Standing guard

After I left Isolde's room, the scent of candle wax and salt clung to me, and her reluctant "thank you" replayed in my head, low and grudging and somehow more intimate than anything we'd shared in years.

If anyone ever said the ice princess could be gentle—or, gods forbid, grateful—I'd call them a liar. And yet, there it was.

I stowed her empty plate in the galley, waving off the galley boy who offered to clean up, and headed back up on deck.

The sun was slouching down, dragging a bloody streak across the horizon. The sky was already bruising purple, with ribbons of cloud smudged gold and orange.

The Wind Chaser heaved and creaked beneath me, sails snapping in the freshening wind, the hull shuddering as we sliced through the waves.

A few of the soldiers were settling in for the night, grumbling about hammocks and seaspray, trading a last joke or two before bedding down.

Others leaned on the rail, smoking or gazing out to sea as if the answers to all life's questions might rise with the moon.

The captain was still up, bellowing at a deckhand to check the lines, but the real work of the day was done.

I should have gone below, tried to grab some sleep before the inevitable shitshow of tomorrow—docking, parading, whatever brand of royal mess the Southern Islands had lined up for us.

But I didn't. Instead, I wandered the deck, boots scuffing the planks, watching as the daylight faded and the world shrank to wood, water, and wind.

The sea at night is its own kind of magic. Most people fear it—too deep, too dark, too full of secrets. But I'd always loved it.

Out here, no one cared if you were half-demon, half-human, or half-out-of-your-mind. The ocean just was, ancient and endless and indifferent.

Still, I didn't let myself get too comfortable. I'd learned long ago that danger loved silence, that it crept in when you least expected.

And tonight, with Isolde knocked flat by seasickness and the crew winding down, I felt it—the kind of stillness that crawls along your skin, making your instincts prickle.

So I parked myself just outside her cabin door, one shoulder against the bulkhead, eyes on the flickering lantern at the end of the corridor. If anyone tried anything, they'd get a face full of fist, or fire if I was feeling generous.

Time stretched. The sounds of the ship changed—less laughter, more snores and distant splashes, the slap of waves and the creak of ropes.

Someone started up a low, wandering tune on a harmonica. It drifted on the breeze, ghostly and sweet.

A couple of the guards muttered a goodnight as they passed, but most had already vanished to their bunks or hammocks. I just nodded, keeping my arms crossed, letting them know that if anyone needed me, I wasn't hard to find.

The silence thickened. I tried not to dwell on it. Instead, I replayed the last hour—Isolde's pale face, the way she'd nearly collapsed into my arms, how she'd let me help her without biting my head off.

That little crack in her armor. Gods, if she ever let herself be soft for longer than a breath, the world might actually end. I couldn't decide if I wanted to see it or if it'd scare the hell out of me.

A sharp sound snapped me out of my thoughts—a brittle, unmistakable noise, like glass shattering. My whole body tensed. I moved fast, feet silent, all senses open.

The noise had come from down the corridor, two doors from Isolde's cabin. I was there in three strides, hand already hot with the threat of fire if I needed it.

Inside, lantern light glinted off the broken edges of a water jug. One of the soldiers—Tarin, young, freckles, more brawn than brains—stood sheepishly in a puddle, shards around his boots.

He looked up, face already red. "Sorry, Lyra! Slipped out of my hand. Was just trying to fill my canteen. No harm done, promise."

I kept my glare fixed on him for a second longer than necessary, letting the tension coil and snap. "You planning to clean that up or wait for it to cut someone's foot off?"

He gulped. "Yes, ma'am. Right away." He scrambled for a towel and started scooping up glass.

I nodded, a little slower than normal, letting the adrenaline seep out. It was just a jug. No assassins, no plot. Just a clumsy kid and a long day at sea.

Still, it was a reminder—one mistake, one slip, and everything could go to hell.

"Try not to break anything else tonight," I muttered, turning on my heel.

Back in the corridor, the silence was even louder. The harmonica had faded, the voices gone, only the ship's constant groan and sigh for company.

I returned to my post outside Isolde's door, rolling my shoulders, forcing myself to breathe slow and deep. Nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do but listen.

Sometimes, that's the hardest part—waiting, with no one to fight, no clear enemy to punch or burn. You start thinking too much. You start hearing things in the silence.

I tried to focus. Instead, my mind wandered: to the islands ahead, to the trouble brewing there, to the way Isolde had leaned against me, feverish and fragile, trusting me for half a heartbeat.

It was…unsettling. She'd always been the center of her own gravity, untouchable, impossible. Now, for a flicker, she'd been as real and mortal as anyone.

Maybe that's what got to me most—the thought that under all the frost and sharp edges, she was just as breakable as the rest of us.

The lantern outside her door guttered, throwing shadows that danced and stretched. I crossed my arms tighter, settling in. The corridor was empty now, except for me and my thoughts.

I didn't mind the quiet, not really. I'd grown up in silence, on the outskirts of every crowd, the orphan too strange for the home, too dangerous for comfort.

Even in the capital, surrounded by warriors, I'd learned to keep myself apart. It was easier than trying to fit somewhere I didn't belong.

But the stillness tonight—it had weight. I felt every hour, every league of water between us and the islands, every question unasked.

Eventually, footsteps—slow and careful—approached. It was the captain, face half-shadowed by lamplight. He paused when he saw me, nodding with something almost like respect.

"Everything alright, Skyblade?"

I shrugged. "Just a little excitement. One of your boys dropped a jug. Nothing more."

He grunted, glancing at Isolde's door. "She alright?"

I nodded. "Sick as hell, but she'll live. I've got her covered."

"Good. You ever need backup, you call for it. These waters…they remember old grudges."

He left it at that, the warning hanging in the dark as he continued down the hall.

I settled back, mind humming. I wasn't afraid of pirates, or even assassins. It was the waiting, the things you couldn't see—the secrets in the water, the loneliness of long voyages, the thoughts that got louder when the world went quiet.

I let my head rest against the wall, staring up at the wooden beams overhead.

A memory rose: of Malvoria's brutal training, nights when she'd leave me alone in a dark room to "listen for threats." I'd hated it then.

Now, I understood. You learned a lot in the silence. About yourself. About your fears.

Tonight, what I learned was this: The thought of something happening to Isolde—out here, away from home, where I couldn't control every threat—bothered me more than it should have.

I'd call it loyalty, maybe. Duty. Anything but what it really was.

Hours crept by. The ship moved steady beneath me, wind and current carrying us onward.

Now and then I heard muffled noises from other cabins snores, muttered dreams, the creak of someone shifting in their bunk.

Otherwise, nothing. I checked on Isolde once, just by listening her breath, slow and even, told me she was sleeping at last.

Eventually, the lantern sputtered and died. I stayed where I was, eyes adjusting to the dark, every muscle ready for trouble that didn't come.

By the time dawn began to seep into the sky, pale and watery, I was stiff, tired, and aching for a fight. But Isolde was safe. The worst thing I'd faced was a broken jug and my own wandering thoughts.

Still, I kept my post until the first rays of sun touched the deck and the smell of coffee drifted up from the galley. The silence faded, replaced by the noise of a new day. But that heavy, strange quiet stuck with me.

A few hours left. After that, the real trouble would start.

And I'd be ready. For anything.

Especially her.