We left Canton behind us and the sea stayed calm, which felt like a trick.
Chris Pringle’s ship is louder than it looks. There’s always someone talking about food, or trade, or plans that don’t quite make sense unless you’ve already decided to trust him. I think he means well. I also think he would sell the sun if he could work out how to season it.
We’ve been sailing for three weeks now. Long enough for things to settle. Long enough for thoughts to start getting heavier.
Gloom spends most days working with bits of armour he salvaged. He tears it apart with his hands, piece by piece, trying to make something new from it. Knuckle-dusters, mostly. He gave me a pair. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I wear them like jewellery. He looked pleased when I accepted them. He also looks angrier than he used to. Not loud anger. Quiet, held-in anger. Like he’s learned where to put it and hasn’t decided when to let it out.
Daisy watches the water a lot. When he talks about his magic now, he sounds careful. Like someone handling a blade they know is sharper than it needs to be. He’s been trying to light fires without spells, rubbing sticks together, asking for help, starting again when it doesn’t work. I think he’s afraid of how easy it is for him to burn things. I don’t blame him.
As for me, I’ve been writing. Every day. I think you’d laugh if you saw me, sitting on a crate with my journal, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened since the Grove. The strangest thing is that I feel… clearer. Not braver. Not stronger. Just a little wiser. Like I can see myself standing slightly off to the side of things and understand where I fit.
I keep thinking about Ignatius. About how he was raised to be a weapon. And about how I wasn’t. I don’t know if I’m better than him. That feels like a dangerous thought. But I do wonder if the world needs someone who notices things before they break.
Chris told us about the Feywild today. Or what’s left of it. He says the land listens. That lies change you. That broken promises make you into something else. He said it like a warning, but all I could think was that maybe that isn’t such a terrible thing. Maybe being forced to be honest, truly honest, might help us be kinder.
The others looked less convinced.
We’re close now. I can feel it. The air feels different, like it’s waiting for us to say the wrong thing.
If I don’t say everything perfectly when we get there, I hope you’ll understand. I’m still learning what kind of hero I’m allowed to be.
I miss you.
I miss the Grove.
I miss believing the world only tests the strong.
I’ll keep writing.
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