Rules For The Bled

Life aboard the Osprey's Wake took on a rhythm that most of the crew called "stable" and Yvain silently amended to "stale." The salt air clung to everything, and the days passed in a sort of languid haze broken only by the creak of rigging and the low drone of the tide.

Celeste and Mars had taken to ship-life with far more enthusiasm than he expected. By the second day, Celeste was trading rounds with the gunner crew, drinking harsh brown liquor and arguing loudly about dice rolls in a game Mars kept insisting he hadn't invented but clearly made up as he went. Her laughter rang across the deck most nights, loud and brash and defiant, a welcome sound that drew smiles even from the weathered sailors.

Mars, for his part, flourished among the crew. He bartered songs for favors, spun tales for rations, and quickly earned a hammock near the galley, where he could beg for seconds from the cook and ply him with bawdy poetry. Whatever charm Mars had, it seemed tailor-made for ships and sinners.

Adeline, however, was another story entirely. She spent most of her time clinging to the rails and retching into the waves. The ship's motion, subtle to some, seemed to knock the breath from her lungs every time she stood.

Yvain, on the other hand, was glad for the monotony. It gave him something to do, nothing. And nothing was safe. It was quiet. It didn't whisper prophecy in his ear or open holes in the sky. He preferred the routine of deck-walks, chart reviews, and the occasional cup of bitter tea Rusk insisted kept "the sea sickness and the ghosts away."

He'd needed the stillness. Especially after the last time Celeste had been allowed free rein on a ship.

Just as that thought formed, as if summoned by irony itself, a thunderous blast cracked across the sky. The sound split the air and vibrated through the hull like a warning drum. Yvain cursed under his breath, standing from the stool he'd been perched on and making his way to the port-side rail.

Smoke plumed in the distance. Two ships, a chase underway, unfurled in miniature on the horizon. Through the spyglass mounted near the helm, he could make out the outlines of cannonfire bursting like black flowers across one vessel's side. But it wasn't much of a battle. One ship was clearly dominating, her volleys precise and pitiless, ripping into her opponent's hull with brutal ease.

The crew of the Osprey's Wake poured onto the upper deck in seconds, boots thudding against wood and eyes wide. Even Captain Rusk emerged from her quarters, hands behind her back, her gaze fixed on the scene with a stillness that was far too practiced to be calm.

Celeste and Mars were already there, drawn like moths to mayhem.

"By the Sea-Mother…" one of the older sailors muttered, pale under his sunburnt skin. "That's the Widow's Folly."

He gestured toward the larger ship, its sails bearing the black-on-red crest of the Dominion Navy.

Rusk gave a tight nod. "That's her, alright."

Her tone was controlled, but tension radiated through her posture, shoulders drawn back, jaw set. Around her, the crew exchanged grim looks. Conversations lowered to whispers. Even the newer hands fell quiet, recognizing the fear that name carried.

Yvain turned toward Mars, who stood at the rail with his usual flair, though his eyes were sharper now, serious behind the playful mask. "Should we be worried?"

Mars shrugged one shoulder, but the motion was more thoughtful than casual. "Not exactly. The Widow's Folly is the flagship of the Dominion's western fleet. She's helmed by Rear Admiral Eresk Taar, old blood, highborn, and not known for mercy." He paused. "But he shouldn't trouble us. Rusk's got a Dominion-issued privateer license. That makes us legal."

"Legal doesn't always mean safe," Yvain said, eyes narrowing.

Mars nodded. "No. But it means we're not immediate prey."

Another blast thundered in the distance as the doomed ship crumbled into a smear of splinters and canvas. Black smoke spilled into the sky like mourning cloth.

"Then again," Mars muttered, "he might just be in a mood today."

Rusk turned to her crew. "No flags, no signals. Don't provoke a second glance. Keep her steady."

The helmsman nodded, hands tight on the wheel.

The Osprey's Wake turned subtly, shifting her course to avoid drifting too close to the site of the engagement. Silence ruled the deck as all eyes stayed on the horizon, watching as the Widow's Folly turned in place like a predator scanning for its next meal.

The Widow's Folly turned her bulk slowly through the water, the tide parting around her hull. All aboard the Osprey's Wake went still, hands frozen mid-knot, conversations evaporating mid-word.

The flagship was approaching.

Her black-painted sides were marred with the scars of old battles and new ones alike. Gunports lined her flanks like jagged teeth, and above them, the crimson banner of Dominion snapped in the wind.

She pulled alongside them, dwarfing the Wake like a leviathan beside a skiff. Then came the groan of timber and the scrape of iron as a narrow gangplank extended from her hull with slow precision, bridging the space between the two vessels.

A thud echoed across the deck as boots hit the wood. An officer, clad in a high-collared navy coat adorned with black threadwork and silver buttons, strode forward across the plank. He was flanked by two Dominion guards, both helmeted, spears in hand, expressions unreadable beneath visors etched with curling draconic motifs.

The officer stepped onto the Wake's deck and paused, looking around with the detached arrogance of a man who'd spent his life being obeyed. His eyes trailed over the crew like they were livestock, counting heads, weighing worth.

"Who commands this vessel?" he asked, his tone clipped and cold.

Rusk stepped forward from beside the helm, posture perfectly poised. "Captain Faelen Rusk, of the Osprey's Wake."

The officer didn't respond immediately. He simply held out a gloved hand. "Identification."

Rusk retrieved a folded bundle of weathered parchment from within her coat and handed it over. He took it with disdainful fingers and gave it a cursory glance, his lips barely moving as he read aloud.

"Registered passenger and cargo vessel… approved under privateer license, Dominion Coastal Authority, issued two years ago." He sniffed, unimpressed. "I will also require your passenger manifest. And the cargo logs."

The crew collectively tensed, though they showed it in different ways. A few turned their heads, others adjusted grip on nearby rigging. Even Mars stopped humming whatever sea shanty had been occupying him.

Rusk smiled, all teeth and practiced ease. "Of course. But surely we can do away with such stressful formalities," she said, reaching again into her coat. This time she retrieved a small, finely stitched leather pouch. She passed it over, casually, as if she were handing over a thank-you note.

"You seem like a man whose time is too valuable to be wasted on a backwater merchant trawler like mine."

The officer accepted the pouch without blinking. He gave it a subtle bounce in his hand, gauging the weight, and whatever was hidden inside. From the small shift in his smile, it was apparently to his liking.

"Yes," he said, voice softening ever so slightly. "I am quite busy."

He handed back the license papers. "Your vessel is free to continue its course. Stay clear of military lanes and make no additional stops on Dominion shores without secondary clearance."

"Understood," Rusk said, offering a small bow. "Safe winds to you."

The officer turned without another word, his guards falling in behind him. They made their way back across the gangplank with the same precision with which they'd arrived.

Only when the plank was retracted and the Widow's Folly began to drift away did the tension aboard the Wake begin to ease. Conversations resumed slowly, feet moved again, and someone finally exhaled loud enough to earn a nervous laugh.

Rusk tucked her license back into her jacket and watched the flagship vanish into a curtain of sea mist.

"I hate those bastards," she muttered.