Kael stands alone by the breakwater, watching the twelve ships set sail, while Moss grips the wheel of the *Blacktide*.Moss grips the Blacktide's wheel, mask pressed to his face, eyes scanning the sulfur-dawn horizon, knuckles white.Moss stands over the chart table, hands tracing waypoints, the storm-lit ocean vast behind him, brass lamp casting warm light.Moss, lashed to the wheel, endures the storm's raw power, his inhuman form barely visible against the bioluminescent waves.Moss stands at the stern rail, gripping it tightly, his amber-streaked eyes fixed on the stormy horizon where six ships barely emerge from the churning sea.Moss grips the helm of the lead ship, *Blacktide*, while Kael adjusts a lens, her scarred arm catching the dawn's copper light.Kael stands alone on the breakwater, dawn lighting her profile, the stormy sea stretching vast and indifferent behind her.The *Resolute* floats on a glassy sea, sails slack, as three masked figures crumple on the deck, the air unnaturally still.Moss hunches over a salt-stained chart, plotting courses with dividers and charcoal, the swaying lamp casting flickering shadows.
