For a single moment, the first in his life, Gerald couldn't hear the Spire. Or the lift-bag. Or even the fires of the Salamander shots in his pockets.

Before this moment, he wouldn't believe that such a Craft could come from a mortal will.

Master!

"How?" Mia asked, from beside him. Gerald glanced at her, already understanding the wide-eyed, disbelieving expression she wore.

"That explosion should have ripped the ship apart," Mia added

"We can direct explosions," Gerald answered simply.

He didn't mention that an explosion like that would have done more than simply blast the ship apart. It would have wiped out most of a district. His own power still shook as he felt the fury in Tabitha's last assault, which had ripped a hole in the side of the ship and hurled the Dragon into the water.

It had taken more than a little of his own strength to keep the force of the explosion from breaking his own ship, even at this distance, and not being in the path of that monstrous Craft.

His master's ship now swung slowly just above the water, dangling at a precarious angle. He didn't need to inspect the ship to know that Tabitha's immense Craft had likely blown one or two of the tether chains apart.

He turned to Maxwell, who had relieved him at the helm. "Take us alongside the other ship! Close enough to board!"

Maxwell didn't respond, but the ship's propellers whirled to life, the swivel propellers turning to push the Songbird's bow towards the other ship.

"Lucille! I need to set their ship down! You and I are going over there! Amelian, once we're off, take the Songbird in a slow patrol, and watch to see if that Dragon tries to crawl back out of the water! Valen, have Cassidy assemble a detail to assist the other ship with emergency repairs!"

They all snapped at attention as he addressed them. Valen, who should be Secretary, Amelian, who would be Secretary, and even Lucille, whose job was to not follow his orders.

It worried him, he admitted to himself, that he was so comfortable with their obedience.

He paced impatiently, forced to idleness as the Songbird pushed against the wind to reach the other airship. Their plodding approach left him alone with his thoughts for the first time since the ship had taken off a few hours ago.

His master could still be alive. It wasn't simply wishful thinking on his part. The last explosion was her Craft. Unless she chose to make it happen, a Crafter's own will couldn't harm herself. And he, like this entire City, owed her the time it would take to confirm his suspicions, and look for her.

"You think she lived through that?" Lucille asked, from beside him.

"I hope so," he admitted before he glanced over and caught her expression.

Lucille was trying to keep her fears from showing, and Gerald appreciated that. But his shadow was afraid of what his master might be reduced to, if she lived through her fight. With that fear was a fresh understanding of what his master was capable of.

It was a possibility Gerald forcefully pushed away from his thoughts. Instead, he forced himself to inspect the damage done to the other ship.

One tether was broken. Some damage to the frame holding the lift-bag. Five Valkyries missing from what looks like an original complement of twelve. The hole in the hull ran along nearly half the length of the ship, and had breached the hull in the deck below.

But the breach didn't extend lower than that. The ship can still float.

As they drew alongside, he was only a little surprised to see Lucille leaping from the rigging along the lift-bag, with the winch cable in her hand. She landed with that unnatural grace of motion that made him wish he exercised more.

Gerald smirked when she had to stop and untangle herself.

She wrapped the cable around some of the riggings, and set the clip in place. She waved to him, before dashing away to examine something.

They used the cable to pull the two ships close until Gerald was able to jump across the narrow gap. Once he was aboard, he removed the cable and waved to the engineer at the winch to have her reel the line back in.

Gerald then reached for the fires of the lift-bag, holding out one hand above his head. He felt his will surround the raging fires inside, closed his hand into a fist, and crushed the fires until the bag went dark.

The ship dropped the last few yards to the water smoothly, startling the shell-shocked soldiers on deck. A few of them pointed to him, gesturing to his sword, and in a few moments, one of the soldiers approached.

"Sir!" someone said, a young man bleeding from at least four different wounds on his head, and patches of black and red all along his uniform. "Sergeant Fredrick Templeton, ranking officer on deck."

"Captain Gerald Raeth, of the Midnight Songbird. I'm here to keep you and your ship in one piece. How are your injuries?"

"Minor, sir. They can wait," the sergeant insisted before he glanced back to the missing piece of the deck. "We're missing a lot of people, including all of our officers. The engineers are making assessments, but I don't expect good news. I don't think we're field worthy, sir."

Gerald smiled, and shook his head. "The City has already put more on your shoulders than it should have," he insisted, trying to think of what Amelian or Valen would say right now.

He noticed, on the edge of his vision, someone approaching from the stairwell. He glanced over and recognised Caitlin Dremora. He turned back to the Sergeant. "And you proved equal to the burden. See to your people, and if you can spare anyone, have them watch the sides for survivors."

The sergeant saluted, but Gerald had already turned to Caitlin. "Dremora?"

"By the abyss, Gerald," Caitlin said, and to his surprise, hugged him, wrapping her arms under his and gripping him tightly. "You look so much older."

"Burning Hell," Caitlin said after a moment, pushing him away. "Keates would have busted my head open if he saw that. Sorry, Captain. It's just..."

"It's just me, Caitlin. And you fought a Dragon. No one's going to complain about a lack of military decorum."

But she shook her head, fiercely. "You're not just you anymore, sir. Your shadow is below, making sure the aft propellers are still working. Once she's back, she told me to take the ship towards the edge of the Channel."

Gerald nodded. "Good. The observation causeways should be close to the height of the deck. Once we get this ship tied off, we can focus on looking for survivors. I can leave the helm to you?"

"Aye, sir."

"Fires below, Not you too," Gerald muttered. Caitlin grinned at him but saluted with a flick of two fingers from her forehead. The odd gesture was one his master used and had become a habit among the engineering team that built the airships.

Thinking of his master drew his gaze to the water. He followed his curiosity, to the rails beside the hole in the ship.

The first thing he noticed, as he glanced at the damage, was that the heat sink was missing. Eight cubic feet of cold-stone, enough to stop anything less than a main distribution line, had been shattered by the force of his master's last, ferocious Craft.

The second thing he noticed was just behind the broken edge of the deck was a dark, frayed, weather-worn hat that hadn't been fashionable in forty years.

Mathias would not have been far from her. This close to the Bore, with his Master's sanity already frayed, Mathias must have been close. Yet his stupid hat was still in once piece.

His Master had struck with enough power to break the heat-sink, likely blasting bits of it into the Dragon as she did, and with enough control to keep her shadow alive.

Abyss below. And he wondered if his master was holding back when she trained him.

He picked up the hat, holding it between two fingers as he scanned the water more intently. He didn't see anyone at first, but as the ship drew close to the edge of the Channel, and a pair of engineers began throwing ropes to a crowd of people who had gathered along the causeways, he caught sight of a pair of figures struggling to pull themselves up out of the water.

One of them was dressed in black and hauled himself up with unnatural grace. Despite the height, the black clothes, and the freakish dexterity, it was difficult to recognize Mathias without his hat.

The woman he pulled up after him, weary and deathly pale, had hair that glowed faintly with its own light, and the brick-red coat of a Crafter. She was also completely dry.

He didn't call out, or even cheer, as he dashed to the bow of the ship, took one of the towing lines the engineers were using and tied it to the railing. He then tossed the line over the side, and despite not really knowing how, climbed down.

"Master!" Gerald called out as he approached. Both Mathias and Tabitha looked up at him as he approached, but he stopped cold when he saw the sudden fear in Mathias' eyes.

"Stay back!" Tabitha called out, as she shrugged off Mathias' supporting arm and stood up.

"Dammit, you flame-baked fool! Put up your heat haze!" Tabitha shouted.

He obeyed, reflexively, and extended his will. The air around him grew still, hot, and buffeted both Tabitha and Mathias with warm air.

It was an aggressive posture; a show of strength he wouldn't have dreamed of using even just a few hours ago.

Tabitha's eyes widened a little, and she smiled. "You held back when I trained you."

Gerald smiled in response, as he blinked away tears. "So did you, master," he said, struggling to keep his voice from quivering.

"I've never wanted to know what I was capable of. Abyss below, Gerald, there's so little of me left. The Spire whispers in my skull, and the idea of becoming flame pulls at every thought, especially since I saw it done," Tabitha said as she turned to Mathias. She regarded the knives in his hands for a moment, then held out her hand.

"But I have a little time," Tabitha said to Mathias, who nodded solemnly. "Not much, but I owe him answers."

Mathias didn't put his knives away, but he waited, and Tabitha turned back to him a moment later.

"And I'm submitting his name for graduation," Tabitha added, speaking to Mathias.

"You don't want me to become a Crafter," Gerald disagreed, insistently.

"No. I don't," she admitted, but smiled. "How did you know?"

"If you wanted me to, you'd have done it years ago. I suspected for a long time, but I didn't know until you gave me the sword."

"I might not have done that, if I had known about the Dragon. That would have been a mistake," she admitted. "You are exactly what I hoped you would be. The City doesn't need another Crafter, Gerald. But you deserve the coat, and I want my opinion on the record."

"It's a nice coat," Gerald said, without any mirth. He was aware, and it hurt like an open wound to know, that this was the last conversation he would have with her.

He decided to keep his grief to himself. Her courage deserved better from him than some simpering, selfish pleading.

"It is," Tabitha agreed, with a smile that faded from her lips as if it were snatched by the wind. "I built the ships to destroy the Gloam, Gerald. It's a task no power in the City will help you with. The Military will have us huddle behind our walls and wait for the next invasion. The Crafters are content to grow fat and lazy off the City's labours. The rest of the City is too busy keeping this bonfire from going out."

"So, I'm giving you every tool I can think of. I gave you ships, a half-decade to learn everything you could about flying them, and taught you how to kill with the Craft. Even flying in the Spire's winds was meant to prepare you for what could be out there." At that, she smirked, and he saw the familiar arrogance, the extraordinary self-assurance, that he knew for the last five years of his life.

"It sounds pretty flame-bitten prophetic now," Tabitha added. "Just don't waste it."

"It should be you out there, Master."

"Oh, I agree. But there's a price to pay for real deeds, Gerald. And I'm not the only one who died to bring down that Dragon," Tabitha said. "The course I set you on won't offer you a long life."

"Brief is light that warms the void," Gerald lamented.

"Fleeting is fire that harbours," Tabitha responded.

"Courage is a poor fuel to shelter," Gerald recited.

"But nothing else burns," Tabitha finished. "I am proud of you. I regret not saying it more."

Gerald felt a swift bolt of cold drop through the air behind him, a sensation he knew as cold-stone. Without looking, he felt the heat of a body, and heard the muffled strike on stone.

Someone used to taking long falls. And Mathias was still in front of him.

Tabitha noticed at the same time. But her reaction was swift, and set Gerald's heart hammering as badly as the Dragon had. Her hair lit up like molten metal, the air around her shimmered with heat, and her finger was pointed directly at Lucille.

Behind him, Lucille darted sideways, her drawn knives as useless as a bucket of water to the Spire. Gerald let his defences crack the air as he stepped forward, trying to keep himself between his master and his shadow.

"No!" Gerald cried out, as he found himself facing his Master's wrath. Hair burning, eyes alight with mad fire, her mouth twisted in grief, as fire swirled around her extended hand.

But it wasn't her he was shouting at.

The man moved like the blur of a passing train, somehow simply appearing right beside Tabitha, catching her as the strength vanished from her legs and she collapsed to her knees.

The fire left her eyes, her hair faded to an ashen grey, and she fell to the ground.

"No, No!" Gerald cried out, charging at Mathias. He managed two steps as before a blow struck him on the side of the head. Half blinded by the shock and pain, he barely noticed as his feet were kicked aside, and he fell hard onto the stone.

By the time he was aware of what happened, he was pinned to the ground, a hard weight was pressed on his shoulder, and the sharp point of a cold-stone dagger was set to the back of his neck.

Ahead of him, Mathias was kneeling beside Tabitha, with his fingers pressed into her neck, and the other holding a dagger clutched tightly in his hand. He held that position for a moment longer, then muttered something under his breath as he stood up.

"Let him up," Mathias said, turning towards him. It took him a moment to realise he was addressing Lucille. "Even a Crafter is allowed to be angry."

"And to grieve," Mathias added, as he wiped the blood off his knife with a small cloth.

Lucille stood and stepped away, letting Gerald push himself off the stone and back to his feet. He stepped forward, unable to think, until he stopped and crouched over his master's fallen form.

It was her hair that convinced him she was dead. There was none of the brilliant red that he remembered so vividly when she took him on as her apprentice. It was a uniform ash-grey, and was cold to the touch.

He didn't have time to even begin to weep, before Mathias grabbed him by the coat, and hauled him to his feet.