The air hadn’t settled—not really.

Even hours after Thorne’s confrontation with León on the main deck, a quiet unrest had taken root among the crew. The kind that couldn’t be washed away with salt or silence.

They moved about their duties now, aye, but their voices were hushed. Every scrape of boot against wood, every creak of rope or clang of metal was sharper in the quiet, like a ship trying to remember how to breathe after a storm.

Cassian stood near the helm, idly adjusting a frayed knot on the rigging, though his eyes weren’t on the sea or the sails—they lingered on the crew. Watching. Listening.

They were talking, low and careful, like they feared the wind might carry their words to the quarterdeck.

“Did you know?” Javi muttered to Solas as they hauled a crate towards the storage hatch.

Solas grunted. “Suspected. León’s temper’s never sat right with me. Kid’s too eager to prove himself. Thought he’d pick a fight with the wrong person one day—but I didn’t think it’d be that.”

Nina passed nearby, expression unreadable as ever, though her glance towards the brig was telling.

“You think he’d have done it?” she asked. “Really slit the lad’s throat?”

“No one locks a man up just to see him gutted the next night,” said Roone from the shadows of the mainsail, wiping sweat from his brow. “Whatever Thorne’s plan was—it didn’t involve murder.”

And that, Cassian thought, was the true rot creeping in. Not León’s knife, not the blood Hypnos hadn’t lost—but the fact that no one knew anymore where the lines were drawn. Or who would cross them next.

He moved away from the helm, footsteps silent against the deck, and slipped below, toward the captain’s quarters.

The door was ajar.

Thorne stood inside, braced over the table with one hand, the other pressing a damp cloth to his jaw where Cassian’s punch had left its mark the night before. He didn’t look up when Cassian entered—just said, voice low and dry:

“If you’ve come to throw another, at least aim for the other side this time.”

Cassian shut the door behind him. “You nearly lost them.”

Thorne stopped walking. “But I didn’t.”

That made Thorne look up. His golden eyes were sharper than ever, the bruise making them burn brighter, like embers under pressure.

“I didn’t,” he said evenly.

“But you could’ve.” Cassian stepped closer. “León nearly slit Hypnos’s throat. Right there, in the brig. If I hadn’t walked in—”

“If,” Thorne interrupted. “But you did.”

The quiet between them stretched, taut and full of what neither wanted to say.

Cassian ran a hand through his dark hair—black and salt-wavy, dishevelled from the day’s heat. “You keep them in the dark. You keep me in the dark. And the next time something snaps, it might not be a boy with a knife—it might be half your crew.”

Thorne didn’t respond right away. He tossed the cloth aside, rolled his shoulder, then met Cassian’s gaze head-on.

Cassian’s throat tightened. His hand curled at his side.

Last night’s kiss still burned in his mouth, as much as the bruise on his cheek.

This man—this impossible, broken man—

Cassian took a breath, steadied himself.

“I just don’t want another knife in the dark,” he said, quieter now. “Next time, you might not get lucky.”

Thorne didn’t answer.

“What happened with your brother,” he said carefully, “what happened with the gods and that cursed map—that’s not a tale to share over morning bread.”

Cassian’s jaw tensed.

“No,” Thorne continued. “You asked me why I didn’t tell the crew more. The truth is, Cassian, you’re the only one aboard who knows the whole of it.”

A beat passed. The air felt tight in the small space.

“But they’re not blind,” Cassian said. “They see cracks forming. And next time, Thorne, they’ll use them.”

The silence after that was different. Like they’d both acknowledged a truth neither could fix.

Thorne turned away first.

Cassian left him there, in the stillness.

Below deck, the air grew colder, the wood soaked through with salt and silence.

Cassian descended alone, steps careful. He passed the galley, then the storeroom, until he reached the brig.

The cell was dark.

Inside, Hypnos sat on the floor, his red hair spilling around him like blood on old stone. His wrists were bound loosely in front of him—not tight enough to chafe, but enough to remind him where he was.

Cassian unlocked the door and stepped in, followed shortly after by Nina and Saoirse.

The raven—midnight-black and gleaming—stood on Hypnos’s shoulder, head cocked unnaturally to the side. Its voice, when it came, was sharp and human.

“You’ve brought friends.”

“Watch your beak,” Nina muttered.

“We’ve come to talk,” Cassian said.

“Of course you have.”

Hypnos didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But his eyes followed Cassian, strangely calm.

Cassian knelt, not close—but close enough to study him.

“You understand me?” he asked.

A pause.

Then—barely—a nod.

Cassian glanced at the raven. “Tell him we’re heading east.”

“He knows,” said the bird. “He always knows.”

Saoirse shifted her weight, arms crossed. “Do you know why?”

The bird blinked. “Do you?”

Cassian held the creature’s gaze, but didn’t answer.

Nina was the one who broke the silence. “Someone tried to kill you last night,” she said. “Do you know who?”

The raven clicked its beak. “The one who smells like fear and steel. The one who doesn’t sleep well.”

Cassian knew who it meant.

They all did.

Saoirse nodded toward Hypnos. “What do we do with him?”

Cassian stood. “We watch. And we wait.”

The raven made a sound almost like a laugh.

And Hypnos—mute, blood-haired, bound—watched them all, as if he already knew what they would do next.