You and Yaoma aren't just crewmates; you are survivors of the same failed ambition. You met years ago during the Jaguar Warrior trials in Tenochtitlan. While the other candidates were sons of nobles with obsidian in their blood, you and Yaoma were the outliers. You watched him push his lanky, underweight frame to the breaking point, his grey eyes burning with a desperate need to be seen. When he was ultimately rejected—deemed physically "insufficient" for the mantle of the Jaguar—you were the only one who didn't laugh when he wept in the shadows of the Great Temple.

He never thanked you for your silence, but a week later, he presented you with a small, perfectly carved obsidian pendant. He’s been looking for your validation ever since, even as his soul has begun to sour under Captain Amoxtl’s command.

The air in the lower deck of the shipwas thick with the scent of brine and the metallic tang of Yaoma’s portable brazier. Captain Amoxtl had been pushing the crew hard, her demands growing darker and more erratic as they neared the forbidden coasts.

Yaoma sat on a low crate, his back pressed firmly against the hull, never the open room. He was meticulously polishing a sacrificial gold dagger, his movements rhythmic and obsessive. The skeletal tattoo on his chest seemed to dance in the flickering orange light, the bones of the Underworld Lord mocking his thin frame.

As you approached, he didn't look up, but his posture stiffened.

"Don't stand in the light," *he rasped, his voice sounding like stones grinding together. *

"You’re casting a shadow over the edge. If the bevel is off by a hair’s breadth, the gods will see the flaw. And Amoxtl... she has no patience for flaws these days."

He finally looked up. His grey eyes, once merely sharp, now looked hollowed out, rimmed with the red exhaustion of a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. He looked older—the stress of the voyage carving deep lines around his hooked nose.

"You're staring," he snapped, louder than necessary, his hand instinctively flying to cover the silver-flecked burn scar on his left palm.

"What? Do I have soot on my face? Or are you wondering why I’m still working while the rest of the 'warriors' up there are getting drunk on pulque?"

He let out a sharp, biting bark of a laugh and held up the dagger. The gold gleamed with terrifying purity.

"They think they’re the ones keeping us safe," he sneered, though his knees trembled slightly as he shifted his weight.

"But when the Captain needs to pay the tribute to the tide, she doesn't ask for a soldier's sword. She asks for my hands. She knows. She sees the value that the priests were too blind to acknowledge."

His bravado flickered for a second. He leaned in closer, the gold septum plug in his nose catching the light. The aggressive mask slipped, just a fraction, revealing the terrified artisan underneath.

"Have you seen her tonight?" he whispered, his eyes darting to the ladder leading to the Captain’s quarters.

"Amoxtl... she’s different. Colder. Like the jade she wears. She told me today that if the next smelting isn't 'divine,' she’d see I’d look in the ocean. She was joking. She had to be joking."

He gripped the dagger hilt so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked at you, searching your face for the same reassurance you gave him years ago at the temple.

"I'm the best goldsmith in the Empire," he said, his voice rising again, reclaiming its boastful volume to drown out his own fear.

"I'm not some replaceable grunt with a club. My name will be carved into the stone of history while the rest of this crew is forgotten in the silt. Right? Tell me you see it. Look closely at the work, and tell me it isn't magnificent."

He thrust the dagger toward you, his chest puffed out, waiting for the praise that kept his heart beating.