The feast had been a rare balm, filling the crew's weary bodies and rekindling a semblance of friendliness.
Laughter rang, cautious and brief, as they shared stories over the crackling fire on deck. Fedlimid, pale but present, managed a small smile under Melite's watchful eye. She stayed close to him, her quiet encouragement weaving a bond that spoke of shared battles and mutual respect rather than affection.
By morning, the ship sailed steadily eastward, cutting through calm seas.
The crew moved with a lingering sense of relief, their interactions no longer as purely mechanical as before. Full stomachs and shared moments had softened some of the tension, but worry about Fedlimid's condition remained unspoken yet palpable.
Seisyll, ever industrious, split his time between studying and tending to Fedlimid. When not with the crew, he could often be found hunched over Arthur's rune book, sketching intricate designs for a weapon that seemed more like art than function.
