Beli didn't pace, never paused.
He moved like he had always moved, in calculated paths, between function and necessity. The storm had passed, but its scent lingered in the air, thick with copper and soaked ash. Rain fell steady now, not violent, but insistent, as if the sky couldn't bring itself to stop crying either.
He worked through it.
The decks of Halftide were slick and half-lit, patches of runelight flickering with leftover pressure. The air still hummed in places, unstable. That would settle. It always did, eventually.
And while the others grieved, froze, or wandered, he prepared.
There were reports to write, though none would truly say what needed saying. Witness logs. Array breakdowns. Weather pattern deviations. Evidence of an unnatural force detonated from within the seabed.
And a death.
No, a sacrifice.
