CH324 · Rewrite
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Chapter 324: Signs of the Sea

“Hey, girls—any of you want a bowl of fish soup?” Captain Jack called, ducking his head into the cabin. Smoke curled from the pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth. “Lucky fellow just caught a fat tailless trout.”

“Thank you,” Tilly Wimbledon said. “We’ll come right away.”

“Fish soup again?” Ashes muttered once the captain had gone, her voice carrying the precise register of theatrical regret. “Where in all the world is tasteless fish soup remotely appealing?”

“You can ask for salt,” Breeze said, laughing. “Pepper if you want, though that’s dearer—I doubt Mr. Jack will part with it easily.”

“Don’t add anything.” Andrea drew her long golden hair back with the unhurried grace of someone accustomed to being watched. “Boiled broth preserves the ingredient. Lady Tilly, I presume we were meant for the captain’s room?”

“As long as it’s warm, I’m going.” Shavi, smallest of them all, spoke from somewhere near the door. “My toes have gone completely stiff.”

They followed the stair down and filed into the main cabin of the Charming Beauty. One Eye Jack stood at the porthole, watching the white wake unroll behind them across the grey water.

“This damned weather,” he said, releasing a slow cloud of smoke. “How can it turn so cold all of a sudden? Oh, You Three Gods—it’s supposed to be mid-autumn.” A long sigh. “Ah~.”

“Maybe the gods fell asleep,” Ashes offered, and shrugged.

“Pei! You can’t say such things in the middle of the sea.” The captain pressed both hands to his broad stomach and made a reverent gesture skyward. “The Emperor of the Sea never closes his eyes. Let’s not think too much of it—let’s fill our bellies first.”

He had not hesitated to cut a hole in the floor for warmth: a brazier frame set into a bed of sand, heat isolated from the hull’s timber, charcoal glowing below a large iron pot. The pot bubbled steadily, filling the low room with a fragrance thick enough to feel.

The six of them removed their shoes and arranged themselves in a circle, burying their feet in the warm sand. The heat worked up through the soles slowly, like a thaw.

Tilly accepted the bowl Jack offered and blew across its surface. Where black-tail fish soup ran milky and pale, this one was deep yellow—oily rings catching the light with a crystalline sheen. Among the fish she could make out flecks of green and white: scallion, she realized, and felt a small warmth separate from the steam. The man had dipped into his own reserves. Sailors rarely saw fresh anything after the first weeks out; these had been kept in salted ice, and now they released a clean, bright fragrance that cut through the fish-smell and married itself to the ginger and the faint bitterness of ale.

She sipped carefully, letting each small mouthful travel down. Warmth spread from her throat into her chest and settled there, driving the chill back by degrees. Almost like the beginning of a low fever—pleasant, the body’s own machinery working.

“Try some pepper,” Jack said, gesturing toward the seasoning jar beside the brazier. “Drives out cold better than wine.”

“The additions are perfect,” Andrea conceded, in the tone of someone converted against her will. “The original flavor still comes through.”

“Won’t you have some?” Tilly asked, looking at Ashes.

Ashes waved the offer aside. “The fishy smell—I really can’t manage it.”

Tilly said nothing, though she remembered her own early encounters with the Fjords’ cuisine: fish in every form—roasted, boiled, deep-fried, frozen, salted into paste, cured into caviar—a catalogue that had seemed, at first, like dedicated monotony. She’d forced herself through formal banquets until the taste of the sea stopped registering as wrongness and became, instead, a kind of flavor. Now she could eat dried fish, roasted cuttlefish, even the pungent fried varieties without reluctance.

“Our high and mighty Miss Ashes has had her palate ruined by Border Town’s barbarous cooking,” Andrea announced, affecting melancholy. “The layering of spices and fine salt has not only destroyed her ability to taste anything subtle—it seems to have taken her courage along with it.”

“What did you say?” Ashes looked at her steadily.

“Isn’t it so?” Andrea’s laughter was easy, unhurried. “A little fish-smell makes you flinch. Willful as a small child. How exactly are we supposed to believe you’ll step forward when Lady Tilly needs it?”

Ashes’ voice dropped to something almost gentle. “So that’s your game—provoking me into a competition. Give it up. Border Town has weapons far more powerful than your arrows, and I still won the duel. If you want to take my place as Tilly’s personal guard, you’ll need several more years of practice.” A pause. “I misspoke. Your whole lifetime.”

“You—!”

The corner of Ashes’ mouth rose. “And the food His Highness invented isn’t only about spices and salt. You’d have to try it yourself to understand. Try not to let your drool spot your clothes—Lady Tilly can’t afford the embarrassment.”

“That will be you—”

Tilly smiled, quietly, and let them go. These two were Sleeping Island’s strongest combat witches. They sparred with words the way others sparred with steel—constantly, inventively, and without real malice. She’d watched enough of these rounds to know they would fight side by side without hesitation when the moment required it.

She was thinking of the five witches she’d sent ahead to Border Town—wondering how they fared under her brother’s care—when the Charming Beauty lurched violently beneath them.

The iron pot tilted. Soup hissed onto the charcoal and killed the fire. The brazier frame skidded across the sand and overturned; the pot went with it, fish and broth spreading across the floor.

A sharp whistle from above.

“Enemy attack!”

A sailor burst through the door, face stripped of color. “Captain—Sea Ghosts! More than one—they’re boarding!”

Sea Ghosts. Another name for demonic beasts. Tilly was on her feet before the thought finished forming. How are they this far south?

They ran up to the deck.

More than a dozen had made it over the rails already. They moved on six limbs like enormous cockroaches—fast, low, and somehow wrong in the way their joints bent. On either side of each creature’s head a humanoid arm extended, and these arms moved with a strength that could snap a man’s neck between thumb and forefinger. Several already had.

The crew had rallied. Experienced sailors—they’d pushed through the first panic and were driving the creatures aft in tight formation, buying space.

“Since you refuse to accept my challenge, we’ll have to settle this another way.” Andrea snapped her fingers; golden light gathered between her palms and hardened into the shape of a longbow. “The one who kills the most wins.”

Ashes had already pulled the great sword from her back.

“Fine by me,” she said, and moved.

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