Rowan was completely unconscious when Kamuhr snatched him with her talon before the sea could claim him, doing her best not to crush the human. He was still alive, but if Auganull decided to attack, she doubted that would remain the case. As much as she disliked the idea, she needed to retreat.

"Is she running away?" Obi wondered in amusement, just as he noticed that their target also had a passenger, which could work in his favor.

"Could be a trap," Auganull thought aloud, though that prospect didn't seem to bother him much as he followed closely behind the retreating dragon. His deep rib cage expanded as he prepared to torch his quarry.

"Let her go," Obi stated, forced to raise his voice so that he could be heard across the whipping wind. "I'm curious."

"Hmph." Auganull snorted, refraining from setting fire to the sky again. Obi's curiosity was an endless source of trouble for all parties involved. However, Auganull could not deny that he was also interested in how this would play out and not above toying with his prey. So, he skipped a beat and a half of his wings, dropping back to pursue the white dragon from a distance.

"Why are they falling back?" Artus breathed, finally finding his voice and blinking for what felt like the first time in several minutes.

"What point would thar be in rushin'?" Flann asked absently, his eyes glued to the winged figures against the night sky, arms still wrapped tightly around the Lorellian prince. "They've all the time they need..."

His words chilled Artus to the bone.

***

Ardaik 9th - Central Ocean

When morning found Paniel's shrunken fleet, it was through a heavy gauze of fog. The wind had a cold bite to it as it wisped southeast from the northwest, barely disturbing the sea's glassy surface as it went.

The Retribution had pulled west. In such ill conditions, a view of land was even more crucial if they were to safely navigate the rest of the route to Malton.

"Should you like me to have a few of the boats lowered, sir, a few of the men have already volunteered for the rowing," Kelber mentioned to Paniel as he joined him on top of the quarterdeck, where the admiral had temporarily taken over manning the helm of his ship. "They're understandably eager to reach port."

Paniel's jaw tightened, and his sigh came out as a faint cloud. He wouldn't argue that towing the Retribution now would be the most sensible way to speed their progress in the absence of any fair wind, however... "Let's give them another hour, Mr. Kelber."

"Them, sir?"

"The boats that stayed behind with the Rose," Paniel clarified solemnly. "Another hour to catch up."

"Provided any of them are coming... Very well, sir. An hour it is."

Below deck, Artus woke with an awful headache, his mouth horribly dry, and his eyes irritated and puffy—swollen from the manner in which he'd cried himself to sleep, pressed against Prince O'Conar. His breath caught in his sore throat when he processed how quiet their small cabin was, and even though he could feel the rise and fall of Flann's chest, his disoriented mind had assumed the worst for a moment in the absence of any raucous snoring.

Flann rubbed his arm with a warm palm as he stirred and pulled the woolen blanket over Artus to cover his shoulder. The Serellian was awake. That was the explanation.

Nothing of the previous night felt real in any sense as it returned to Artus in painfully vivid clarity. Worse, perhaps, was that he couldn't stop blaming himself. If he hadn't been such a coward and had called out or reached for Rowan when he'd left his cot, then Rowan may have never left their room.

If he hadn't allowed himself to be so distracted by Flann, then perhaps he could've stopped Rowan and Edna from leaving the Retribution. If he hadn't taken the relic at all...

Anger boiled with regret and despair into a poisonous concoction that threatened to make him sick. He sat up suddenly, an act that didn't at all please his pounding head, and brushed his hair from his face. Most of it had slipped free of the ribbon that'd been securing it, and the braids were all but gone. He didn't bother to try to refashion the tie around the now frizzy mess of waves, pulling the ribbon out entirely and tucking it into his coat pocket once he'd climbed out of the cot to fetch it.

He dressed in silence, completely detached from the process and stumbling around in the dark before the sense came to him to light the lamp. He then came back to sit on the edge of his cot, where Flann was still lying.

"Would you come above deck with me?" Artus asked hoarsely as he pulled on his boots.

Flann inhaled heavily, and Artus could both feel and hear the cot shifting as the prince sat up and swung his legs over the side. "Aye," was his only response, but it wasn't as detached and distant as Artus had expected. Solemn, yes, but not lost or beyond the moment.

Words teetered on the tip of Artus's tongue but didn't make it past his lips. Instead, he took Flann's face in his hands and poured every ounce of his aching heart into a single soft kiss that he placed on Flann's freckled cheek. Hopefully, it was an appropriate enough expression of what he couldn't place words to.

The morning that greeted them above deck did little to alleviate the feeling that Artus was having a terrible dream. Thick haze surrounded them, and when he looked far enough to the east, he couldn't even discern the difference between sky and sea. It was quiet, save for the sounds of a few men filling their time with vigorously scrubbing the deck while a few sat on slings, working on the hull.

For the first time since Artus had met the man, he thought Paniel looked displeased to see him as he and Flann scaled the steps to join him at the helm. Whether Artus was misreading the admiral's expression, he wasn't sure, but the idea made him feel even smaller than he already did.

"Will we not be heading back for admiral Laurent and the others?" Artus asked, succeeding in keeping his tone even.

"Laurent will be with his ship, your highness," Paniel replied. "He's not the kind to abandon his lady, I'm afraid."

There was a frown in Artus's eyes as he replied. "Are you?"

Paniel sighed. "Though I'd greatly mourn her passing, I'm not married to the Retribution and believe I can better serve my country alive," the admiral said, flashing Artus the faintest smile. "But I'll avoid the matter of losing her and my crew where at all possible."

"What about the others, then?" Artus implored, glancing pointedly across the water to the ghostly-looking silhouettes, one following and one proceeding them. "The other ketch and the merchant ship?"

"The merchant vessel broke off on its own heading before sunrise...my hope is that the other ships will catch us soon."

"I se—"

"Admiral!" a sailor cut in, "they see something!"

Artus followed Paniel closely as he strode away from the wheel, and another man took over. They joined the sailor who'd shouted at the far rear end of the quarterdeck. A lantern was waved from the ketch's bow behind them.

Flavien watched from behind his helmsmen until the ketch ahead signaled back to them, and the aft of the Retribution was within sight. Then, he returned to his quarters. On his way, he did his best to avoid looking across the deck of his ketch; it was carpeted with bodies tucked under blankets, sheets, and whatever they had available. They'd pulled just as many dead as they had living from the water, and now they huddled side by side.

Among them was Brice, who'd managed to escape his cell aboard the Rose only to be slapped back in irons the moment after his rescue from the debris. He wasn't the only one; Edna, too, had been put under arrest, along with several others. It seemed that Flavien had his own ideas of hospitality.

***

Within the hour, the grim work of transporting some of the dead onto the larger ship from Flavien's ketch had begun. Artus moved along the line, checking them as they were brought aboard the Retribution. Each one he discovered not to be Rowan generated an equal amount of relief but also nearly frantic despair, making him nauseous and all the more anxious as the minutes passed.

Then, the Lorellian Prince froze upon lifting one of the sheets to glance under it, immediately covering his mouth with his free hand. The air left his lungs as he stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the face of the cadaver. It unsettled Artus deeply how certain he was for a moment that Kenton would somehow open his eyes and get up. He watched his chest—no movement. No twitch of his hands...nothing.

"Your highness."

Artus's brows knitted slightly before he dropped the sheet, allowing his other hand to fall back to his side.

"I should like to speak with you privately."

The prince nodded in response to Sebastien's statement, but his attention clearly wasn't on the advisor. Prince O'Conor had been reunited with his female guard. He at least had her left. Artus couldn't say the same. He knew the sailors and soldiers aboard the ships had done—and were doing—what they could to protect him, but the loss of Kenton felt different.

The absence of Rowan and now his last royal guard made Artus feel truly bare—alone and vulnerable. Unintentionally abandoned in a way that sent him straight back to that horrible, dark place of ten years ago.

Artus directed his gaze out across the water, wringing his hands behind his back. "What was it you wanted to speak about?"

Sebastien sighed, glancing around them and shifting his weight. He'd asked to converse in privacy, but Artus's feet felt heavier than ever.
"Upon reaching Malton, we should return by land to La'Trest."

Artus's reply was cold and sharp. "Should we?"

"I believe it would be best. Lord Milton could provide us a carriage and knights. Without being at the mercy of the wind, we'll—"

"I don't have the relic anymore," Artus stated, speaking over him. "I've lost it."

"Yes..." Sebastien said, finally earning a quick turn and direct eye contact with the prince. "I was quite shocked that it'd been in the possession of Lord De Saint-Pierre just before the last dragon attack."

Artus's eyes widened, and his color faded even further than what seemed possible. "Rowan found it?"

"Found it?" Sebastien balked. "He confidently brandished it as leverage."

"What?"

Sebastien regarded Artus with pity, pulling the prince close against his side and guiding him away from the unfortunate dead, dropping his voice to a whisper. "It's incredibly naive of you to assume that just because you were born a prince and not a princess that men won't seek to take advantage of your untidy emotions, Artus," Sebastien warned, spearing Artus with his words, far more harshly than the frigid northern gusts that swept across the deck.

If dragons were real enough to set his city ablaze, then why weren't wishes capable of extinguishing catastrophes? If he hadn't taken the relic over something so horrifically ill-conceived, then—no. No, Artus couldn't do that to himself.

He hadn't meant for any of this to happen, nor could he have known how dire the consequences would come to be. Surely being his father's son didn't exempt him from existing at the mercy of the fates, the same as anyone else.

"But if I return without the relic..."

"No one need know it left La'Trest with you," Sebastien dismissed quickly, casting a shrewd glance around them. "Think of how sick with worry your mother must be...should the queen still be in any condition to concern herself with anything."

Artus's gut tightened. Of course. His mother. He could scarcely believe her feelings hadn't been brought up sooner or with more insistence to hang over his head. Though he suspected after Sebastien had thrown in his face the possibility of her and his father having not survived the attack, that it hadn't felt impactful enough to mention.

But his mother's fear of losing the second of her two children and how fiercely protective of him it made her had been a constant strain on their otherwise fair relationship. And Artus had admittedly pushed back more than he likely should have.

"We could send word ahead of us to La'Trest from Malton, couldn't we?" Artus wondered as he stalled just short of the hatch, stopping the older man with him.

"It would, at the very least, be considerate to do so, yes."

Artus was quiet for a moment, squinting at Sebastien as the wind whipped his hair against his face. "What did you mean by using it as leverage?"

"Hm?" Sebastien's hands slid from Artus's shoulders, and he folded them in front of himself. "I'd rather spare you any additional distress in regards to the matter, your highness. You've been through quite an ordeal, and you don't look well."

"What were Lord De Saint-Pierre's demands?" the prince questioned more forcefully this time. He needed to know. He needed to make sense of what Rowan could have wanted badly enough to have stolen the relic from him...to have lied to and manipulated him at such great risk to his own reputation and well-being.
Sebastien seemed to consider Artus carefully and for far longer than the prince's thin patience could tolerate.

"Sebastien?"

"Your disappearance, your highness, and I don't wish to speak on the morbid matter anymore."