Chapter Text
Fjord woke to the patter of a hard rain on glass and the smell of a restless sea.
He lay still for a time, eyes closed, listening. He heard the groan of the hull when they crested a wave—the knocking of the supports as they slipped down into a trough—the roar and hiss of water meeting with the bow. There were no sounds of alarm. No hurried footsteps across the deck above.
Just a steady, lashing rainfall, and the occasional crack of stray rigging catching in the wind.
This was a heavy storm, yes, but it was nothing that the Nein Heroez couldn't handle. Satisfied, Fjord felt himself gliding toward rest again, lulled by the flicker of lightning and the throaty rumbling of thunder. He counted the seconds between them.
One. Two. Three—
But something felt off.
There was a prickling sensation where his neck met the pillow. A twisting in his stomach. A whisper in the back of his mind, coaxing him to open his eyes.
Look now.
Watch.
And so he did, letting his gaze shift toward the windows of his captain's quarters. Rain cascaded down the glass, blown at such an angle that it pooled on the windowsill. Fjord winced at the sight. He knew he ought to get up and fix it—but he was terribly comfortable, and . . . and then, he noticed a faint light reflected in the glass.
A candle was burning on the desk behind him. Fjord watched its glow with interest, still on the cusp of sleep.
Without a sound, a shadow passed before it.
Now he was awake. Fjord rolled over swiftly, throwing his arm across the right side of the bed. To his surprise, it was empty, the covers drawn back and tousled. He did catch the faintest whiff of perfume, though: a hint of baking spices and fresh cream, blending now with the brine.
"Jester?" he whispered.
The candlelight guttered and danced. A breeze curled into the room, winding around him, making goosebumps appear on his skin. Fjord ran his hand across Jester's side of the mattress, feeling the still-warm sheets.
He sat up, swung his legs off the bed—and immediately, he recognized what was wrong.
There was no movement.
Even a ship as grand as this one would pitch in a storm. Yet, there was no rocking sensation, nor any rise and fall in his chest as the ship navigated the waves. Only stillness, like being on land.
This is a dream, Fjord told himself, digging his fingers into the bed. He could feel his pulse race as his vision blurred in his panic. Ignore it. It's a dream. Just lie down again and ignore it.
But there was Jester's perfume again, and her vacant pillow, still hollowed from the impression of her sleeping head. Fjord began to feel a dull pain in his chest. A memory resurfaced: He'd had a dream like this once before, and he'd woken to a nightmare.
"Jester," he said again, urgently and to no response. As his will faded, the scene around him felt more and more real.
Fjord looked over his shoulder, letting his gaze sweep over the room.
First, he studied the corner that Jester had claimed for her studio-at-sea. A large easel stood there, occupied by a half-finished seascape of the shoreline near Palma Flora.
There were her brushes, and there were her paints; a robe of a dusty violet shade was slung over a nearby chair.
But no Jester.
Now Fjord looked to the far side of the room, where they'd set out their travel trunks. At the beginning, he'd teased her about her absurd amount of luggage. Then their belongings started to mingle, and it seemed pointless to separate them when he carried so little—which meant that now, he dressed out of a bright pink travel trunk each morning.
From what he could see, everything had been secured ahead of the storm. Even her dressing screen had been neatly folded and stowed away.
Still, no Jester.
Against all of his instincts, Fjord stood and moved toward the center of the room. His desk was nearby, positioned to receive ample light from the balcony.
His pace slowed as he approached it. The maps and papers atop the desk were rustling, and now he could trace the source of the breeze: One of the balcony doors was cracked open.
"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, feeling his spirits sink. He reached out to grip the desk for support, only to flinch away when he felt something damp. He looked down to see what it was.
And in that instant, another gust of wind extinguished the candle, leaving him in the dark.
By reflex, Fjord summoned his sword to his hand. Though he willed it to be the Star Razor, the grip felt wrong, and there was no answering chill from the iceflex. Instead of a dash of frost, he heard a steady drip of water on the floorboards.
His breath quickened. His heart was in his throat.
Fjord started forward again, faster now, determined. He went to the balcony doors and threw them open, expecting to see the vast Lucidian Ocean before him—and he did, but it wasn't the open waters he had anticipated.
It was the view from his home in Nicodranas, in the midst of a devastating storm.
Water was rushing into the city, submerging the Restless Wharf. It peeled back the docks and tore entire homes from their foundations, driving them inland. Ships broke from their moorings and became battering rams, their masts sheared off by the fierce wind.
So much had been destroyed that Fjord had difficulty finding any familiar landmarks. Then a flash of radiant green swept across the wreckage, and his eyes were drawn to the Mother's Lighthouse. The cliffs beneath it were disintegrating. As he watched, the foundation of the lighthouse cracked.
The sight made Fjord lurch forward to the railing, as if he could do something to stop it. But this was beyond his power, and all he could do was look on as the structure crumbled into the sea.
Desperate, he turned to look toward the Open Quay. And there, on the other side of the balcony, he finally saw Jester.
The tiefling faced him, still and silent. She was soaked to the bone, her eyes wide with terror, her hair slicked to her face. Behind her, a figure made of living shadow crouched on the railing. With one hand, it held a dagger against Jester's throat, the blade dripping with black smoke. Its other arm was low around her torso, using her as a counterbalance.
Before Fjord could react, the figure leaned backward, and Jester's feet lifted off the balcony. In a flash, she disappeared from sight—and without a thought, Fjord vaulted over the railing to follow.
An angry, churning sea waited for them below. Just before Fjord hit the water, he saw something beneath the surface, illuminated by a flash of lightning: the coils of some great creature, twisting and writhing. Then he was underneath, momentarily blinded by the frothing surf.
He swam deeper, as hard as he could, his muscles burning with the effort. When his vision finally cleared, two images appeared before him.
To his right, the Cloven Crystal slipped from his grasp, fixed in the hilt of the Sword of Fathoms. To his left, Jester sank rapidly away from him. Shadows climbed the length of her outstretched arms, twining through her very fingers as she tried to cast. Her breath escaped in a swirl of bubbles.
In reaching for both, Fjord found purchase on neither. When he looked one way, the Cloven Crystal vanished from his sight; when he looked the other, the shadows enveloped Jester entirely.
He was left far, far below, with only the barest breath remaining in his chest.
And then—a brilliant flash from above.
Fjord threw his head back in time to see fire explode across the surface of the water. The brilliance of it cast the wreckage into stark relief: buildings, boats, bodies. Then those shadows seemed to rearrange, the debris pushing apart into a perfect circle. A single ship remained in the middle, turning, its hull forming a dark wedge.
And so it became a fiery yellow eye, with a narrow slit of a pupil—watching him.
Betrayer.
The voice reverberated through the water, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Above, the iris flamed ever brighter in shades of gold and bronze. It seemed nearer—and nearer—and—
Submit, the voice commanded.
Submit, it said again, or destroy.
Pain flared in the old wound in Fjord's chest. When he reached for it, his hand found only a horrible void, like his very heart had been ripped from him.
At that, the last of Fjord's breath left him, and the water rushed in. It was a shock of cold, followed by searing heat. A familiar agony. He tried to swim, but his body was seizing, his limbs swinging uselessly through the water.
Powerless again. Alone again.
Black tendrils began to claim the edges of his vision, spiraling in like smoke. Even the firelight grew dim. The voice said nothing more, but receded into a low, sustained growl.
Fjord reached out one last time, trying to grasp at something, anything—and the depths took him by the hand, and dragged him into darkness.
On a cool morning in Nicodranas, in a bedroom overlooking the Open Quay, a pencil moved in light, confident strokes across the pages of a sketchbook.
The newest drawing joined many others from earlier in the week, the largest of which was a rendering of a famous candy shop in the Opal Archways. It was a place where the artist had occasionally escaped to as a child—sometimes with a chaperone, but more often without.
She'd captured its features in loving detail, with particular attention to the arched windows where she'd so often pressed her face. For extra whimsy, she'd framed the picture in an array of sparkles, dancing sweets, and—inexplicably—fat little unicorns.
Next to the candy shop, there was a portrait of a halfling woman. The woman was holding her laughing child upside down and gently shaking him, so as to empty his pockets of stolen goods. (She didn't look displeased.)
And then there was a three-panel comic, illustrating the following slice of life:
Panel 1
A half-orc shows a little blue tiefling some shells he found on the beach—one held in each of his palms.
Panel 2
He watches in confusion as she flips both shells over.
Panel 3
She takes his hands and holds them to her chest, so she can wear the shells like a brassiere.
"Oh, wow!" says the tiefling. "You know my size!"
To which the half-orc responds: "This is a PUBLIC BEACH."
Now the artist drew the same man again, in a more realistic style, fast asleep in her bed.
The greater part of his body was hidden under the blankets—which wasn't to her liking, but for once, she chose not to take liberties. Instead, she dwelt upon other details: The wild dark mess of his hair, its black strands feathered in against the white. The musculature of his forearm as he grasped the pillow. The peaceful expression on his face, half-hidden by the fabric of his sleeve.
And naturally, the crimson weasel that encircled his head like a living fur cap.
"Just. The. Cutest," Jester Lavorre said, smiling over the brim of her sketchbook. When Sprinkle stirred, she put her finger to her lips. "Almost done. Stay put!"
Jester looked down again, tilting her pencil to shade the voluminous fluff of Sprinkle's tail. She had to work fast. There weren't many rules in this Menagerie Coast household, but there was one Fjord absolutely insisted upon.
No weasels in the bedroom.
But Sprinkle was at his most affectionate early in the day, and he'd grown to prefer Fjord's indifference to Jester's occasional stifling attention. (Or at the very least, he preferred the half-orc's physical warmth.) It seemed unfair to deprive him, so when Jester woke first, she'd often tiptoe across the room and let him in.
On this morning, however, something changed between one glance and the next. When Sprinkle let out a soft growl, Jester raised her eyes, and she saw the weasel standing at the far edge of the pillow. His fur was puffed, and his gaze was fixed on Fjord.
Jester shook her hand, chasing away the stiffness that gathered there.
Quietly, she watched him.
It began with a faint tightening of his brow. Then, a shift in his expression: relaxed to worried, and worried to distraught. His lashes fluttered as his eyes started to move underneath. His breath deepened, then sped up, and then his lips parted to draw in deep ragged gasps, like he couldn't get enough air.
When Fjord finally rolled onto his back, Sprinkle vaulted from the bed. The weasel loped across the room, clambered up a shelf, and dove into the half-orc's satchel.
Jester barely noticed. She was sitting up now, her sketchbook forgotten in her lap, her pencil rolling off onto the seat. She watched Fjord reach for the center of his chest, where he grasped at a certain pendant. He breathed in sharply and held the air in his lungs. And held it. And held it, until Jester was about to jump up and shake him.
All at once, Fjord woke with a start, his eyes wide. Jester froze, waiting for him to cough and sputter as he'd done in the past—but then he drew a full breath, and so did she.
Fjord took no notice of her at first. He dropped his head back against the pillow, clasping a hand over his eyes and wincing. It took time for him to collect himself. Then, he looked to his right, where she usually slept—only to find the bed empty.
He sat up suddenly, appearing frightened. When he looked her way and saw her, Jester didn't miss the expression of relief on his face.
"Did you have a dream?" she asked. He sighed and smiled faintly at her.
"It was the city. Teeth, and tentacles, and . . . eyes."
She watched Fjord pull at the back of his nightshirt, freeing it from the sweat that gathered there. Then he swung his legs out from under the covers and sat at the edge of the bed, as if he was dizzy.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, just . . . hell of a headache."
Fjord rubbed his face again and pushed himself to his feet. He moved stiffly, like the pain had suffused the rest of his body—but he said nothing more of it as he crossed the room to her side.
Jester watched him check the weather gauges he'd affixed to the wall. Then, he ducked under her collection of homemade sun catchers and wind chimes to open the window. As he did, the two necklaces he wore swung into her line of sight.
One of them was an Amulet of Proof Against Detection and Location, with its shuttered lashes.
The other pendant—the one he'd reached for in his sleep—was a piece of polished amber.
The stone was the color of cognac, shot through with darker shades. It resided in a cage of twisted copper wire, which the creator had styled after a fisherman's net. To nearly anyone else, the pendant would look like something Fjord had purchased secondhand on a distant island. Rustic. Unremarkable.
But if you peered closely into it, as she had many times, you could see a yellow eye gazing back.
"Beautiful morning," Fjord observed. "What's the plan?"
"Breakfast with Mama, and then off to see Veth at the market."
“Good idea to get your shopping done now. That storm will be here in a few days." He craned his neck to get a better view. "See how the sky looks?"
"But it's so blue!"
"Exactly. Very suspicious."
The tiefling smiled, but only briefly. Fjord was still squinting into the light, like it was stinging his eyes.
"Hey," Jester said.
When Fjord looked her way, she gently took his face in her hands and drew him closer. She murmured a few words, and an earthy green light appeared under her fingertips. It traced bright swirls around his temples before disappearing into his hairline.
Instantly, Fjord's expression softened in relief. "Thank you," he said, leaning his cheek against her hand. Then his gaze shifted down to her sketchbook, and he furrowed his brow. "Wait a minute. Is that—"
"Fjord," she said.
"Hmm?"
"It's almost eight o' clock."
He blinked. And then he cursed. And suddenly he was a flurry of movement, breaking away from her in a frantic rush to put on his clothes.
For her part, Jester moved to sit on the edge of the window seat, where she merrily kicked her legs and picked up her sketchbook again. Flipping to a fresh page, the tiefling made a show of rapidly sketching Fjord in various stages of undress.
Him, raking his hands through his hair, trying to get his forelock to behave.
Him, pulling on his trousers and buttoning them at the waist.
Him, getting his shirt stuck over his head.
"Really? Like this?" Fjord said when he finally noticed her. He was nearly decent now, his hands busy with cinching his belt. "You could have woken me up sooner. Even fifteen minutes—"
Jester bit the end of her pencil, giving him a doe-eyed look.
Fjord glared at her. Then, with a great sigh of frustration, he shook his head and stalked in her direction.
The tiefling arched her eyebrows as he braced his hand on the frame of the window seat, looming over her. When he spoke, Fjord took on that dark, threatening tone that made dock masters tremble and crew members run to their posts—but when directed at Jester, was only ever intended to make her laugh.
"You," he said, "are a troublemaker."
Jester nodded, giving him a close-lipped, mischievous smile. Her tail flicked back and forth in her amusement, batting at his knee. Suddenly, it stilled—he was leaning in even closer, framing her in his arms, teasing her.
In her distraction, she lost her pencil again. She saw the amusement in Fjord's eyes as it rattled to the floor, but then he narrowed them, and he was back to that menacing look. With his free hand, he tapped the open page of her sketchbook.
"None of these better end up in the gallery," he warned.
"No promises," she said, looking wicked.
Fjord tilted his head, offering a peck on the lips. First, Jester set her sketchbook aside, taking the time to align it on pillow beside her. She sat up straight, her hands folded demurely in her lap, and tipped her chin up to receive him. He began to move in.
And then she threw her arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him deeply.
And again. And once more, leaning back so Fjord's hand slipped off the frame, and he had to put his arm around her instead.
"Jester, I—really need to—leave," Fjord said, while making no attempt to escape. When she finally pulled away, he had a dazed look, and it remained even as she hurriedly clasped the button on his sleeve and tucked the two pendants into his tunic.
"Hurry up, or that old lady will be super pissed!" she said, and with that singularly terrifying reminder, Fjord grabbed his satchel and bolted out of the room.
Jester listened to him hurry through the hall—start down the stairs—trip over the third-to-last step, as usual, and curse about it—and slide to a stop to pull on his boots. The front door opened, and then closed with a slam. For a moment, the house seemed to ring with the echo of his departure.
The tiefling tilted her head back and drew a deep breath of the sea air. Her gaze lighted on the wind chimes and sun catchers overhead, all of them cobbled together with treasures that she’d gathered on their travels.
Shells, sea glass, and interesting bits of driftwood. Sharks' teeth and hollowed-out reeds.
A breeze flowed into the room, catching their wind sails, and they began to dance and sing. When the light reflected through them, they painted the room in shimmering color.
Vivid green, abyssal blue, and brilliant, fiery amber.