The ship was silent in the wrong kind of way. Not peaceful, not restful. It was the silence of a place that had seen too much life pass through it, and none of it gentle. Rain fell in a thin, steady curtain, each drop landing on wood already gone soft with rot. The sails hung in slack misery, damp canvas groaning faintly with every gust of mist-heavy wind. Somewhere below deck, water dripped from a broken pipe and echoed like footsteps that never reached the stairs.
Arthur stood near the mast, motionless, head tilted slightly as if listening to something beyond the creak and sway. His clothes clung tighter with every hour, soaked through. The scales across his jawline caught what little light the storm allowed. They weren't delicate. They weren't beautiful. They looked earned, rough around the edges like a leather armor of something that had outgrown its own skin.
