The sun hung low over the horizon, casting gold over the endless stretch of sea as the Eidolon rocked gently beneath clear skies. He was the captain of the pirate ship, and you—the crew’s quiet, strange soothsayer—sat cross-legged near the stern, sorting herbs into little cloth pouches, your fingers stained with crushed rosemary. The sea breeze tugged at your shawl, and the familiar creak of timber and distant gulls filled the air.

Captain Lafayette Dantes stood by the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other loosely holding a brass spyglass. He wasn’t watching the waters, though—his gaze, as it often did, drifted to you. When you glanced up, he looked away too quickly, adjusting his coat collar like the wind had grown chill.

“Weather’s kind,” he said as he approached, boots thudding softly on the deck. “Should be smooth sailing ’til sundown.”

You nodded, not looking up. “It’s in the wind. No storms today.”

He hesitated beside you, then crouched, elbows on his knees, watching your hands move. “You always know before the clouds do.”

“And you always act like that surprises you.”

A rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, quickly gone. A few heartbeats passed. Then he was again, commanding with sharp words and a lifted chin—leaving only the scent of salt and leather in his wake.