Ash in the Wake

---

The fire snapped in the hearth, throwing flickering light across the warped ceiling beams of the tavern.

The air smelled of old salt and spiced wine.

Locals stayed away from the crew of the Drifting Star, no matter how much gold they left on the tables.

Men who came out of fog like that, with eyes like those, didn’t carry luck.

Jett sat in the corner booth. One arm rested on the table like dead weight, the other nursed a slow drink.

His coat was off. The bandages still tight beneath his shirt.

He stared at the hearth as though waiting for it to burn out.

A mug slid across the table.

Althia dropped into the seat opposite, grinning like she owned the room.

"Still alive, huh?"

Jett didn’t look up. "Unfortunately."

"Good. I had money riding on that."

He took a drink. "You always bet the wrong side."

She shrugged. "Makes it more interesting."

Silence stretched comfortably between them.

She studied him—the way his hand lingered on the mug but didn’t lift it again, the way his eyes never tracked her movement.

She leaned forward.

"You’ve been quiet since the storm."

"The storm’s quiet now too."

"Don’t be clever. It doesn’t suit you."

Jett finally looked at her. Just briefly. Then back to the fire.

She smirked. "You get like this when something’s still bleeding."

"I’ve bled enough."

"Have you?"

He didn’t answer.

Althia swirled her drink, then said lightly, "Tell me something I don’t know."

"You know plenty."

"Not about BlackSand."

That made him still.

She saw it—a subtle stiffening of the jaw, a long exhale through the nose.

He didn’t flinch, but something pulled tight behind his eyes.

Jett took a long breath, then exhaled slowly. "It wasn’t a joke."

"I figured."

He drank again. A pause. Then:

"I didn’t go for fame. Or sport. I went because I needed gold. Fast."

Althia tilted her head. "Debt?"

"No."

"So what then?"

He traced the rim of the glass with one thick finger. His eyes dropped—not from shame, but from the weight of memory.

"There was someone," he said after a moment. "Seren."

Althia blinked, but said nothing.

Jett didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Something in his posture said the rest was sacred.

"She was born under the Empire," he said quietly. "Marked before she could speak. The kind of blood they don’t let go easily. To leave, she needed papers. A name. A path they couldn’t trace."

"And gold," Althia said.

He nodded once. "A lot of it. BlackSand’s prize was just enough."

She leaned back, her face unreadable now. "So you entered the tournament."

"I did."

"She wait for you?"

Jett stared into the glass like it had turned into something he couldn’t drink. "She asked me to promise. That I’d come back."

"Did you?"

Jett stood. Not suddenly. Slowly, like the story itself had weight.

"I went to BlackSand with a sword and a name I couldn’t say out loud."

He looked down at her. His eyes were shadowed, but steady.

"Didn’t pack clean clothes. Didn’t plan for parades. Just planned to win one fight. Then the next. Then the next. Until it was done. Until we were free."

He turned away from the table. His voice was almost too quiet to hear. "I didn’t win."

He looked down at the table, then past it, like memory was a room he’d never left.

The fire snapped once. Then the tavern was gone.

Only the black sand remained.

BlackSand

---

The first thing I remember about BlackSand was the sound.

Not of weapons. Not of cheering.

But of the wind, dragging grit across stone.

The black sand was everywhere. In your boots, your lungs, your blood.

Buildings leaned like they’d survived something, but weren’t sure if they’d earned it.

They called it BlackSand. But that wasn’t its name. Not really.

You could feel it in the bones of the place. The stone remembered what it was, even if no one else did.

I arrived two days before the first fight.

No entourage. No flair.

Just a battered claymore, a coat thick enough to sleep under, and a sealed envelope that felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

The streets stank of salt and smoke.

Merchants cried out, selling charms they swore were blessed. People laughed too loud, drank too hard.

I walked through them like a shadow.

Didn’t pack clean clothes. Didn’t plan for parades. Just planned to win one fight. Then the next. Then the next. Until it was done. Until we were free.

The safe house was a dead bakery near the old aqueduct.

The back wall had collapsed years ago. Someone had patched it with red sailcloth and melted pitch.

Still, it was dry. It was hidden. It was hers.

Her cloak always hung from the same nail. She folded her maps with precision. She didn’t ask about his sword.

"You don’t have to win," she told him once, fingers tracing the edge of a forged identification scroll. "We’ll find another way."

"There isn’t another way," he’d said.

She looked at him for a long time. Then nodded. "Then don’t forget who’s waiting."

Jett’s first fight was in the south pit, against Chuck Chaos Agent of the Coliseum.

The crowd was drunk by then, shouting bets between bites of grilled eel and spiced chickpeas.

His opponent was fast. Maybe a street duelist. He came in hot, two blades spinning.

Jett broke his wrist on the first parry. Crushed his throat on the second.

When it ended, there was no cheering. Just silence. Then someone laughed. Then they all did.

"The city wanted blood," Jett muttered. "And I gave it."

The next morning, the council changed the rules.

No killing. Too much backlash. Families protesting. Investors getting cold feet.

They didn’t want a tournament. They wanted a festival.

"Too late," Jett said. "That line had already been crossed. The sand already knew it."

His second fight was against Marcellus.

Calm. Unblinking. Not a trace of nerves.

"My name is Marcellus," he said, blade drawn. "I only say it once."

They clashed hard at the start. Jett pressed the tempo, aiming to break Marcellus’s rhythm early.

But the man was surgical. Defensive. Composed. Giving just enough to frustrate, without conceding anything.

"He let me think I had control," Jett said. "That’s when he had me."

Jett swung high, baiting a block. Marcellus didn’t block. He stepped in.

The firebrand ignited mid-strike. A razor of flame licked across Jett’s shoulder, slicing deep.

He dropped the claymore. His arm wouldn’t move. Nerve, tendon—gone.

"Do you yield?" Marcellus asked, sword at his throat.

Jett said nothing.

The council ended it. Marcellus advanced.

He spent three days stitched up in a dust-cracked apothecary. Tar on the windows. Dust in the air.

The healer said the arm might recover, but he’d never swing the same. Didn’t matter.

He left the city that night, wrapped in bandages, claymore slung awkwardly across his back.

When he reached the bakery, the door was open.

The room had been emptied. Not ransacked. Not burned. Just emptied.

The chair where her cloak once hung was shattered. The scrolls were gone. The map—a firepit of ash.

On the sill, a single envelope. Unsealed. He didn’t open it.

"It looked like the rest of BlackSand," Jett said. "Nothing left. Just dust."

Althia had stopped moving.

Her mug was untouched. The fire had burned low.

"She’s gone?" she asked softly.

Jett didn’t look at her. "I don’t know."

"You think she made it out?"

He exhaled. Long. Slow. "I think the Red Hats don’t forget."

The fire snapped again. Quiet and low.

Silence stretched. Jett’s eyes hadn’t moved in minutes.

The glass in front of him was empty. So was he.

Jett didn’t speak for a while. The bottle between them was nearly drained.

Althia had gone quiet. Her smirk faded into something softer. She sat with her back against the hull, boots kicked up, watching him through the amber flicker of lanternlight.

Jett stared into the flame like it owed him answers.

"Gadreel Creeper," he said finally. "That was his name."

Althia tilted her head. "The one who won?"

Jett gave a small nod. "Of the Moon," he added, like that meant something. "Moved like fog off a lake. Spoke like he was whispering to something older than time. Never shouted. Never bragged."

"Wizard?"

"Half. Maybe less. Maybe more."

He shifted. The leather of his shoulder brace creaked. "Didn’t fight him. Didn’t make it that far. But I saw what he did."

He took a breath, like the memory was sour in his mouth.

"Final match… he faced a Chaos Mage. Miyo of the Wood. Fire, light, noise—every spell you’ve ever heard of, and some you haven’t. Crowd was losing their minds. Thought the sand would melt.

Then Gadreel raised one hand. Said a word I couldn’t hear. And the sky cracked open."

Althia blinked. "He split a mage shield with a whisper?"

Jett didn’t smile. "Split reality. Just for a second. Just enough. Miyo dropped. Silence hit the arena like a stone."

He poured the last of the drink into his cup but didn’t lift it.

"People called him a god after that. A moonborn legend. Said he walked out of BlackSand and into myth."

He finally looked at her. "I didn’t lose to Gadreel. That’s what stings."

He tapped his chest. "Didn’t even get close."

She didn’t interrupt. She saw it now. The way his jaw tightened when he said the name. The way his voice thinned when he talked about the final.

He glanced at his bad shoulder. Flexed the fingers of the hand that had barely come back.

"And because I didn’t win... because I wasn’t enough... she paid for it."

He didn’t elaborate. Just said it like that.

"She?"

A breath. Not denial. Not confirmation. "Seren."

Althia nodded quietly. She didn’t press.

"I got as far as the second round. Thought it was enough." He looked away again. "Thought it’d buy us time. Thought gold would come, and we’d run. Didn’t pack clean clothes. Didn’t pack a speech. Just thought I’d keep swinging until I bought her freedom."

He finally took the last sip. Swirled the empty cup. Set it down.

"Gadreel won. The world clapped. Me? I couldn’t even make it back in time to bury what I lost."

Althia reached forward. Not to speak, just to place a hand on his wrist. A quiet gesture. Steady. No pity.

"You didn’t lose that fight," she said softly. "You just didn’t get to finish it."

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Just sat in silence. The firelight flickered across the planes of his face, where a younger man might have worn hope.

Now there was only memory. Regret. And something harder beneath it all, like a blade that had never fully cooled.

"I don’t drink for the pain," he muttered. "I drink because it keeps her voice near."

The lantern crackled once. The shadows leaned in. And Jett, the Enforcer, sat still beside the flame, listening to echoes only he could hear.

Althia let the silence stretch.

Then, softly, she reached for the empty bottle between them and shook it. One last drop clung stubbornly to the rim.

She tossed it overboard without ceremony.

"Well," she said, "If we’re going to drown in ghosts, at least let’s do it with better whiskey next time."

Jett grunted. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t a no either.

Althia leaned back on her elbows, boots tapping the deck lazily.

"Seren, huh?" she said casually. "Sounds prettier than the ones you usually find. Was starting to think you only liked women who could break your ribs."

Jett raised an eyebrow. "They weren’t all like that."

"Oh no?" She grinned. "What about the razor priestess in Valmaar? Or the assassin in Tallow Market?"

"She wasn’t an assassin."

"She wore poison on her teeth, Jett."

"Call it personal hygiene."

He almost smirked.

Althia stretched like a cat. "You’ve always had a type. Trouble in silk."

"Yeah?" Jett leaned back. "And what’s yours?"

"Tall, fast, and already running from something," she said without missing a beat.

He shook his head. "That’s not a type. That’s a recruitment poster."

They let the warmth of the old rhythm settle between them. It wasn’t just banter. It was how they survived.

"How long’s it been since Jorra’s Ridge?" Althia asked suddenly.

Jett snorted. "Since you nearly got me cooked alive by that flamethrower trap?"

"Excuse me," she held up a finger. "You were the one who insisted on going in first. I told you the sensor glyphs were inverted."

"You said," he pointed accusingly, "and I quote—‘They’ll never expect a frontal assault.’"

"I meant you, you boulder-brained hammer freak. Not us."

He gave a low chuckle, then winced slightly and adjusted his shoulder brace.

Althia watched him. "Still hurts?"

"Worse when I laugh."

"So I should keep going."

He smirked despite himself.

Before either could say more, a soft ping echoed from somewhere deeper in the ship. Bruno’s signal relay. Faint and clinical.

Jett’s smirk faded.

Althia tilted her head. "That sounded like a deck sweep warning."

Jett rose. Slow but steady. "Means the fog’s shifting again."

She stood too, brushing ash from her knees.

"Bruno’ll call it in if it’s serious," she said.

"Doesn’t mean we wait."

He tightened one of his forearm plates. Checked the edge of a secondary dagger. No wasted motion.

Althia watched him for a moment. "You ever stop burning?" she asked softly.

"Only when I stop caring."

"And that’s not tonight."

He shook his head. "No. Not tonight."

They moved together toward the dark corridor leading back into the ship.

The fire flickered behind them, left alone on the deck. Ashes stirred in the wind. But the embers stayed hot.

The fog had crept in slow while they talked.

Now it blanketed the water like a burial shroud, thick and soundless, hiding even the stars.

Only the faint sway of the Drifting Star beneath their boots reminded them they were still afloat.

Jett leaned against the outer rail. Arms crossed. Gaze locked on nothing.

Althia stood beside him. Her voice quieter now, without the armor of humor.

"You ever think about going back?"

Jett didn’t look at her. "To what?"

She shrugged. "To before."

"No," he said.

She nodded slowly. "Fair."

They stood like that for a while. Two silhouettes in the mist. Twin statues carved from the same long war.

Then a faint hum echoed up through the deck.

Jett shifted. "Boiler."

A moment later, Bruno’s voice crackled over the ship’s relay pipe.

"Ambient fog density increasing. Magical interference approaching threshold. External visibility: six meters. No immediate contact detected."

Jett muttered, "I don’t like when the fog gets curious."

Althia rolled her shoulders. "It’s always curious before it gets hungry."

Bruno’s voice added, "Crew-wide sweep protocol recommended. Defensive posture."

Jett tapped the rail twice. A signal. Below deck, others would move. Quietly. Calmly. They’d done this before.

Althia drew a small blade from her boot and spun it once.

"Feels like something’s watching," she said.

Jett said nothing. He knew the feeling too well.

The fog pressed closer. And deep beneath the surface, the sea murmured once again.

Entered by: 0x6424…79B4