By the time Odessa and her crew returned to the Blue Heart, night had settled in fully. The storm pressed hard against the hull, wind dragging ice across the wood in long, scraping breaths. Some of the crew had already turned in. Others lingered in the upper halls, drinking, gambling, and boasting loudly about farms that grew larger with every retelling.
West went below.
The deep greeted him the same way it always did. Thick, unpleasant air. Rot layered over damp wood. The faint, sour edge of animals and rancid men kept too long in the dark. He settled into the work without comment, rag in hand, scraping at the floor where Jenny had fouled the boards.
“I would be lying if I said I was not aware of the rage that Tyrus carried.” The bottle passed through the bars. “I have seen what he is capable of. I thought Omni had spoken a change into him.”
“Lord Omni.” Mo turned the bottle in his hands, correcting without looking up. He took a slow pull, then grimaced at the taste. “The man is dead, not dishonored. Respect the title.” The cage creaked as he shifted, bones knocking lightly against iron. “We cannot control another man’s reality. Only the version we build of it.” Another drink. “Yours was wrong.”
West accepted the bottle back, turning the glass as if something clearer might settle inside it. Nothing did. He drank anyway. “I don’t know… Maybe you’re right.”
“Or maybe I am only making sense of this through my own miserable lens.” Mo reached again, fingers tapping against the bars until West passed it back.
West watched him a moment longer than needed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Mo drank, then lowered himself onto the thin boards of the cage, voice flattening. “Live your life, kid. Get out of here. Go far enough that none of this follows.”
West let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You have quite the gift for comforting someone, Lord Mozam.”
“Comfort is for babies and the dead.” Mo turned onto his side, back to the bars. “You and me? We get the floor.” The bottle emptied between them. Mo drained the last of it and let it roll from his fingers, glass knocking softly against iron before settling.
West returned to the floor, scrubbing in slow, even strokes. The smell fought him. He burned a length of rope near the wall, letting the smoke rise thick and bitter, something to push back against the rot.
Behind him, Mo’s voice carried again, dulled by the wood and the drink. “Your friend is out there swinging a cursed blade that broke the last man who held it. Just get out of here.”
West kept working. “How exactly am I supposed to do that? Jump thirty feet into the ice…”
A small lift of shoulders from the cage. No answer beyond that.
Jenny shifted in her place, steady as ever. West spared her a glance, then looked away just as quickly. The words sat behind his teeth, unspoken. What he had seen. What Tyrus had done. He kept it there.
The rope burned lower, smoke thickening, clinging to the damp air. It did little to hide the foul smell. But it was something.
The door swung wide. Light spilled in ahead of Smoli, cutting a clean line through the dark before settling on West.
“Odessa wants everyone on top.” His nose wrinkled as he stepped inside, gaze dragging across the floor, the cage, the corners where the smell clung thickest. “It smells awful down here.”
West set the rag aside and rose without haste. “You get used to it.” He moved through the stacked crates and low beams, Jenny’s flank brushing his sleeve as he passed. Smoli waited by the door, impatience held in the set of his shoulders.
“You know you do not have to stay down here.”
West took the first steps up, boots thudding against the wood.
“Then who keeps Lord Mozam company?” A glance back, brief. “Certainly not, Jenny! She is not much of a talker.”
The cold met them halfway up the stairs. By the time they reached the deck, the wind had teeth again.
Men were already filing off the ship, arms full. Shovels. Picks. Coils of thick rope slung over shoulders. Orders were moved without being spoken twice. No silent hesitation. No wasted energy.
Smoli steered West toward a crate where tools were being handed out. A shovel was pressed into his grip. “We clear a path, or we sit here until the hull cracks.”
The wood was smooth beneath West’s hand, well-made, meant to endure. He turned it once, quick, noting the weight, the cut of it. Not the kind of tool bought cheaply or in sheer desperation. Smoli nudged him forward before the thought could linger. They stepped out onto the ice.
The storm had packed the surface into uneven drifts, snow hardened in layers that resisted the first strike. Steel bit down. Again. Again. The rhythm came quickly, spreading across the crew until it sounded almost like work from another life. Everyone moved. Including Odessa. Even Broc. No distance between them and the rest. No orders shouted from safety. Just bodies in the moving storm, cutting a road forward one strike at a time.
The work stretched on without mercy. Snow fell as fast as it was thrown aside. Wind howled without stopping, cutting through layers, through breath, through thought. The path refused to take shape.
West kept his rhythm until it broke. His arms slowed first. Then his grip. Then something deeper gave way. He pushed through it, forced another strike, then another, until the motion turned hollow and his stomach tightened in protest.
No one else stopped. They shoveled as if the cold had no claim on them. As if this was the only language they spoke.
West dropped to his knees. Air tore in and out of him, loud, uneven. Heat clung to his skin beneath the frost, sweat turning cold as soon as it surfaced. He shrugged off his coat and let the shovel fall.
“Pick it up, West!” Smoli’s voice carried clean through the wind.
West stayed where he was for a moment too long.
“He’s done! Bury the fucker right there!” Turik’s voice cut in, bright with amusement. A few men nearby laughed, grateful for the break in monotony.
West reached for the shovel. Forced himself upright. The next strike barely broke the surface. His strength failed him mid-motion. He pitched forward, face-first into the snow.
Laughter came quicker this time. Turik stepped in without hesitation, driving his shovel into the drift beside West and tossing a loose spray over his back. West pushed against the ground, trying to rise. A boot caught him from behind and sent him down again.
“Gentlemen,” Turik called, voice raised for the crowd gathering at the edges, “here lies West the Weakest! Pay your respects.” Another shovelful. Then another.
Smoli’s voice cut across the line. “That’s enough, Turik. Back to work.”
Turik paused, just long enough to acknowledge it, then added one more careless throw to the pile. The laughter swelled again, a few men stepping closer now, watching.
The shift in the line drew her attention. Odessa moved without hurry, cutting through the gathered men until she reached the back. Turik straightened as she approached, hands lifting in easy surrender.
“Eh? Sorry, cap’. Just a little fun with the boys.”
She passed him without a glance. Stopped over West. “Get up.”
He tried. Arms trembled, failed him. His body sank back into the snow. Her boot struck his abdomen. Not hard, but enough. “I told you to get up!”
West rolled onto his side, then forced himself upright with his legs alone. His arms hung uselessly at his sides. Breaths came uneven now, heat bleeding out into the storm. Behind him, Turik had already begun drifting back toward the line.
Odessa’s gaze lifted, sweeping the men as they hesitated, tools idle in their hands.
“I’m sorry,” West managed, voice rough. “I’m too tired, I can’t—”
Her hand rose. “Shut up.” The word landed flat. “Turik.” Her voice carried this time. “Come back here, baby.”
A few of the men stilled completely. Others turned, interest sharpening.
Turik dragged a hand over his face as he turned back, forcing a grin that did not quite settle. “Oh come on, cap’. I told you… Just keeping spirits up, boosting morale!”
She held his gaze and said nothing.
The grin faltered. “It’s just jokes…” A beat passed.
Odessa’s attention shifted, drifting across the gathered crew, measuring the quiet that had formed. “Well,” she said at last, voice light again, “since we have everyone’s attention.” Her eyes returned to Turik. “How about a dance?”
A ripple moved through the men. Shovels dropped. Boots shifted in the snow as they began to close the circle.
Turik took a step back. “Come on, Dess…”
She did not look at him now. Only at the men. “Do my men want to see a dance?”
Hands lifted in a violent frenzy, rouged voices answered as the circle tightened with each passing moment. Smoli moved in without being asked. Two shovels came apart in his hands. The metal heads dropped into the snow. He passed a wooden handle to each of them.
Turik weighed it once in his grip. Odessa already had hers raised.
West stepped in close enough that only she would hear him. “This is unnecessary. He did nothing to warrant whatever you are about to do…”
Odessa did not turn. “Stand over there.” A small tilt of her head marked the spot. “Do not sit. Do not lie down either. Stay standing on your feet.”
The crowd swelled tighter, boots grinding the snow flat. West moved back, settling beside Smoli and Broc, breath still uneven, arms hanging heavy at his sides.
Odessa lifted the wooden handle, letting it rest across her palm. “Turik has been on the Blue Heart for four years.” Her voice carried clean over the wind. A finger rose, slow and malicious. “He has learned much. But…” A pause.
“Is it enough?”
“NO!” The answer came back in a single voice, loud, proud, and eager.
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The handle angled toward Turik.
He squared his stance, grip tightening, shoulders rolling loose as if he could shake the tension free.
“Nervous? Are we?” A faint smile touched her mouth.
Turik swallowed once. “NO! No…Never…!”
She gave a small shrug and then immediately closed the distance. The first strike came light and fast. He caught it clean. The second followed the same line. Blocked again. A third. Wood met wood with a sharp crack that cut through the noise of the crowd.
Turik’s footing settled. His shoulders loosened. Confidence crept in, just enough to show.
“She’s teasing him,” Broc muttered, eyes fixed on the battle. Smoli gave a slight nod. “First time he has been given the floor. He is lasting longer than most.” From where West stood, it looked like an even match. Strike. Block. Repeat. The rhythm held.
Then Odessa changed. Her upper body stilled. The movement dropped into her feet. She stepped inside his reach, then out again, each of his swings cutting through empty air. No blocks. No wasted motion. Just space, measured energy, and taken at will.
Turik pressed forward, sensing the shift, trying to reclaim it. He overreached. The handle snapped down in a tight arc. Wood met leather. A dull, cracking impact. Turik’s boot folded at the toe. The sound reached the crowd a half-second later. He held his ground, jaw tightening, breath caught somewhere behind his teeth.
Odessa did not give him time to react. He raised his weapon again. She stepped forward, heel grinding into the same foot. Full weight followed; the bone gave under the impact. She leaned in close, almost intimately, her shoulder brushing his chest. Then her knee drove up faster than the last blow. Air left him in a sharp burst. His grip faltered. The handle slipped from his hand. He staggered but did not quite fall. The next strike took him behind the knee. Clean and calculated. Then he dropped.
Odessa’s weapon came up again, then down in a blur. Once. Twice. Three times. Each swing stopping a breath from his skull. The crowd flinched with every near impact, her laughter breaking through the tension as she pulled each blow short.
She circled him, light on her feet, the rhythm shifting into something almost playful.
Then she let one land. The crack echoed sharply and cruelly. The handle splintered against his arm. Wood snapped. Turik fell to the ground, clutching the limb, breath broken and frantic.
Odessa stepped back, tossing the ruined shaft aside. Snow scattered under her boot as she kicked it toward him. “Here he lies, gentlemen,” she called, voice carrying again, “Turik the turd.”
Laughter rolled through the circle.
“May he rest in peace.”
Turik rolled onto his side, face drawn tight, blood mixing with spit as he forced the words out.
“I yield…!” He wheezed, dragged in a breath that did not quite fill his chest. “I conceed…!”
Odessa let the laughter run its course. Then she turned. “It is easy to laugh at the misery of others.” Her gaze dropped briefly to Turik, still curled in the snow. “No one teaches that lesson better Turik here.”
A few quiet chuckles lingered, then died as her attention lifted.
“But be honest with yourselves.” She stepped into the circle, moving between them, close enough that no one could look away. “This could be any of you!”
No one spoke.
“Wounded. On your back. Begging for mercy!” Her eyes passed over each face in turn. Not in a hurry and with no compassion in them. “All of you.” A small pause. “From West to Broc.” The wind pressed in around them. No one moved. “In my eyes, you are all weak.”
The words settled heavily in the air as she continued walking.
Odessa turned to her men. “It’s fun to laugh at the misery of others, No one teaches us that lesson more than Turik here, but let us be honest with ourselves. This could easily be any of you, wounded and pleading for mercy. All of you, from West to Broc are in my eyes, Weak” Odessa walked amongst the crew, who had become silent.
“We are on the verge of a war that none of you are ready for. Against an enemy that if I had the unfortunate fate of facing alone would see me as weak, but I am not facing them alone. I am facing them with you, together as a team. Together is why we rule the cerulean sea, why the Evokians would rather take our bribes than to face us in battle.” some of the men began to nod along, agreeing with the words.
“Together is why when we see Evokian flags and ships we do not waiver, because when we are together we don't see an empire, no. We see their weakness against our might. We have not only seen this empire bleed, but we have swung the blade that drew the blood, and together we will see it yield at our feet, begging for mercy” Odessa had fired up her men.
“So then what purpose does it serve us to tear each other down when we see weakness in each other, when there is a hole in the ship we do not mock the wood for breaking, we reinforce it.” Odessa said and looked around her.
“Get back to work” She began to make her way back to Broc, Smoli and West.
The circle dissolved without hesitation. Shovels lifted with more determination. Steel struck snow again, harder now, faster.
Odessa stepped past them, taking a shovel from West’s hand without asking. “You wanted to play healer.” A glance toward Turik, still clutching his arm. “Pick him up and bring him in.” She turned away, already moving toward the front of the line. “That toe needs work.”
West crossed the distance and stopped over him. “Can you stand?” He offered a hand. Turik took it, tried to rise, and failed halfway through, breath catching up to him in sharp, uneven waves. The strength needed was not there. Smoli stepped in without comment, hauling him the rest of the way up.
“Thank you, prick.” The words came tight, forced through clenched teeth. They half-carried him back toward the lower part of the deck, boots dragging grooves through the snow. Inside, the wind fell away, replaced by the hollow creak of wood and the low murmur of men at work.
Turik was lowered onto a plank. His boot came off with some effort. The toe beneath it had already looked wrong. It was crooked and darkening.
Smoli crouched for a closer look. “She got you good. Real good.”
Turik leaned back, jaw set. “Hurts bad.” A breath. “Arm too, I think she broke it…”
West glanced at it once. The way it moved. The way Turik guarded it. “If it were broken, you would not be moving it like that.” He stripped a length of cloth, scooped snow into it, and packed it tight with both hands until it held. “Here, hold this.”
Turik took it and pressed it to his arm, breath hissing through his teeth.
West shifted his attention to the foot. The nail was split; what remained of it jagged against the swelling flesh. “That is not good…” His grip tightened around the ankle, steadying it. “We’ll clean it first. Strong spirit, or rum if we have it.”
Smoli was already moving. He returned with a bottle, glass knocking lightly against his palm as he passed it over. West pulled the cork and took a brief breath through his nose. The fumes bit hard. Clean enough.
Turik watched him. “You know what you are doing…?”
West did not look up. “I know… Enough.” The blade came out next. It was small, worn down, but still sharp enough. He worked without hesitation, scraping away what remained of the nail. Carefully and methodically.
Turik flinched, shoulders tightening, but he did not pull away. “You know…” he managed, voice thinner now, “I was only fooling around.”
West continued, in silence.
“I… Did not mean anything by it.”
Smoli leaned back on his heels, watching intensely. West poured the liquor over the exposed nail bed. Turik sucked in a breath that turned into a curse, his grip tightening on the cloth.
Smoli let out a quiet laugh.
Turik shot him a dirty look. “What…?”
“You know what.” Smoli nodded toward West. “You are lucky that West is doing this instead of me. I would have chopped the damn thing.”
Turik wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
West passed him the bottle. “Drink. For the pain.” He did. Once. Then again, longer, forcing it down before handing it back. West took a smaller pull, then set it aside. His hand settled on the foot again. Firm.
“Now… for the fun part!” He did not wait. A sharp pull, with force and purpose. The toe shifted back into place with a dull, wet click. Turik’s voice broke loose, loud enough to carry through the hull. His hand clenched hard into the wood beneath him, knuckles whitening.
“YOU FUCKER! Ahh…! Where was the warning…!?”
The words came with breath, not anger.
West wrapped the toe tight, binding it clean, then packed fresh cold around it to hold the swelling down. “All done.” He rose, wiping his hands on the cloth. “You will still be able to walk.”
Turik sat there a moment, breathing through what remained of the pain. Then he gave a small nod. His hand lifted, gesturing toward the bottle. West passed it over. Turik drank without hesitation this time, longer than before, then lowered it, eyes flicking up toward West.
Silence for a moment.
“...Appreciate it.” He took another drink.
Smoli lingered a moment longer, eyes moving over the binding, the placement, the care in it. “Not bad.” He stepped closer, crouching just enough to study the work without touching it. “Can’t say I would have done better myself.”
West wiped his hands clean on the cloth, already finished with it. “It’s simple.”
Smoli shook his head once. “No. That is work.” A small pause. “Work a man gets paid for.”
West glanced at him. “Paid?”
“Not for scraps.” Smoli straightened. “But for real coin.”
The noise of the ship pressed in around them. Boots overhead. Wind against the hull. Turik’s breathing had already gone heavy, the rum dragging him under.
“Odessa pays her crew well,” Smoli continued. “Every man on this ship has taken something from it. Land. Gold.”
West let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh.
Smoli’s expression did not shift. “I am serious West.”
West said nothing.
“You have talent and a good mind, all this joking and numbing yourself is a sin, and a waste. It’s a cowardly way to live” Smoli said
West leaned back slightly against the wood behind him, arms folding without much strength behind them. “As opposed to what?” His eyes lifted. “A sword in my hand? Burning down entire villages? Or… Keeping an old man in a cage, captive?”
A brief glance toward the lower decks.
“With all due respect Smoli, serving Odessa doesn't seem like im applying myself for something worthwhile” West responded
Smoli watched him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. ““None of us here serve Odessa, we all arrive with our own purposes and goals. There's just no one like her to take you there. We can argue about whether she has divinity behind her for days, but there is no arguing her ability to forge the best version of yourself. After all isn't that what Voltas do”
West did not answer.
Smoli stepped in, hooking an arm under Turik and hauling him up with practiced ease. “You are not going anywhere, West.” The words came over his shoulder. “Not in this storm. Not in this season. It’s going to be a long winter.” Turik’s weight settled against him as he turned toward the stairs. “Think on it.” They disappeared down into the lower levels.
West remained where he was a moment longer. The ship groaned around him. The wind pressed hard against the walls. Somewhere above, steel struck ice again, steady and unbroken. He looked at his hands. Then turned and made his way back down, into the deep where the air thickened and the dark waited with Jenny and Mo.
Mo crouched near the bars, a pickle held out between two fingers, whispering to Jenny as if she might bargain with him. The donkey flicked an ear, unimpressed. The door groaned open. Light spilled in behind West. Mo’s head tilted up, eyes narrowing as he studied him.
“You’re back,” his gaze dragged over West’s frame. “You look exhausted.”
West’s eyes flicked once toward the makeshift bed in the corner. His body leaned toward it without permission. He caught himself, turned instead, and stepped to the cage. His shoulder rested against the cold iron.
“Lord Mozam,” his voice came out rough. “How much do you really know about Odessa?”
Mo’s lip curled.
“She’s a real mean bitch!” He stopped, catching something in West’s face, something that did not belong to exhaustion alone. Mo straightened slightly. “Why do you ask?”
West reached through the bars, took the pickle from Mo’s hand, and bit into it without thinking. The salt stung his tongue. “Lord Omni always told me the Voltas were responsible for the peace and stability in the northern valley for centuries, until Ossimo disbanded the order and imprisoned them.” He took another bite and chewed more slowly this time.
Mo gave a dry, humorless breath. ““Lord Omni had a fondness for the Voltas, he tended to exaggerate their significance, but it is true that Ossimo put an end to the order.”
West chewed, then swallowed carefully. “Then…how can Odessa claim it?” he pressed. “She can’t be more than thirty. That’s long after the Voltas fell!”
Mo stepped closer to the bars now, close enough that the lantern light caught the hollows in his face. “Her mother was one of the last.” His voice lowered. “After the trials, she was sold off. Just like the rest. Passed to an Evokian commander as his concubine.” His jaw tightened. “The woman trained her daughter anyway. In secret. In horrible pain. In whatever scraps of the old traditional ways she could keep alive. ”
A pause. “Odessa survived that house despite the cruelty of her father. “But her mother did not.” The ship creaked, long and low, like something waking beneath them. Mo’s gaze sharpened and he stood to meet West gaze. “I“I tell you this as a matter of fact, every one of us has a past, but that does not make us worthy of the grace of sympathy, nor does it excuse the deeds we commit” He leaned in, voice dropping low. ““She has told me her story in great detail, and while I once wept for her, I have seen the monster she has made herself.”
West said nothing. He looked around the deep. The rot. The damp wood. The low ceiling pressing down like a lid. The stale air that clung to the lungs. His eyes returned, briefly, to the bed. Then away.
He moved instead. Crates scraped. Rope shifted. Filth gathered into piles. He worked with slow, deliberate motion, as if the labor itself could quiet the noise in his head. Above them, boots thudded, voices carried, the dull rhythm of men still carving a path through ice.
Time stretched. The lantern burned lower. The cold crept back in. West kept working. By the time the ship settled into its night, his hands were raw, his breath shallow, his body hollowed out. Still, he did not lie down.
The deep held its stink and silence. Somewhere in the dark, Jenny shifted her weight. Mo muttered to himself. The hull groaned as the ice pressed in from all sides. And beneath it all, faint but constant, the sound of the frozen sea grinding against the ship, slow and relentless, like teeth closing in.