Raiden
The gentle rocking of the ship had become a rhythm Raiden had memorized in his fractured state, each movement pulling him toward wakefulness and dragging him back into the depths of unconsciousness. For days—weeks, maybe—he had drifted through fevered dreams and fleeting awareness, his mind weaving reality with memory, past with present. And in all of it, one thing remained constant.
Her.
Every time his eyes cracked open, the dim lantern glow cast flickering shadows along the wooden walls. Nyx had been there, sitting silently at his bedside, watching over him with strikingly haunting eyes that were impossible to forget.
But it was her voice—low, quiet, hauntingly beautiful—that had rooted itself into him in ways he hadn't expected. She sang in whispers, melodies he couldn't place, words barely above breath that laced through his fever and soothed him in a way that felt unreasonably intimate. She didn't know he could hear her. Or maybe she did, but it hadn't mattered. Her voice had quieted the storm inside him, offering him something solid when everything else had crumbled.
He remembered the way her fingers had brushed against his brow when adjusting the cool cloth, how the weight of full breasts had brushed along his arm as she bent over him. Her presence had kept him tethered, how the sound of the ocean beyond had merged with the rhythm of her voice until they were one and the same.
And now—finally, fully—he was awake.
His breath was ragged, and his body felt like it belonged to someone else, but the fog was lifting, and the clarity hit like a crashing wave. Sweat clung to his skin, his muscles stiff, his chest aching from fractured ribs and wounds barely stitched together. Instinct made his hand shoot to his chest, searching, fearing—until his fingertips grazed the artifact. It was still there, still his, pulsing faintly, weakened but alive, much like him.
He exhaled slowly, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.
He needed to see his crew. Needed answers. Required to understand what had happened beyond the wreckage, beyond the storm that had swallowed him whole and spat him back out into her hands.
Raiden swung his legs over the edge of the cot, the movement sending a sharp wave of dizziness through him. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give in, pressing his bare feet against the wooden floor, grounding himself as best he could. Weakness clawed at him, his body betraying the sheer effort it took to exist, but pride forced him forward.
And then, as if sensing his shift toward consciousness, Nyx moved beside him.
Her presence hit him harder than the fever had.
He turned slowly, blinking against the dim light as his gaze landed on her. She had been watching—always watching—but this time, she didn't seem guarded. Her expression was unreadable, caught between familiarity and something deeper, something unresolved. Her damp curls were a little messier than he'd last seen, darkened from the misty sea air, but those eyes? Still the same. Always the same. Hauntingly beautiful and sucking him into her unique vortex.
His voice was hoarse, barely more than gravel when he finally spoke. "You stayed."
Nyx didn't flinch. Didn't look away. If anything, she studied him, tilting her head slightly as if deciding whether or not she wanted to give him the truth.
"You needed someone," she said, shrugging one shoulder. "It happened to be me."
A ghost of a smirk flickered across his lips. "Lucky me."
Nyx let out a slow breath, shaking her head faintly; a slight flush warmed up her neck to her sun-kissed cheeks.
The ache of healing wounds weighed down Raiden's body. The bruises had settled, the fractures still raw beneath carefully wrapped bandages, but it was the absence of noise that first alerted him to the change—no bickering voices. No sharp quips traded over his unconscious form—just stillness.
"You moved me," Raiden rasped, his voice rough from disuse. His fingers instinctively found the artifact pressed against his chest, confirming its presence before he entirely focused on her.
The air in these quarters was different from the infirmary—quieter, more intimate, carrying the faint scent of salt and aged parchment. The lanterns burned low, casting a soft glow over the worn wooden surfaces, and beyond the cabin's walls, the ocean's steady hum filled the silence. Nyx has moved him to her private quarters.
Nyx inclined her head slightly. "Figured you'd rather wake up here than be trapped between Juno and Alric, tearing each other apart over your treatment."
Raiden huffed out something resembling a laugh, though it sounded more like a pained exhale. "They finally stopped bickering long enough to agree on something? Miraculous."
Nyx smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Not without a fight. You should have heard them—Juno practically accused Alric of being too traditional, and Alric accused her of being one miscalculated dose away from finishing the job the ocean started."
Raiden rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "That tracks."
"Oh, it got worse," Nyx continued, clearly amused. "I threatened to throw them both overboard, and somehow, that actually helped them come to an agreement."
Raiden chuckled, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his ribs. "Fear-based cooperation. Always an effective tool."
Nyx tapped her fingers against the desk. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"
Raiden tilted his head slightly, eyeing her, watching the way her delicate fingers danced along the table's surface. "And what exactly do you think I know?"
Nyx's smirk widened just a fraction. "You lead men who follow you not just out of loyalty but necessity. Your reputation? The way your crew speaks about you? There's more to it than just skill."
Raiden exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the artifact. "It's complicated."
Nyx arched a brow. "Things usually are."
Silence settled between them again—not awkward, not strained, but considering. Raiden felt the weight of her words, the sharpness of her observations. She saw things most didn't. And while he still wasn't sure what that meant for him, for them, one thing was certain.
She had moved him from the infirmary and had kept watch while he healed. Had chosen to let him wake up here instead of somewhere more impersonal.
And that meant something.
Even if neither of them was ready to admit it yet.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched thick with things unspoken, with the weight of everything they had just barely survived. Raiden didn't know what it meant—didn't know if he had the strength to figure it out just yet—but as his gaze held hers, he knew one thing for certain.
The ocean had taken everything from him.
But it had left her.
And somehow, that felt more important than he wanted to admit.