Heron Wade was already descending the ladder to the lower deck when Arthur turned toward the prow. The ship had quieted under his presence, its wooden skin groaning as if trying not to offend him. Whatever had cracked open in him during the last few days still lingered in the air like burnt ozone, raw, quiet power that seeped into every board and joint.
Then Arthur moved, slow and steady, drawing the air with him like a storm that hadn't chosen whether to break or pass. He reached into his coat, fingers brushing over the etched runes of his Whisperer. With a flick of his thumb, he activated the thin crystal device, its glow barely visible in the dim.
"Seisyll." He said, voice low. "Aleks is sick."
There was no room for explanation, no ornament. Just the truth, shaped into sound.
A few seconds passed. Heron, pausing below as if sensing the moment, turned his head slightly. The silence thickened, each heartbeat magnified by the hush inside the hull.
