They left at dawn, under the still hush of mist.

Not knowing they were sailing into a storm and out of the world they understood.

The sky above Ulm was colored in pale pinkish hues, like the ones of unripe peach. The first gulls have already awoken, shrieking above the narrow stone pier covered in early morning mist. At the cottage door, Mirna drew the latch one last time and, took in the last sighting of her home as her fingers brushed across the doorway in goodbye.

“Let’s go,” Jereh said. It didn’t sound like a command, but a farewell.

He carried their only good knife, wrapped in cloth with needles and thread.

Evan carried a satchel slung over his back, with just a few items of clothing, a coil of rope, and the wooden horse he was still carving. Mirna held a little box of tinctures tight against her chest. In her hand - a basket with apples and two loaves of bread. Lily made an effort to wear her new blue dress and soft shoes for the first time. Mirna had told her it would be appropriate to wear what she was given, otherwise she might cause offense. The hem kept catching on the dock’s ropes, so she stepped more carefully than usual. The silver rattle chimed softly, hidden in her pocket.

The villagers busied themselves with nets and barrels but kept watching. Some touched their necks in three points; Maryn lifted his head in a quiet farewell. The elder didn’t come forward. He only dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

At the end of the pier, the Mercy waited. Her hull bore the scars of salt and years, worn but steady.

Keth stood on the gangplank with his men, courteous and unobtrusive, like a shadow that knew when to move aside.

“Good morning,” he said gently. “All is ready.”

Eirran stood on the deck, not stiff with ceremony: dressed in lliath of deep indigo, wings folded. He did not descend to the pier; he left the first step to them. When they approached, he lowered his eyes and gave Mirna and Jereh a brief, almost inaudible greeting. In that small gesture was more respect than any word he had offered before.

“We agree to go,” Jereh said before anything else. His voice was hoarse but clear. “Together.”

“Together,” Eirran echoed, as though sealing the pact.

Evan glanced at Lily; she gave the faintest nod. Mirna straightened her collar, smoothing every crease before the new world. “If those shoes pinch, tell me at once,” she whispered with a quick smile; the kind Lily would carry in her pocket alongside the rattle.

The ramp groaned under Lily’s first step. When she reached the deck, her hand found the rail, rough with salt, warm from the morning sun. In that small touch, she felt the change settle in: she had crossed over.

“Welcome aboard Mercy,” said Keth, leading them to their modest cabins. “We sail on the tide.”

Lily turned one last time. Ulm was a scatter of small rooftops stiff in the morning light; two doors stood open, two hands lifted in blessing — Miron’s farewell from afar. Something rose in her throat that refused to fall as a tear.

The ropes slipped loose and the ship eased into the channel. Wind caught the sails. At the prow, Eirran spread his wings just slightly — no more than a hand’s breadth — as if giving the vessel its sign to move.

Out on open water, the sea turned heavier, darker. The ship slid against the calm water like knife through frosting. Lily's new shoes were slippery on the wet boards and she gripped the railing to avoid falling.

“Mind your ears,” Mirna muttered at her side. “Sailors and devils speak the same tongue.”

Lily barely listened. At the prow, Eirran stood utterly still, as if the ship were just an extension of his own wings. His lliath clung to him, its silver stitching catching the light. He didn’t look fearsome — only steady, like someone who could keep balance where anyone else would fall.

“Why doesn’t he just fly?” she whispered.

“Because sometimes even gods move at the pace of those beneath them,” Mirna said, eyes fixed ahead. “And don’t forget who he is. Don’t lose your measure, child.”

As though sensing it, Eirran turned his head. Dark eyes, her eyes, rested on her a moment. Something flickered there, then went out.

The air changed taste. A colder, harsher wind swept the deck. Eirran straightened, feathers shivering. On the horizon, a dark smear swelled into a wall. Light collapsed in a single breath.

“All hands to stations!” roared the captain.

The deck heeled. The sails thundered like beasts unleashed. Crates slid; men lunged for ropes. In the next heartbeat, Eirran was in the air.

It was no graceful courtly ascent. The storm seized him, dragged, nearly flung him. His wings hammered the thick air, spraying rain across the deck. One more fierce, deep stroke steadied him in the turbulent layer where the gusts broke.

“Furl the sails! Now!” His harmonized voice cut through the wind’s howl.

He didn’t wait for answers. Twisting toward the fore shrouds, his wing sliced past a taut rope; his palm felt the stream, caught the back of the wind, and bent its strike at an odd angle. The force broke, spilling past the mast — the sails shuddered instead of tearing.

A wave rose - a wall of water charging over the stern. Eirran dove low, wings carving a long arc. The primaries skimmed the surface, scoring white furrows in black water. A countercurrent burst the wave before it struck; Mercy lurched, but did not roll.

“Down!” Jereh seized Evan’s shoulder, shoving him toward the hatch. “Below, now!”

“Just one more...” Lily began, transfixed.

“Now, Lily!” Mirna yanked her inside. On the threshold Lily caught the image she would never lose: Eirran too high in the gale, wings drenched, one feather split on the edge, a thin streak of blood slashing white. He shook rain with a snap, missed the current, and for a heartbeat faltered. Lines of strain cut his face, teeth clenched, knuckles white.

Below deck it was cramped and wet. The hull groaned, water tapped the ribs, people pressed close in the dark, whispering, praying. Evan shoved a piece of bread at Lily; his hand trembled. “Hold on.”

Between the crash of waves the hatch flashed open: sky, rain, silhouette. Eirran dove through the storm, pinning sails with his wings so the crew could gather them, then wheeling to intercept the next blow. Every time he straightened from a brutal turn, Lily glimpsed the taut muscles in his neck, the tremor in his shoulders. His wings were so waterlogged each beat smacked like canvas on water. Flight demanded strength and endurance, and he gave both without reserve.

A scream overhead: someone slipped. White feathers flared, an Ilar hand seized the sailor’s collar and tore him from the rail. An instant later, a gust slammed Eirran’s shoulder against the mast. His wing snapped back, his body bent; a short, sharp cry escaped him. He struck the air again; slower, heavier; but stayed aloft.

“Hold,” Jereh whispered, as though willing the ship with his voice. “Hold.”

Time stretched into harsh, urgent tasks. The crew hauled sails when Eirran “closed” them with a wing; he caught and bent gusts like ropes. The pitching eased from impossible to bearable. The waves were still mountains, but they no longer devoured all.

Lightning ripped the sky. In that flash Lily saw him clearly: blood streaked across white feathers where one had broken, lips drawn over teeth, breath ragged. He did not look like a god. He looked like a man fighting to exhaustion and refusing to either fall or fly away.

And then, as though a hand had unclasped the storm, the wind slackened, the clouds split. The sea was still heavy, but light seeped back. Mercy, battered, still floated.

Lily burst onto the deck before Mirna could stop her. Air filled her lungs like medicine. Sailors cursed and laughed, counting bruises and splinters. Eirran leaned against the rail, wings folded, water streaming off them. He breathed harder than she had ever seen anyone breathe, and it took him several moments to steady. The smear of blood on white feathers had taken darker, brownish hue.

“You should have rested,” she murmured, then straightened. “You should… rest.”

He looked at her, and, for the first time, crouched so their eyes were level. “So should you,” he said. His voice was hoarse, its harmonics roughened by fatigue.

“You saved us,” she blurted.

“The ship is sturdy. The crew capable,” he answered. Then, after a breath: “But yes. That was a wind-dance.” Pause. “An old military technique.”

“You could have flown away,” the words slipped out before thought.

“Some things matter more than convenience,” he said quietly. His eyes lingered on hers. “And more than safety.”

He rose slowly, pressing his hand to his injured shoulder when he thought no one saw. Lily saw. Mirna beckoned her back; Lily nodded and withdrew.

Later, Evan leaned on the rail, eyes still wide. “I thought the sea would swallow us,” he whispered. “But him… it was like he knew where the wind was going.”

“Wind-dance,” Lily repeated. She touched the rattle in her pocket. She knew why he had stayed.

“You matter to him,” Evan said, without asking.

She did not answer.

---

The storm had passed the ship, but not Eirran. Every beat in that darkness had cost him: feathers waterlogged, tendons aching, joints burning cold. One mistake, and he would have lost them all. As he lost Noemi, once before.

His gaze returned to the girl in blue. Small, stubborn, with eyes that had no bottom. His blood, and his penance. Antarrila had not taught mercy; power came with coldness. Today he learned the opposite: to hold the storm, and not break what he held it for.

Tomorrow, they would reach Astochia. It was a promise of a new beginning. No matter what the law decreed. No matter what doctrine preached.

---

That night, in a damp cabin thick with the breath of sleepers, Lily lay awake under a coarse wool blanket. The ship whispered instead of howling. The rattle in her palm - not a lure, but a promise now, glistened in the low moonlight.

“He’s my father, isn’t he?” she said into the dark.

Long silence stretched. At last, Mirna sighed. “What makes you think so?”

“The way he looks at me. The gifts. Today… he stayed. He fought. For us.” The words aligned like pebbles.

Mirna sat up; her shadow cut the stream of moonlight. “Listen. Law and faith forbid mixing of blood. By everything that counts, you, like all the others like you, are counted as human. He is Ilar. There is no place where he could claim you as his without consequences that would grind everything down.”

“The law is stupid,” Lily muttered too quickly.

“Maybe it is,” Mirna whispered. “But it is real. He can bring you to Astochia, feed you, teach you, even love you as much as his kind can, but he will never be able to call you daughter before all. Never stand with you in Win’Tarra. Never give you his House’s name.”

“Then why...”

“Because both of you are people,” Mirna said, her voice raw. “And people, Lily, sometimes love against the world. And then the world breaks them. My task is to keep safe what can be kept.”

Lily clenched the rattle. She did not cry. The moon slid on; the ship breathed. In her chest sat something hard and warm: knowledge bitter as salt... And stubborn as the heart.

---

At dawn, sea and sky spilled into each other, seamlessly.

“Look,” Evan whispered, tugging her sleeve. A white city rose on the horizon.

Nearby, Astochia rose like a white reef on the edge of the world.

As they drew closer, the docks spread neatly lined in rows; people poured in, voices shouted, pulleys shrieked, whistles cut. Stone smelled of salt and sun.

“A city for birds,” Jereh muttered, grim.

Eirran lowered his wings halfway. “Stay close to me,” he said without hesitation. “It’s crowded. I won’t risk us being separated.”

Mirna squeezed Lily’s hand. “You heard him. Together.”

Jereh’s gaze met Eirran’s. There was no warmth in it. There was a promise: I am here for her.

The ship kissed the pier. Ropes flew, hooks bit. Amid the clamor of the port, Lily swallowed her fear. The storm of nature was behind them.

The true storm was thundering ahead.