A week at sea, and Delacroix had learned the rhythm of the water.

  At first, the buoyancy had unsettled him—a sensation too similar to falling. But now? Now, the gentle rise and fall of the freighter against the waves was just another part of the silence he had grown accustomed to.

  He sat at the crude wooden crate that served as his desk, his journal open beneath the dim glow of the overhead bulb. The ink was already drying on his latest entry, his handwriting disciplined, almost military in its precision.

  Then—a knock.

  Delacroix exhaled. No one ever knocked on his door.

  He rose, bare feet pressing against the cold metal floor as he pulled the steel door open.

  Meilin stood there, a tray balanced in her hands. A plate of steaming hot pockets and a cup of cocoa.

  Delacroix glanced at it. “Shouldn’t we be rationing?”

  “We have plenty,” she replied, the smile on her lips unwavering.

  She didn’t lower the tray. She was waiting.

  Delacroix hesitated. It would be easier to refuse. That was what people like him were meant to do—accept nothing, expect nothing. But Meilin wasn’t like the others.

  Before she could step away, he reached out and took the tray from her hands. Their fingers brushed.

  Meilin didn’t recoil. She didn’t wipe her hand against her apron. She didn’t look disgusted, didn’t treat his touch like contamination.

  Delacroix felt his throat tighten. She doesn’t know.

  He swallowed the thought, his voice quieter than he intended. “Apologies.”

  Meilin tilted her head. “For what?”

  For touching you, he almost said. For accepting something freely given. For standing in a doorway, unsure of how to exist in this moment.

  Instead, he said nothing.

  He gave a short nod. “Thank you for the supper.”

  Meilin lingered, just for a breath, then turned and walked back down the corridor.

  She didn’t understand why he was apologising.

  Delacroix stood there for a long moment, the tray still in his hands, before stepping back inside and shutting the door.

  Meilin returned to the mess hall and sat across from Locke, setting her empty tray down.

  Locke barely looked up from where he was methodically sharpening his black blade. The rhythmic drag of steel against stone filled the space between them.

  Locke finally spoke. “Why do you bother?”

  Meilin glanced at him. “Because he seems lonely.”

  Locke scoffed, running the whetstone along the blade’s edge one last time before setting it down. “That’s because the bastard’s never had a real friend in his life.”

  Meilin frowned. “Why do you think that is?”

  Locke turned the blade in his hand, watching how the dim light caught along its obsidian edge. Then, he met her gaze.

  “You grew up in this fucked-up business we’re in, yeah?”

  Meilin nodded.

  Locke gestured vaguely. “Then you know the truth: people like us—mercs, spies, killers—we get called a lot of things. Thieves. Cutthroats. Criminals.” He smirked. “But the difference between us and the so-called honest folk?”

  He leaned forward slightly, tapping his temple.

  “We don’t abandon our code when it’s inconvenient.”

  Meilin considered that.

  Locke’s smirk deepened. “As for his highness?” He shrugged. “Keep bringing him hot pockets and he might open up.” Then, with a glint of mischief, he added, “Or you could try whiskey. That’ll certainly speed up the process.”

  The mess hall was half-lit, still heavy with the haze of early morning. The smell of soy, pepper, and half-boiled eggs lingered in the air. Steam curled up from a chipped metal kettle near the pantry, hissing quietly beneath the soft hum of fluorescent lights.

  Locke sat hunched at the end of the long table, tearing toast into bite-sized pieces. Beside him, Meilin ate slowly, her posture straight, her plate neatly arranged—two soft-boiled eggs, yolks golden, a splash of soy sauce, a pinch of white pepper, and toast on the side.

  Captain Moreau descended the steel steps with his usual stiffness, cradling a mug of thick black coffee. He looked like a man already halfway through his shift despite the hour.

  He paused near the pantry. Considered heading back up to the bridge.

  Then, against better judgment, he turned toward the table.

  “Morning,” he said, gesturing to the bench across from them. “Mind if I join?”

  Locke glanced at Meilin, who shrugged almost imperceptibly—this one was his call.

  Locke cocked an eyebrow. “Depends.”

  Moreau frowned slightly. “On what?”

  “On whether you’re still gonna be a cunt.”

  Meilin shot him a look, but said nothing.

  Moreau chuckled dryly, lowering himself onto the bench. “I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”

  A beat of silence. The clink of cutlery. Moreau sipped his coffee.

  “I never got around to thanking you,” he said, nodding toward Locke. “For killing that demon.”

  Locke didn’t look up. “Didn’t do it alone.”

  “Still. You saved lives.”

  Locke’s eyes flicked up. “Why?”

  Moreau blinked. “Why what?”

  “Why thank me?”

  Moreau let out a short laugh, unsure if the question was a joke.

  Locke wasn’t smiling.

  “Seriously,” Locke said. “You went out of your way to give the shadeborn his own cabin. One with a bed, a toilet, and a lock. Not out of kindness. Not out of respect. Just so you wouldn’t have to see him unless you absolutely had to.”

  Moreau’s jaw worked. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  Locke leaned forward. “Nah. I’m just trying to figure out the conviction it takes to hate a man for the colour of his eyes.”

  “That’s rich,” Moreau muttered. “You called him a darkie just yesterday.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Locke raised a brow. “I also called you a cunt. Difference is, I say things to cut with purpose. You use that word like it explains everything.”

  Moreau looked at Meilin as if for backup, but she stayed quiet, chewing her toast with almost meditative focus.

  He sighed, setting his mug down with a dull clink. “Look. You grow up in Gallian, your parents tell you shadeborn are bad. Then your teachers. Then your priest. Then the courts. The banks. It goes all the way up the fucking ladder. And you—”

  “You what?” Locke cut in. “You just go along with it?”

  “I learned that sometimes it’s better to fit in than to stand out.”

  Locke’s face twisted in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You know what that sounds like?”

  Moreau didn’t answer.

  Locke leaned back, voice low. “Sounds like cowardice dressed in civility.”

  Silence. Thick. Tense.

  Moreau shook his head, rising to his feet. “Is this the kind of breakfast small talk you two enjoy every morning?”

  Meilin finally spoke. “Not usually.”

  Moreau nodded once. “Thought so.”

  He turned to go. Paused. Then over his shoulder:

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t hate him. I don’t hate shadeborn. But I’ve seen what happens to people who stand too close to them. And I learned a long time ago—when the world points one way, you don’t walk the other unless you’re ready to burn for it.”

  Then he walked out, coffee still half-full.

  The mess hall was quiet again.

  The door hissed open once more.

  Delacroix stepped in, tray in hand—an empty bowl, shattered eggshells, a drained cup. His white shirt was wrinkled, sleeves rolled just below the elbow. His movements were deliberate, measured.

  He looked at Meilin and Locke. “Where should I put this?”

  Meilin stood up immediately. “I can take it.”

  He hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know.”

  She took the tray from him, their fingers brushing for a moment. Delacroix didn’t flinch this time. But he still looked down, like the contact was unfamiliar.

  As she moved to the sink, Locke studied him.

  “How much of that did you hear?” Locke asked, not looking away.

  Delacroix turned his gaze slowly. “Enough.”

  He shifted slightly, about to leave.

  Locke said, “The girl’s worried about you.”

  Delacroix stopped. Just for a breath.

  “She won’t say it,” Locke continued. “But she watches your door more than she watches her plate. Wouldn’t kill you to show your face once in a while.”

  Delacroix’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not comfortable around people.”

  Locke shrugged. “That’s your right.”

  He picked up his toast again. “But comfort’s a luxury, mate. And none of us are here because we’ve had easy lives.”

  Delacroix didn’t respond.

  He gave Locke a small nod—half thanks, half acknowledgment—and turned, leaving the way he came.

  Meilin returned to the table. Her hands were wet, drying on a dish rag. She didn’t ask what was said.

  Locke looked down at his plate, smirked to himself, and muttered, “Progress.”

  Then he finished his toast.

  Later, dinner crept in with the hush of a dying sun. The mess hall, dim and metallic, filled slowly with the scent of soy oil, garlic, and something crisping in the pan.

  Meilin stood at the open pantry, rummaging through cans with quiet deliberation. She wore her apron like armour, her movements sharp and efficient.

  Locke sat slouched at the table, one boot propped against the bench’s edge, idly flipping a pocketknife between his fingers.

  Then—the door creaked open.

  Delacroix entered.

  Meilin glanced up, lips parting slightly. Locke looked without looking, just a tilt of the chin.

  Delacroix approached the table, slow and deliberate. He stopped at the edge.

  “Mind if I sit?”

  Locke didn’t answer immediately. He studied Delacroix for a beat, then tilted his head.

  “Depends.”

  Delacroix arched a brow. “I’ve been called many things in my life.”

  A beat.

  “But never a cunt.”

  Locke smirked. “Then you’re off to a good start.”

  Delacroix sat. Slowly.

  He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He kept them on the table, fingers laced, like a soldier waiting to be debriefed.

  Locke seemed perfectly at ease—knife flipping, rhythm steady.

  Delacroix broke the silence the only way he knew how—tactically. “Your stance with the blade,” he said. “I haven’t seen anything like it.”

  Locke stopped flipping the knife. Looked up. “What stance?”

  Delacroix frowned. “In the fight. You had a—cantered base, weight low, but your movement was erratic. Unpredictable.”

  “Ah,” Locke said. “That’s not a stance. That’s surviving.”

  Delacroix blinked.

  Locke leaned forward slightly, knife now idle. “See, your training—it’s military. Structured. Designed to predict and respond to patterns. Trouble is…”

  He tapped the blade against the table, softly.

  “Demons don’t have patterns.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “You learn to break rhythm. To flow. You stop waiting for an opening and become the opening.”

  Delacroix sat with that for a moment.

  “Can it be taught?”

  Locke shrugged. “Only if you’re willing to forget everything you know.”

  Delacroix’s voice was quiet. “Another thing to let go of, then.”

  Across the hall, Meilin was plating noodles and sautéed greens, pretending not to listen, though her chopsticks clinked a little louder than necessary.

  Locke glanced at her, then back at Delacroix. “Meilin’s still cooking. And I’m bored as fuck.”

  He stood, stretching his arms.

  “You want your first lesson?”

  Delacroix nodded.

  Locke grinned. “Good. Come get your ass kicked.”

  The cargo hold was cold and cavernous, lit by little more than flickering overhead fluorescents. The metallic walls creaked with the rhythm of the sea, each groan of steel echoing into a vast emptiness. Shipping crates were stacked along the edges, some marked with faded Fengjianese trade sigils, others anonymous and rust-bitten.

  Locke walked ahead, rolling his shoulders, loose and casual. Delacroix followed, eyes scanning the hold.

  “What’re we training with?” Delacroix asked.

  Without warning, Locke spun and swung.

  The fist caught Delacroix square in the jaw, knocking him off balance. He staggered, barely catching himself.

  “No weapons,” Locke said. “You’re the weapon.”

  Delacroix reset his stance automatically, spine straightening, hands raised like he’d been taught in Legion close-quarters drills. “Could’ve said something.”

  Locke grinned. “Demons don’t say shit.”

  He lunged again.

  Delacroix blocked. Countered. Shifted to a low stance, redirecting Locke’s weight and going for a shoulder toss—textbook Gallian CQC. Locke moved with it, letting himself roll out before pivoting on one foot and sweeping Delacroix off his legs.

  Delacroix hit the floor with a grunt.

  “Gallian tactical,” Locke said, circling him like a predator. “Heavy on leverage. Not bad. But predictable.”

  Delacroix surged back up, this time switching to a tighter, more brutal style—close elbows, vertical grapples. Eastern Urban Suppression. He feinted, jabbed, hooked low.

  Locke caught the rhythm. Read it. Broke it.

  Another sweep.

  “Urban Suppression. Looks good in riot drills. Less good when your enemy floats through walls.”

  Delacroix growled, throwing a wild punch. Locke slipped it and stepped in, snapping a palm into Delacroix’s solar plexus. The air left his lungs in a choked gasp.

  Locke didn’t stop.

  He took Delacroix’s back like a shadow and locked in a rear naked choke, arms a vice around his neck, legs anchored. The pressure closed fast—blood-starved vision narrowing, lungs crying out.

  “I see everything you do,” Locke muttered in his ear. “Every stance. Every pivot. Every coaching prompt some old bastard barked at you on a parade ground.”

  Delacroix clawed at the forearm, but Locke’s grip was perfect.

  “Demons don’t give a shit about your training manuals.”

  The world dimmed. Delacroix’s body trembled.

  He tapped.

  Locke released instantly. Delacroix collapsed to hands and knees, coughing, dragging air back into his chest like a drowning man finding the surface.

  “I need—fuck—I need a second,” Delacroix rasped.

  Locke stepped back. “Demons don’t wait for you to breathe.”

  He lunged again—this time with force.

  Delacroix caught the first strike, blocked the second.

  But then Locke yanked the blindfold from his eyes.

  Pain.

  Agony flooded Delacroix’s senses. His black eyes, fully exposed, lit up like fire under the low light, the ambient magic in the ship's engine humming behind the walls. The pain wasn’t just bright—it was raw. Blinding. Like his mind was being peeled apart.

  He screamed, stumbling back, clutching his face with both hands.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouted.

  Locke didn’t flinch. “If a demon tears that rag off your face, you think they’ll give you a five-second head start?”

  He struck.

  Another blow. Then another. Delacroix writhed on the floor, scrambling for anything—everything screaming at him to grab the blindfold. He found it. Wrapped it around his head with shaking fingers, tying it fast and tight. The pain ebbed into a throb, a dull hum.

  “Dead because of a piece of fabric,” Locke said, voice sharp. He tossed the blindfold’s ends at Delacroix. “That’s all it takes.”

  Delacroix sat there, breathing hard, body trembling, skin prickling with cold sweat.

  Locke crouched beside him.

  “You still want to be a rōnin?”

  Delacroix didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  He reached up—slowly, shakily—and took Locke’s hand.

  Locke pulled him up to his feet.

  No words passed between them.

  But something had changed.

  Not just pain. Not just humility.

  Trust.

  And Delacroix hadn’t had that in a long, long time.

  The sound of footsteps echoed down the steel stairwell — soft, deliberate.

  Delacroix was still catching his breath, fingers finishing the knot on the blindfold now tied tightly around his face. The stinging had dulled, but the rage beneath it hadn’t. Not quite.

  He heard Meilin before he saw her. The lightness of her gait, the way she never rushed but never lingered. She paused at the bottom of the cargo hold, her voice soft and careful — like she was afraid she might step on something fragile.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  Locke rolled his neck, the last traces of adrenaline still humming beneath his skin. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once and started walking past her.

  Delacroix stood slowly. His ribs ached. His pride more so.

  Still, he followed.

  —

  Back in the mess hall, the harsh glow of the overhead lights had softened in the warmth of something more domestic. Meilin had already set the table for three. Plates of white rice, sautéed greens, and sliced chicken steamed gently in the center.

  Locke dropped into his seat like he belonged there.

  Meilin moved around the table, adjusting chopsticks, pouring tea.

  Delacroix lingered near the threshold — stillness in his posture, hesitation in his breath.

  She caught it.

  “If you’d prefer a tray,” she offered gently, “I can bring it to your quarters.”

  Delacroix stared at the empty chair.

  At the two already filled.

  At the meal — not extravagant, but made with care.

  Then, quietly — “No. It’s fine.”

  He stepped forward and took the last seat.

  The wood creaked beneath him. He didn’t look at either of them. Just reached for the rice, slowly, like every motion was being translated from another language.

  Across from him, Locke didn’t gloat.

  He just passed him the soy sauce.

  Meilin smiled.

  Nothing more was said.

  And for the first time in a long, long while — Delacroix ate with company.