The Misadventures of Darius and Elara

Storm's abrewin

The wind swept across the deck of the Eagle Parrot, carrying the briny scent of the sea and the sting of salt to Elara’s lips as she leaned on the railing. The ship creaked beneath her whole again thanks to Darius, who still hadn’t woken since the restoration. Two days had passed. His breathing was steady, but shallow, like a candle barely clinging to its flame.

Below deck, the crew moved quietly, whispering, working. No songs, no laughter. Not without their captain.

Kale joined Elara at the railing, a dusty bottle in hand. “Found this in the emergency stash,” he said, lifting it. “Wine. Old. Might turn our stomachs, but at least it burns.”

Elara smirked faintly. “He’d hate to miss this.”

Kale sighed, eyes flicking to the storm on the horizon. “He burned everything for us. For this ship. He’ll wake up.”

Later that night, when the ship was still and most of the crew had turned in, Elara sat beside Darius’s cot, sharpening one of her daggers more out of habit than need. Rockford curled at the foot of the bed, chin on his paws.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silver pin; a falcon with outstretched wings. The emblem of House Vale.

“They sent this with the message,” she murmured, placing the pin gently on the bedside table.

Darius didn’t stir.

She stood, brushed his hair back once more, and turned to leave, but his voice, hoarse and quiet, stopped her.

“Elara...”

She spun.

His eyes were barely open, but they found hers. “Is everyone...safe?”

A smile broke across her face like sunrise. “We are.”

And somewhere far above the deck, the storm shifted, drifting north, as if the sea itself had taken a breath.