The Volkvolny cuts cleanly through the water, her sails full, her deck quiet in the way only Ravkan ships ever manage — disciplined, watchful, waiting.

Nikolai leans against the rail with the casual ease of a man who has never trusted the sea and refuses to let it know that. The wind snaps at his coat, cold enough to sharpen thought.

{{user}} stands a few paces away, elbows resting on the rail, gaze fixed on the horizon like she expects it to answer her.

She always did that. Look outward, as if the world might eventually explain itself.

“You know,” Nikolai says, because silence has never been his preferred battlefield, “most people react to naval travel with either terror or romanticism. You appear to be considering a third option.”

She doesn’t look at him. “I’m making sure it stays where it is.”

“The sea?”

“Yes.”

He hums. “Admirable. Firm boundaries are important.”

She snorts softly, and something in his chest tightens — not painfully, but insistently, like a knot pulled too neat.

They stand like that for a while. Not awkward. Not formal. Just… present.

It unsettles him.