The ocean looked like hammered iron under a thin moon. No wind rattled the lines, no waves slapped the bow—just the slow engine thrum and the black breath of water.
Valerius stood at the rail and let the night press against him.
For days the bond that lived under his breastbone had behaved. Thin, distant, obedient. When he reached for Cassian, there was always a faint, warm answer—like a trail still fresh to a hunter even if the ground looked cold to everyone else.
Tonight the bond moved.
He pulled—clean, practiced—and the grip slid. Not broken. Not cut. Just wrong. As if his hand, certain of flesh, had closed on polished stone instead.
His fingers tightened on the rail, then loosened. No crewman saw the first reaction. No one ever did. The shadows that followed him—habit, temperament
