The next morning broke overcast, the sky a low blanket of gray that blurred the line between sea and cloud. The crew moved with the same practiced discipline as always, but ProlixalParagon noticed it now — the way they communicated more with glances than words, how few names were spoken aloud, how no one ever stayed idle for long.

  There were no idle sailors aboard the Distant Reverie.

  Everyone did something. Or watched.

  After breakfast — a thin barley stew and hard flatbread, passed around in quiet — ProlixalParagon slipped away while the others tended to the wagons.

  He moved like he had during his days of maintenance in Dustreach, light on his feet, unassuming. The worn brown cloak he’d acquired helped blur his outline among barrels and crates, and more than once a sailor brushed past him without so much as a second glance.

  He followed the corridor along the lower middeck, past the cargo manifests and the trapdoor that led to the ballast wells.

  He paused briefly outside the reinforced door marked “Private Storage: Crew Only.”

  No lock.

  That was telling in and of itself.

  Locks invited questions.

  He slipped through when no one watched.

  The air inside was different.

  Not foul, exactly — but heavy, still. Touched with oil, salt, leather, and the sharp tang of dried blood.

  The hold was clean.

  Too clean.

  Canvas tarps were strapped over most of the crates. Prolix peeled back the first corner carefully, exposing rows of tightly packed bolts of cloth — all the same dye. Deep crimson. Expensive. Unmarked.

  Not contraband. But not the kind of cargo openly declared, either.

  The second crate contained reinforced shackles. Not chains. Shackles. With adjustment rings that would fit humanoid wrists, goblin limbs, even Fennician forearms. All carefully oiled. Recently used.

  Prolix’s fur prickled along his arms.

  He closed the crate and moved deeper.

  In the rear corner of the hold, behind a stack of tarped goods, he found what he wasn’t meant to find.

  A false wall.

  Barely noticeable, the edges sealed with pitch, painted to look like the hull.

  But someone had been here recently — a handprint in the dust, a scuffed boot-mark on the edge of the tarp.

  Prolix knelt.

  He pressed his palm flat against the wall and felt it.

  The faint pulse of a mana seal — not a door, not quite, but a hidden passage. Shipbuilders sometimes built concealed storage for smuggling or emergencies.

  But this wasn’t smuggling gear.

  This was the ship.

  Built with secrets.

  And the mana seal bore a signature not from Soohan or Draggor...

  But from Baigai.

  Prolix’s lattice trembled faintly. Not in danger — in recognition.

  This ship wasn’t just traveling to Baigai.

  It had been built there.

  And the mana signature tasted old. Pirate-old.

  Before he could press further, a sound behind him — faint footfalls on the outer deck.

  Prolix stepped back, slipping behind a support beam as a sailor passed by the entrance.

  The man didn’t see him. But he paused just inside the threshold, adjusted a leather gauntlet at his wrist, and glanced once — almost reverently — at the false wall.

  Then he left.

  And said nothing.

  Prolix waited until the hold was still again.

  Then quietly, carefully, he backed out and replaced the tarp exactly as he found it.

  He returned to the upper deck through a maintenance shaft two levels up, emerging near the forward storage where a pair of deckhands laughed over a game of dice.

  No one saw him return to the Troupe’s quarters.

  No one questioned his absence.

  But that night, when he lay back in his bunk with the sea groaning softly against the hull, his thoughts churned with certainty:

  The Distant Reverie wore the coat of a merchant vessel.

  But beneath her painted lines and polished brass...

  She was a ghost in the shipping lanes.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And the deeper they sailed, the more certain he became:

  Whatever waited in Baigai hadn’t just drawn him.

  It had sent this ship to find him, too.

  ProlixalParagon said nothing the next morning.

  Not to Lyra.

  Not to Marx.

  Not even to Kaelthari, whose golden eyes searched his face over morning tea with quiet, unreadable weight.

  He merely ate. Listened. Watched.

  And kept the shape of what he’d seen — the crates, the shackles, the false wall, the sigil — folded tightly behind his teeth.

  The Distant Reverie rolled steady through deep gray waters, her sails taut, her rigging whispering like breath held too long. Above, clouds swam low and white — not storm-born, but sluggish and veiled, as if the sky itself conspired to hide what lay ahead.

  By outward appearances, the ship remained efficient. Peaceful. Ordinary.

  But Prolix had learned to see the subtler patterns.

  And now, he watched.

  He began in the way of any Tinkerer: with habitual mapping.

  He retraced the paths of the crew across the main and upper decks, noting footfalls, regularity, rotation. At first glance, it appeared structured — a disciplined cycle of work shifts, meals, repairs.

  But the night rotations told a different story.

  Certain sailors — always the same four or five — avoided mess duty. They never sat together. But each circled past the aft cargo door at least once per watch.

  And always alone.

  He began sketching between his journal entries, building a rough map of the ship’s flow:

  Crew movement was denser near the false wall.

  Supply checks occurred twice daily — but only certain crates were ever opened.

  A low-ranking deckhand named Tems bore a hidden scar with the same spiral-and-wave sigil faintly inked across his shoulder. Prolix saw it while he worked shirtless in the rigging.

  He also began to notice hand signals.

  Not the usual nautical signs.

  Something older. Leaner. A system built for silence and speed — thief’s cant adapted for open water.

  To most, they looked like casual gestures.

  To a practiced observer?

  They were orders.

  That evening, while the Troupe gathered for dinner, Prolix excused himself early, claiming fatigue.

  In truth, he followed the bosun, a quiet man with a lantern jaw and three rings in his left ear — always the left. The man moved to the aft deck, knelt beside a crate, and tapped it in a rhythm: three-slow-two. Paused. One tap.

  The crate didn't open. But a low hum answered from somewhere below — a mana-linked response.

  Confirmation.

  Acknowledgment.

  Still, Prolix kept silent.

  The Troupe was vulnerable. The wagons, their lives — their homes — were chained to the deck of this ship.

  No exit.

  No escape.

  Not yet.

  So he said nothing.

  He simply watched.

  Learned.

  Waited.

  And as he watched, the ship sailed on toward Baigai.

  But the wind had shifted.

  The cycles churned faster.

  And below it all — in coils and hushed patterns — the Reverie whispered secrets in knots and sails, and ProlixalParagon listened with the patience of one who had survived gods.

  It happened on the sixth night.

  The wind had died sometime after dusk, and the Distant Reverie glided through a hushed sea with only the groan of her frame and the flutter of slack canvas for company. The moons were shrouded. Stars blurred by a creeping mist that hadn’t yet reached the decks.

  ProlixalParagon had taken to carrying a repair satchel at all times now — a harmless guise. He often wandered the edges of the crew paths, appearing to inspect joints, wiring, loose bolts. No one questioned it. He was a Tinkerer, after all. Curious by design.

  But tonight, he lingered near the aft stairs with purpose.

  He’d seen the same sailor — Tems — pass by at irregular intervals. Never more than a glance. Never lingering long.

  But at the second hour past midnight, Tems broke his routine.

  He looked over his shoulder, tugged his hood lower, and vanished down the corridor toward the restricted storage area.

  No lantern. No light.

  Only certainty.

  Prolix waited five seconds, then followed.

  His paws moved silently over the planks, practiced.

  Each footfall was measured.

  Each breath shallow.

  He reached the edge of the shadowed corridor just in time to see Tems’ gloved hand press against the false wall.

  It rippled.

  The seal shimmered.

  A thin vertical seam split open, revealing a narrow passage lined with dark metal and silence.

  Tems ducked inside and began to pull the door closed.

  Prolix moved.

  He slipped forward, low and fast, catching the edge of the false panel with one hand just before it could reseal.

  The sailor startled — eyes wide — but Prolix was already through the gap, his dagger drawn low and held backhanded. Not threatening yet.

  Just ready.

  The door sealed behind them, the corridor swallowing sound like a tomb.

  For a heartbeat, neither moved.

  Then Prolix spoke, voice low and level.

  "Let’s not pretend I wasn’t going to find this eventually."

  Tems tensed.

  He was older than Prolix had realized — lines around the eyes, sun-leathered skin, lean like a wire.

  He didn’t reach for a weapon.

  But his stance shifted slightly, ready to pivot.

  "You shouldn't be down here, fox," he said.

  "And yet," Prolix said, stepping further in, "here I am."

  Silence. Tension coiled like steel cable between them.

  "I’m not here to fight you," Prolix added, golden eyes narrowing. "But if you're going to threaten the people I care about — you better be ready to bleed for it."

  Tems studied him for a long moment.

  Then, slowly, his posture eased — just slightly. Just enough to speak without cracking.

  "You have no idea what this ship is carrying."

  "No," Prolix admitted. "But I know it isn’t just cargo. And I know the Reverie was built for things that don’t see open sunlight. Things that wait behind false doors."

  "You think we're pirates," Tems said evenly.

  Prolix didn’t blink. "Am I wrong?"

  Another long silence.

  Then Tems turned — not away, but deeper — and gestured once, sharp and clean.

  "Come, then," he said. "If you’ve got the spine to ask, you better have the heart to know."

  And Prolix followed.

  Deeper into the Reverie's hidden ribs.

  Where secrets rusted quietly.

  And nothing stayed dead forever.

  The corridor behind the false wall sloped downward, the air growing tighter with each step, soaked in salt, iron, and old guilt. The walls were different here — no varnish, no brass polish, no effort at respectability. Just bare steel and riveted bone.

  Mana-light strips glowed faintly along the floor, casting long shadows ahead of them.

  Tems walked in silence for several paces, his steps slow and heavy, as if he were dragging chains.

  Finally, they reached a sealed chamber — round, reinforced, the kind used to store either priceless treasure or someone very dangerous.

  But Tems didn’t open it.

  Instead, he leaned back against the wall, exhaled, and rubbed his face with both hands.

  "You weren’t meant to see this."

  ProlixalParagon crossed his arms, dagger still loose in his grip. “But I did. So talk.”

  Tems didn’t meet his eyes right away. When he did, his expression wasn’t cruel or cold.

  It was tired.

  “We're pirates,” he said bluntly. “Or we were. The Reverie used to fly under the Crimson Wake — ran smuggling routes, hit merchant ships, disappeared into the Deadwater Reef when things got too close.”

  He gestured vaguely around them. “About half the crew still follows that code, more or less. The others? They’re just here for coin.”

  Prolix’s tail flicked, fur bristling. “And the Troupe? What’s your plan for us?”

  Tems swallowed.

  “We were hired. Back in Sern Ka’Torr. Quiet contract. Handoff arranged with Draggor agents at an outpost east of Baigai’s port spine. No names. No paper. Big coin.”

  His voice turned bitter. “They didn’t care about your wagons. Or your history. Just wanted you brought back. Said you'd been ‘smuggled property.’”

  Prolix’s eyes blazed gold in the dim light. “We’re people.”

  “I know,” Tems said. “I didn’t vote for this.”

  “But you’re going along with it.”

  He winced. “Wouldn’t you if the other option was a dagger in your throat and a shallow grave at sea?”

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Only the creaking of the ship echoed through the hollow chamber, like bones shifting in an old grave.

  “There are six of us,” Tems said quietly. “That don’t want this. We were promised mercenary work, not slaving. But the ones running things — the quartermaster, the first mate — they’ve got blood loyalty to the Wake. And they’ve done this before.”

  He looked up, eyes hard now. “I’m telling you this because it’s already too late to avoid it. But maybe not too late to stop it.”

  Prolix said nothing for a long moment.

  Then he slid the dagger away and folded his arms.

  “Then we plan.”

  Tems blinked. “Just like that?”

  “No,” Prolix said. “Not just like that.”

  He stepped closer, eyes sharp and cold.

  “You get one chance, Tems. One. I don’t care how scared you are. If you try to turn on us, I’ll collapse this ship from the inside out, and you’ll be the first to drown.”

  Tems nodded slowly. “Understood.”

  Prolix turned toward the sealed chamber door.

  “What’s in there?”

  Tems hesitated. Then: “A gift. Something the Draggor wanted back.”

  He didn’t elaborate.

  And Prolix didn’t ask.

  Not yet.

  He stepped back into the corridor, his thoughts moving fast.

  Six allies. Half a crew loyal to coin. The other half ready to sell them all.

  And time — like the tide — running out.