them down at the same time, but we're glad we had the people to do it. How's his training?" He lifted Jiro off his shoulder and placed him back on the ground.

"I flew ten feet, papa," Jiro said, though he didn't know how high ten feet was. He was proud of himself.

His mother laughed, and her smile creased the sides of her eyes. "He'll get better. He just needs to learn how to balance with his legs. Sometimes he looks like he's trying to run in the air."

"But it's very hard, mama," Jiro said, looking up at his mother.

"That's why you must keep trying, son," his father said. He bent down and took both of Jiro's hands in his. "Listen to me. I'll hold you now, and you fly."

Jiro smiled and nodded. Then he focused his Lift on his back and his legs. He pushed off the ground and lifted himself in the air. His father didn't let go of his hands. Jiro began to wiggle his legs in the air for balance, and when he glanced at his feet, he did look like he was running.

"Stretch your legs, Jiro," his father said.

Jiro looked at him. His father had the face of a strong man, and the look in his silver eyes was calming. Jiro felt safe with his father's hold, and he trusted, forcing his legs to straighten in the air. That's when he felt the true Lift. His eyes widened, and his body became steady. His father grinned, and without warning, he released Jiro's hand.

He shot up into the sky. He panicked, but he laughed at the feeling of the air and the wind around him. It was the most fantastic thing. He went up again, and his lower body gave him more Lift, allowing him to go as high as the birds. He did it. He was flying like a true Aradacko.

But then he moved one of his legs, and his balance wavered. His laughter caught in his throat, and the panic overcame him. He lost his Lift, and he moved his legs again. Then he was plummeting fast to the ground.

Jiro screamed in fear.

His legs kicked right before he hit the ground, and he woke up with a start, almost jumping out of his hammock. He was sweating, and the air was damp and hot. It wasn't only a dream. It was a memory from his childhood, which he cherished most. But he remembered that his father caught him when he fell. His father had rubbed his head and told him to practice some more.

Jiro pushed himself out of the hammock and stood up. The ship was steady, only bobbing. When he climbed up to the deck, he saw the clear sky. They had already docked.

"There's out little Wingless Maharlika," Jiro heard someone say, and he turned to see the captain walking toward him. "By the old kings, we thought you were rotting dead in your hammock. You still got that knife with you, don't you?"

Jiro nodded, checking the weight of the kampit over his chest.

The captain grinned. "Welcome to Kata then!" He raised his arms, gesturing at the water port. Then he turned back to Jiro. "Now, get off my ship."

.