"To tread where the earth gives way,


    Is to dance to the song beneath silence.


    In the depths, the Dancer’s steps endure,


    And the fearless find their harmony."


    From the Songs of the Eternal Dance, The Holy Verses of Tiowuzhe


    The Song of the Eastern Wind made good speed, afternoon light gilding the waves. Heavy dampness hung in the air, dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Bai Qingyu stood at the rail, watching the Green Serpent River''s mouth recede. Each mile southward tightened something in his chest, like a thread pulling taut.


    Rice Sister Wong appeared with tea. “The sea cares nothing for where we wish to be,” she said, pressing a steaming cup into Qingyu’s hands. “Only for where we are.”


    Even her wisdom couldn’t settle his thoughts. They raced ahead to Dolphin Bay, then circled back to the palace the day before—The Prince''s sleeve brushing his, maps marked with black ships, the prince’s voice calm and soft.


    The helmsman called depth changes as they entered deeper water. Captain Lin had chosen their course carefully, steering well away from the coast where black sails prowled. The crew worked in practiced silence, eyes darting to the horizon between tasks.


    Bai Qingyu was helping Master Chen check the rigging when he spotted it—a smudge against the darkening sky, unsettling in a way he couldn’t name. The air had thickened, a heavy stillness presaging a storm. He climbed higher for a better view, ignoring the older man’s muttered caution.


    “Smoke,” Qingyu called down. “Northeast. Near the river’s mouth.”


    Not the clean smoke of cooking fires or signal beacons. This smoke climbed black and heavy into the evening sky, its presence tightening his throat.


    "Captain." Qingyu was surprised by how calm he sounded. "If they’re attacking the river mouth, Li Xueying''s scouts will be the first to meet them."


    She turned her gaze on him, sharp and measuring. Smoke reflected in her glass, a warning she seemed reluctant to acknowledge. “You’d have us sail into battle with a trading ship?”


    “I’d have us look. At least see what’s happening.”


    The crew stilled, their eyes shifting to the exchange. Qingyu felt the weight of their attention, his own boldness pressing on him. But the smoke kept rising—wrong, insistent against the evening sky.


    “The prince would do the same for us,” he said softly.


    Captain Lin’s hands closed tighter around her glass. For a moment, the ship seemed to hold its breath with her. Then: “Helm about. Northeast course.”


    The wind shifted erratically, carrying the metallic tang of a gathering storm. Qingyu moved to help the crew—coiling lines, securing loose gear—but his gaze kept returning to the column of smoke, growing darker with every league.


    They heard the battle before they saw it.


    Sound moved strangely over water—metal striking metal, the groan of splitting wood, shouts that dissolved into silence. Through gaps in the smoke, they glimpsed what lay ahead: black sails cutting through the darkening sky, circling smaller ships at the river’s mouth.


    The wind shifted, peeling back the smoke for a fleeting moment, and Qingyu saw him. Xueying stood at his ship’s rail, sword gleaming in the fading light as he directed his crew’s defense. Even from this distance, his presence commanded attention—that same strength from the council hall now sharpened into steel and resolve.


    But other eyes had fixed on the prince. A black ship shifted course toward his vessel, its deck bristling with figures wielding weapons Qingyu didn’t recognize at first, then he realised—not bows, crossbows, heavy and menacing.


    "They''re targeting his ship," Qingyu said. The words came without thought, as did his next. "We could draw their attention. Give him time to—"


    A sound split the air - sharp as breaking stone, loud as storm wind. The prince''s ship shuddered, wood splintering where something had struck its hull. Xueying’s voice carried across the water, calling his crew to brace for another attack.


    Qingyu moved before his thoughts could catch up. His hands found the mainmast rigging—how many times had he climbed it, helping Master Chen check the stays? How many hours had he spent learning the ship’s ways since leaving Dolphin Bay?


    “Young lord!” Master Chen’s voice rose after him. “That’s no place for—”


    But Qingyu had already reached the first spar, angling for a better view. Below, Captain Lin’s voice cut through the wind, directing the crew’s  response. The Song of the Eastern Wind turned sharply toward the fray, her bow slicing through steep, breaking waves.


    From his vantage, Qingyu saw the full scope of what they faced. Three black ships surrounded Xueying’s vessel, their massive, high-sided hulls and towering decks unlike anything Qingyu had ever encountered.


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    Another deafening crack split the air. Qingyu watched as Xueying’s crew scrambled, their rigging shredded by the strike. The prince stood firm on the quarterdeck, his voice cutting through the chaos as he hauled a fallen crew member to their feet, steadying them with one hand while pointing toward the damaged lines with the other.


    The closest black ship pivoted, presenting its broadside to Xueying’s vessel. Qingyu’s eyes caught the movement of shadowed figures on the deck, working on a massive, metallic construct that gleamed dully in the fading light. It looked like a great, squat black-iron bear, with a flaming, gaping maw.


    There was no time to think. Qingyu’s eyes scanned the deck. "A bow!" he called, his voice cutting through the chaos. A crew member hurried forward, thrusting one into his hands. The weight settled against his palm, familiar and steady. He ran his fingers over the grip briefly, grounding himself before nocking an arrow.


    His first arrow fell short, lost to the pitching of The Song of the Eastern Wind as it rode the churning waves. The second struck true, hitting a figure near the iron bear and halting their preparations for a brief but vital moment. Below, the ship tilted sharply as Captain Lin brought her about, working to draw the black ship’s attention away from Xueying’s beleaguered vessel.


    Then Qingyu saw it clearly—the mouth of the metal beast began to glow, an unnatural red that pierced the gathering dark like an ominous sunrise. Smoke coiled from its form as if alive, writhing with malignant purpose.


    The Song of the Eastern Wind plunged through a towering wave, its bow crashing into the leeward face. Qingyu’s grip slipped from the mast.


    The fall stretched endlessly. Qingyu caught a fleeting glimpse of Xueying turning toward the glowing beast, saw the brief horror flicker across his otherwise composed face. Then the water struck him with the force of a stone wall.


    Cold water slammed the air from Qingyu’s lungs. The current seized him, twisting and dragging him down. He struggled to find the surface, but the chaos of waves and debris disoriented him. His shoulder struck something—perhaps a hull, perhaps wreckage—sending pain shooting through him like the flare of festival lanterns.


    He clawed his way upward, gasping for air only to have it ripped away by another crashing wave. Salt burned his eyes as he struggled to focus on what came next:


    The beast roared. No other word sufficed. The sound shattered the air like a thunderclap born of fury, and something bright and monstrous erupted from its maw. Li Xueying’s ship seemed to shatter where it struck, fragments of wood exploding outward like festival blooms—beautiful, horrifying, and final against the deepening dark.


    Qingyu saw Xueying fall, his white garments swallowed by the black waters below.


    The current tugged at him again, relentless in its pull, but Qingyu fought back with a strength born of desperation. Each stroke toward where the prince had vanished demanded more  than the last. His injured shoulder screamed, and his sodden clothes weighed him down like anchor chains.


    He reached Xueying at last, finding him face-down in the waves, blood mingling with foam. The prince was heavier than he appeared—solid muscle beneath the ceremonial white. Qingyu struggled awkwardly, his good arm hooking beneath the prince to turn him over, ensuring his face broke the surface to draw breath.


    The shore loomed closer, a faint outline of rocks and sand that Qingyu had glimpsed before his fall. Yet the distance felt immeasurable now, each wave battering his progress, his shoulder ablaze with pain, his legs trembling under the strain.


    His foot brushed against rock. A wave surged, dragging them both under as salt water scorched Qingyu’s throat. He nearly lost his grip on Xueying but found it again, tightening his hold. Another wave crashed, but this time Qingyu harnessed its momentum, letting it push them closer to shore.


    They struck the sand with jarring force. Qingyu dragged them both further inland, out of the grasping waves. His arms trembled, his shoulder screaming with pain. But they were free of the sea’s hold at last.


    In the dim light, Qingyu could barely make out Xueying’s face. His fingers trembled as they sought signs of life. The prince’s chest rose faintly, each breath a strained rasp—but he was alive. Alive, though bleeding. Qingyu’s hands found the source: a black bolt lodged in the prince’s leg.


    The sounds of battle rose again, closer now. Qingyu lifted his gaze to see flames licking across the water where Xueying’s ship had once stood. The Song of the Eastern Wind was nowhere to be seen. He clung to the hope that Captain Lin had turned south, far from the terrible metal bear and its deafening roars.


    “We need to move,” Qingyu murmured, more to himself than to the unconscious prince. “Find shelter. Somehow.”


    His legs buckled as he struggled to stand, exhaustion pulling him down. But he remembered the cliffs—he had glimpsed caves along the shore as they approached. If he could just reach them…


    Thunder cracked above, sudden and jarring. Qingyu had been too consumed by survival to notice the storm’s arrival. The first cold drops fell against his skin, sharp as needles.


    The cave was little more than a shallow overhang, where the bottom of the cliff had been worn away by years of wind and waves. It was hardly shelter, but it shielded them from the worst of the rain as Qingyu examined Xueying’s wounds in the fading light.


    The bolt had pierced clean through muscle, narrowly missing bone. The wound on Xueying’s head was more concerning—a deep gash that had begun clotting, despite the salt water. Up close, the prince’s face seemed younger than Qingyu had noticed before, the quiet authority from the council hall replaced by a vulnerable stillness.


    Qingyu’s own shoulder throbbed with every movement. A long shallow cut, and something had torn during the fall—he felt the unnatural pull and ache whenever he tried to lift his arm. A jagged cut along his ribs burned with salt, but the cold had slowed the bleeding.


    Thunder rumbled louder, shaking the air around them. Between the sheets of rain, Qingyu glimpsed the distant battle shifting southward. The metal beast roared less often now, its deafening blasts swallowed by the storm. Perhaps even the black ships had been driven to safer waters.


    Li Xueying stirred, a faint sound breaking the storm’s rhythm. Instinctively, Qingyu shifted closer, offering what little warmth he could. The prince’s skin was cool to the touch as Qingyu checked his pulse again—a faint, steady rhythm that had been his reassurance since pulling them ashore.


    “You’re safe,” Qingyu murmured, though he doubted the prince could hear him. His voice wavered but steadied. “We just have to hold on until morning.”


    The words felt hollow in the storm’s shadow. What did safety mean with black ships haunting their waters, armed with weapons that roared like vengeful gods? What could morning bring, except the sight of what those weapons had destroyed?


    Qingyu’s vision blurred, exhaustion closing in like the tide. Too much salt water, too much pain, too much of everything. He forced himself to focus on Xueying’s breathing—the faint rise and fall of his chest, proof that life persisted.


    But even that anchor slipped from his grasp, and darkness claimed him.