“Take me and let them go.” For the briefest moment, they saw it: the flicker of greed flash across Driatha’s face.
A crack rang out like thunder.
The dome above them, ancient and delicate, began to split. Magic surged. Driatha’s mouth unhinged like a serpent’s maw. Dark, shadowy tentacles poured out, wrapping around Kit's face and neck. Another sickening crack, this time Kit's neck in the grip of Driatha as his body went limp and above, the arcane sky fractured. They had seconds, maybe less.
Freeya dove for the helm on Porthos’s corpse. Mellow uncorked her bottled breath. Another violent crack tore through the dome, and water came rushing in, a wall of force that exploded through the chamber. The temple groaned and trembled as the ocean swallowed it whole. A hundred feet away, the water rose like a beast awakened, beginning to fill the space. A whirlpool formed above, chaotic and unnatural.
They scrambled to survive.
Freeya spun through the surge with desperate agility. Mello held her breath against the icy flood, her magic shielding her from the cold. Blossom fought through debris, temple stone, and crashing waves, each strike threatening to drag her under. As they neared the dome’s fractured edge, Mellow slipped through the shards of magical glass suspended in water, pushing onward. Blossom spotted something—an anomaly in the chaos. A narrow column at the eye of the whirlpool, where the currents calmed. She pointed the way, uncertain why this strange reprieve existed. Driatha wouldn’t help them escape… would she?
Mello, quick of hand, reached for a shard, but seaweed twisted around her ankle. Without hesitation, Freeya swam to her, slashing the tendrils with her dagger and freeing her friend.
The current tore around them. Temple walls groaned and broke. Mello shoved herself off a falling slab, gaining momentum toward the surface. Blossom fought through coral and sea creatures churned by the whirlpool’s pull, grabbing Alexis as she struggled and hurling her free of the chaos. Freeya dodged a fat, confused manatee, her stroke steady and strong. They were getting closer.
Above, through the foam and wreckage, Mellow spotted the faint outline of a ship. Wood and debris floated past them—flotsam that could save a life. Blossom grabbed a large wooden plank, and Freeya, small and quick, clung to her side. They surged upward.
Then—air.
Cold and biting, it filled their lungs. They broke the surface as the sea calmed around them, eerily still. Floating debris bobbed in the silence. On the ship’s deck, Hal stood waiting. He didn’t speak, just gave a solemn nod before sending the crew to retrieve them. Blankets were wrapped around soaked bodies, hot food pressed into shivering hands. It had taken less than a minute, but they had surfaced.
Freeya still clutched the compass.
Hal watched quietly as the crew bustled around them. His eyes were red. After hearing about their loss, he finally spoke, voice low. “That sounds like something Kit would do.” Then, almost reverently, he pulled a letter from his coat—the one Cuervo had given to him. “I know you’ve just suffered three losses,” he said. “But this ship... Kit and Cuervo left it to me. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re my responsibility now.”
He explained the mission—how Cuervo had asked for their help, that the next destination was Grayfell. Home of the Rifters. A place they couldn’t risk docking at, not openly. The crew would take a week to reach the coast, and they would then be on their own to find the contact. He handed Mello a sealed letter, meant only for the eyes of someone in Grayfell.
Mellow embraced him. Blossom joined. “They loved you so much,” Mellow whispered to Hal. “You’re family now.”
Before sleep could claim them, Mello tinkered quietly, crafting three tiny coffins—one for Porthos, one for Kit, and one for Cuervo. She read the letter Cuervo had left for Hal: a heartfelt message passing on his share of the ship, a request to seek out a tabaxi named Cazador. It was a farewell, but also a mission.
She went to Kit’s room, her heart heavy, and with careful hands, searched for any remaining letters. She found one for Kit, and placed it within the journal of Cuervo.
Blossom, anger boiling beneath her sorrow, hurled a bucket across the deck. A crew member narrowly avoided the hit, but silently offered her a handkerchief. She accepted it, sobbing quietly.
They wandered to Cuervo’s cabin, searching for meaning. Inside, they discovered schematics, ship designs, and among them, his journal. Two sealed letters lay tucked among the pages—one labeled “To My Love,” the other, “My Baby Boy.” Both marked: Give to Cazador.
Kit’s room was simple, as always. Sparse. Peaceful. After taking a pillow from Kit's meditation space and returning to her quarters, she prayed to the Timekeeper, her god, breathing deep. In the stillness, she felt comfort—not answers, but reassurance. That death was part of the cycle. That Kit, Porthos, Cuervo... they weren’t lost. They could still be found—in memory, in the waves, in the wind. She wept quietly, thanking the Timekeeper, and drifted into sleep.
Blossom lay in her own bed, restless. Her thoughts tangled with doubt and fury. Where had the Wellspring been? Why hadn’t he saved Driatha’s people? Why hadn’t he saved any of them? She had trained her whole life to protect the innocent—why had she failed?
Freeya curled up in Porthos’s bed, surrounding herself with his scent, his drawings, his notes. She wept into his blankets, overwhelmed by loss.
That night, Blossom dreamed.
She walked across soft grass at the edge of a cliff, the sea churning below. In the distance, she heard someone crying. A woman with long dark hair knelt in the mud, sobbing. “He didn’t save us,” she repeated. “He didn’t listen.” A village lay in ruins behind her, swallowed by the tide.
Then the Wellspring appeared—not as a god, but a man. Muscular, weathered, a long beard flowing like seaweed. His face was sorrowful as he extended a hand.
Memories shimmered around them. People laughing. A man running, warning of something to come—ignored, dismissed. The city changed again.
“I am the Wellspring,” he said softly. “I do not command the sea... I am the sea. I take what is broken and return it to the depths, where all things begin again. They asked for my blessing—but when the tide grew... they did not listen.”
The waves churned beneath them as the ship carved steadily toward Grayfell, the gray line of coast growing closer. They didn’t measure time in days now, but in moments—sleepless conversations, stolen breaths of calm, shared silences, and small kindnesses as the days blurred toward the inevitable. Their destination loomed ahead like a bruise on the world.
Blossom was the first to stir that morning, her breath catching in her throat as she jolted from uneasy sleep. Her fingers were curled tightly around a her pendant—a blue stone, smooth and luminous, now hanging from her neck. The dream had shaken her, pulling her faith into question, tugging at her connection with the Wellspring until she almost let go. But even in the moment of doubt, she found understanding. Not peace, not yet—but something close.
Freeya spent the week in a kind of suspended stillness. Mello found her first—curled up on Porthos’ bed like a forgotten keepsake. Without a word, Mello crossed the room, picked her up, and wrapped her arms around her. The dam broke, and Freeya sobbed into Mello’s shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay,” Mello whispered, over and over. “I’ve got the memorial handled. If you need me, use the sending stone. Stay here as long as you need.” She brought food and water without question or expectation. Blossom came next, a silent companion who left behind small bundles of wildflowers and the warmth of her presence, never pushing, just sitting with her.
Together, Mello and Blossom prepared for the service, the memorial for Kit, Porthos, and Cuervo. Mellow checked on Freeya constantly, ensuring she was eating and resting, though the grief weighed heavily on them all. Mello, ever the grounding voice, reminded them what was at stake.
“We meet with Hal tomorrow. Then the service comes. If Freeya doesn’t want to join us for the meeting, we’ll tell her after.”
Blossom Mello continued, “We need to do this—for Cuervo. And for the star. I had a moment with the Timekeeper, and I understand now. This hurts, but I won’t let it consume me. If I stop, everything stops.”
In the quiet between, they conspired—small ways to lift Freeya’s spirits. Secrets only friends could share. Just being close. Just existing.
Soon after, they met with Hal. He looked as wrecked as they felt—sunken eyes, hands trembling with sleepless nights. As the ship neared Grayfell, he laid out the plan: they were looking for Cazador, Cuervo’s old contact, located at the Broken Rutter in Slateport. The ship would hug the coast, giving them a lifeboat to reach the docks. They were to avoid using real names, stay inconspicuous, and above all else, avoid the Rifter patrols—soldiers under King Delcan’s command. Hal handed them new clothes, and they chose new identities: Betsy for Blossom, Mira for Mellow, and Flora for Freeya.
Hal warned them they would stand out because of their compass and star, and if things went bad, a sending stone would call for help. They’d get in, find Cazador, and get out.
The service for the fallen began as the sun dipped low. The entire crew gathered on deck around a simple table flanked by torchlight. Small wooden coffins were displayed, each surrounded by tokens of remembrance: Kit’s incense, a drawing of Porthos’ ideal woman, and Cuervo’s weathered firearm.
“Thank you for being here,” Mello began, her voice steady but cracked at the edges. “And thank them—for giving their lives to protect us. I know this is hardest for those who have known them the longest. But they cared for all of you, like family. And I know they appreciated everything you’ve done.”
A hush fell over the crew. One by one, they stepped forward to cast their own memories and tears into the water. The sun was gone when they finally dispersed. The girls remained a while longer, eyes fixed on the horizon. Grayfell loomed ahead—a shadow draped over jagged cliffs, reeking of salt, fish, and desperation.
They neared port and were rowed to the pier by one of the crew, Frank, who secured the rope, giving them a brief warning to keep their visit short. The town was a bleak sprawl of stone and filth, with slate-gray buildings and weary faces. The Broken Rutter was easy to find—a broken ship rudder swung lazily as its sign. Inside, the tavern was choked with the scent of sweat, smoke, and spilled ale. Pirates, mercenaries, and prostitutes packed the room. A man in the corner was stabbed mid-hand for cheating, and nobody blinked.
They scanned the room. At a table, sat a Luma in traveler's garb. At another table, two tabaxi shared drinks and laughter. One stood out—a striking orange-and-white tabaxi in a leather hat, blades strapped to his body, a roguish grin on his face. That had to be Cazador.
Freeya approached first, Blossom flanking her while Mello chose a table. The tabaxi woman smiled coyly as they struck up conversation. Blossom played her part—just passing through for provisions.
Then they gave Cazador the letters. His smirk faded as he read of Cuervo’s passing. As they scanned the room again, the door burst open. A group of rough types entered—orc, human, jerbeen, and at their center: Kaveeni, a plump, angry-looking tabaxi, who seemed very much angry at the sight of seeing the beautiful tabaxi woman having drinks with other males.
The fight began before anyone could speak.
Cazador moved like lightning "It seems the woman delivers quickly", blade flashing with rakish grace. The attackers swarmed them—daggers and claws flashing. The Luma flung spells across the room after the Kaveeni began attacking him. Blossom and Mellow struck back with fury. Freeya’s music was a rallying cry, her spellcasting precise. Blows landed, blood was spilled, and enemies dropped one by one.
Cazador felt the coin in his pocket turn cold. He landed one last strike on Kaveeni. On the dead tabaxi's body—gold, a ledger, and a sealed letter in Thieves’ Cant. The tavern patrons didn’t care. Fights happened here. No one stopped drinking.
They gathered themselves. The Luma—Callum—after learning they had a ship and were leaving immediately, asked if he could have passage off of Grayfell. They left the tavern, stepping into the cold coastal air.
Mellow and Cazador spotted thugs down the street—obvious goons of Kaveeni's. Mello used the sending stone to message Hal that they were ready. Hal was already on the bow, eyes scanning the horizon. A Rifter ship was closing in.
“We need to move—now.”
They hurried, careful but quick, ducking gazes and whispers from dockhands. Cazador tossed gold at them to keep quiet. The life boat reached The Sea Hag's Quarry just as someone aboard the Rifter ship shouted: “Cain!—I fucking knew it!”
As the Rifter ship loomed, they only wanted Slateport in the distance—and the Broken Rutter’s bloodstains behind.
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