The days aboard the Duskvein passed in a blur of activity and unease as Erin Salore tried to find his
footing in an entirely foreign world. The creaking timbers of the ship, the constant motion of the ocean
beneath his feet, and the sheer vastness of the sea stretching to every horizon threatened to overwhelm
him. Every task felt monumental, from coiling ropes to carrying supplies to scrubbing the deck under
Cidrin's critical eye. He had thought himself ready for adventure. Instead, he felt like a misfit in a place
where everyone else seemed perfectly at home.
From the first moment, Erin knew he was out of place. Every task seemed designed to highlight his inexperience, whether it was coiling ropes incorrectly, stumbling on the swaying deck, or nearly getting bowled over by barrels rolling down the cargo ramp. And yet, he was trying his best to learn.
"Figure it out yet, prodigy?" Fenrick loomed overhead, leaning casually against the mast. A cocky grin tugged at his mouth, and his wild, unkempt hair caught the sunlight.
"It's harder than it looks," Erin muttered, pulling at the fraying rope.
"Everything's harder when your fingers are made of butter." Fenrick chuckled, loud and boisterous. "Here—let me show you again. Slowly this time." He dropped to a crouch and grabbed the rope, his hands moving with practiced ease.
"Thanks," Erin mumbled, trying to ignore the heat rising in his face.
Fenrick tied the knot perfectly, then held it up like a prize. "Now, don't get too impressed. I don't actually like helping people. It's bad for my image." He smirked, tossing the rope back at Erin.
"Yeah, I noticed," Erin shot back, managing a small grin of his own.
Fenrick burst into laughter, the sound sharp but not unkind. "There's hope for you yet, Salore. Just don't let Cidrin see you struggling, or he'll combust." He stood and stretched, already eyeing a distant corner of the ship where Narza stood silently watching the waves. "Later, kid."
Erin watched him go, still slightly baffled by Fenrick's contradictory nature—relentless teasing, but quick to lend a hand.
A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. "Why is that rope not secured yet?"
Erin flinched, glancing up to see Cidrin standing over him, arms crossed, the sharp lines of his features pulled tight in an expression of irritation. His glasses glinted in the morning light as he gave the half-finished knot a disdainful glance.
"I'm working on it," Erin said, trying to mask his nervousness.
Cidrin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is not a place for 'working on it,' Salore. Either you do it correctly, or you risk endangering everyone. Do you even understand what that rope secures?"
Erin blinked, feeling a rush of shame. "No…"
"It stabilizes the mainsail. If it fails, and we're caught in rough waters, the entire mast could collapse. That is the difference between life and death on a ship, Erin."
His tone wasn't harsh, but it wasn't gentle either—pragmatic and biting. Erin nodded quickly and returned to the knot, determined to prove himself. Cidrin lingered a moment longer before muttering, "I'll inspect it when you're done," and walking off toward the engine room.
The Duskvein herself fascinated him. During one of his earliest free moments, Erin noticed strange, mechanical contraptions around the ship: pulleys that adjusted themselves, levers controlling winches from absurd distances, and a steering wheel that seemed to hold against powerful gusts of wind on its own.
"Who even builds stuff like this?" Erin muttered to himself as he watched one of the automated clamps secure a loose line.
"You got a question, Scrap?" Fenrick's voice rang out, making Erin jump.
"I wasn't talking to—oh. Uh, actually, yeah," Erin stammered. "What is all this?"
"Cidrin's handiwork," Fenrick said, gesturing toward the galley door where the bespectacled crewman sat with a strange apparatus in hand. "Man's a damn tinkering genius, even if he's a killjoy."
Erin, curious, ventured closer to Cidrin, who was meticulously adjusting the gears on what appeared to be a clockwork crab. Erin hesitated for a moment before asking, "All these weird contraptions on the ship…you made them?"
Cidrin's fingers froze for a moment, then resumed their meticulous work. He didn't look up but answered flatly, "If by 'weird contraptions,' you mean the innovative systems keeping this ship from needing twice its crew size, yes. I made them."
"They're incredible," Erin said earnestly, leaning forward to study the small crab more closely.
"They're necessary," Cidrin replied, still focused on his project. "Ingenuity compensates for lack of resources. The fewer bodies required to operate a vessel of this size, the more efficient we are."
"And this is your…hobby?" Erin pressed, curious about the quiet but sharp man who always seemed ten steps ahead.
"For lack of a better term," Cidrin admitted, though his tone was clipped. "I experiment. Tinkering is a puzzle—a way to improve existing structures. Improvement is what matters."
Erin smiled nervously. "I wish I could do stuff like that. I barely understand how half this ship works."
Cidrin's gaze finally lifted, his piercing green eyes narrowing slightly. "Understanding doesn't happen by chance. It happens by effort. Observe, question, experiment, and you'll improve. Or you won't. That part's up to you."
Erin backed off, unsure whether to feel motivated or insulted, but he couldn't deny that Cidrin's genius intrigued him.
The stark contrast came from Fenrick, who seemed like Cidrin's antithesis in every way. If Cidrin lived in control and logic, Fenrick thrived on chaos. Erin quickly learned that Fenrick's motto was "Why not push the limit?" and he acted accordingly.
Erin's most vivid encounter with Fenrick's wildness happened during a squall when the ship lurched against rising waves.
"Let's see if these old sails can handle the pressure!" Fenrick shouted with a maniacal grin, scaling the mast with no safety line. Erin watched in horrified awe as Fenrick swung effortlessly between rigging, his laughter barely audible over the storm.
"Has he always been this… insane?" Erin asked Ariya, who was beside him, ready to help if something snapped.
"Long as I've known him," she answered dryly. "Don't take him too seriously, though. He might act like nothing matters, but Fenrick won't let this ship go under—not with us on it."
When Fenrick swung back down, grinning triumphantly, he slapped Erin on the shoulder. "You look like you saw a ghost, Scrap. Relax! You're on my ship now; we thrive under pressure."
"It's Thalor's ship," Cidrin corrected from his station below, not even looking up.
Fenrick roared with laughter, but Erin wasn't entirely convinced. Fenrick was fearless, but it wasn't courage; it was wild abandon.
Every member of the crew seemed so distinct, their rhythms clashing and blending in unpredictable harmony. The nights aboard the Duskvein were quieter, the crew settling into their individual rhythms of relaxation. Erin observed them in these moments, fascinated by how different they all were. Ariya seemed to take to the evening with energy, her bright laughter often carrying above the calm waves. She loved to tell stories, some real, some exaggerated to an almost ridiculous degree, but all delivered with a magnetism that drew even the skeptical Fenrick into her orbit. She began poking fun at Fenrick for getting himself tangled in the rigging earlier. "For someone who claims to be an expert, you sure don't know which rope goes where."
"It was a strategic maneuver," Fenrick replied with a devilish grin. "You wouldn't understand."
Narza sat at the far end of the group, her sharp eyes drifting between the rest of them without a word. Erin couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking—or if she was thinking about him at all.
"Something on your mind, Salore?" Ariya teased, catching his distracted expression.
"Just... learning how you all do this," he admitted.
Thalor's chuckle rumbled softly. "We each bring something to the crew, Erin. You'll find your place."
Ariya smiled, leaning closer. "And maybe even learn some finesse while you're at it. You've got potential." "You're terrible at poker, by the way," she said, dealing cards on a crate while Fenrick and Cidrin reluctantly sat opposite her. "I can see every bluff on your face."
Fenrick grinned lazily, throwing down his hand of mismatched cards. "Maybe I let you win because it's funny watching you gloat."
"Sure, and maybe the sun rises in the west," Ariya quipped, sliding the pot of coins to her side with a victorious grin.
Thalor was always the steadying presence, ensuring balance with his soft-spoken wisdom and even-tempered leadership. Ariya's lively energy filled the quiet moments with stories of daring escapades, though Erin quickly noticed her flair for embellishment.
"And there I was," Ariya declared one night, gesturing dramatically. "Face-to-face with a sea wyrm the size of the ship!"
"You mean the one you said was barely longer than a rowboat last time?" Fenrick teased.
"It gets bigger every time you tell the story," Cidrin added, unimpressed.
Ariya stuck her tongue out at both of them. "Whatever. Scrap here believes me, don't you?"
Erin chuckled. "I, uh, think I'll just take your word for it."
The atmosphere around the dinner table was chaotic but warm, a kind of camaraderie Erin had never experienced. Even Narza, though silent, seemed a natural part of the group, her scarred features and reserved demeanor lending her an enigmatic presence.
Narza intrigued Erin most of all. He tried to speak to her whenever he could—always to no avail. She either ignored him or responded with a passing glance that revealed nothing. One night, he asked Thalor about her.
"Narza doesn't talk much about her past," Thalor admitted. "She's private, and I've learned to respect that."
"But…" Erin hesitated. "What is she like? She's so different from everyone else."
"That's part of what makes her valuable," Thalor said, his voice steady. "She's sharp, in every way. Don't take her silence personally. She'll speak when she's ready—if she's ready."
Narza's guarded nature only fueled Erin's curiosity. One night, he thought he saw her carving something out of wood and tried to get a closer look. Quietly creeping closer, he stepped into her line of sight—and froze.
Narza's eyes met his, sharp and unwavering.
"I wasn't—I mean, I was just—" Erin stammered, retreating as she returned to her carving.
Even as Erin adapted to the crew's dynamics, he found solace in his father's journal. Late at night, he would sit beneath the dim lantern glow and lose himself in its pages.
"I saw it again, that damn storm—a vision this time, not just a memory. The waves turned black as night, and from the abyss, something rose. I swear it wasn't natural. It hungered. Am I losing my mind, or is the sea trying to tell me something?"
These fragments painted a picture of the world Kael had known—a world Erin yearned to explore, even as doubts about his own capability gnawed at him. He shivered and snapped the book shut, the wind picking up as if in answer.
On the fifth day, an island appeared on the horizon, its coral-ringed shores shimmering in the morning sun. Thalor's voice carried over the deck.
"Atoll sighted!"
"You ready for your first landing, Scrap?" Fenrick called, nudging Erin's shoulder with a wild grin.
"Are you ready to stop calling me that?" Erin shot back, smiling despite himself.
"Nope," Fenrick said, slinging an arm around him. "You'd better prepare because it's only gonna get crazier from here."
Thalor stood at the helm, steering toward steadily toward the atoll, its jagged silhouette standing against the sky like a promise of the unknown. Erin stood beside him, the familiar feeling of adventure stirring in his chest, tempered by the lessons he'd learned aboard the ship. For the first time, he began to feel like he might belong here—not yet fully, but enough to keep going.
As the Duskvein approached the dock, Erin leaned over the railing, unable to look away from the scene unfolding before him. This was his first time traveling to another island, and the sights filled him with a mix of wonder and unease.