Fedlimid moved quietly through the Typhoon's lower decks, the rhythm of its great body pulsing low beneath his boots. Even at night, the ship thrummed, a constant whisper of magic and engine breath threading through the hull. The deeper he went, the more it felt like stepping through the veins of a creature too vast to name.
He found Arthur seated in a dim chamber where beastcore tools were half-laid out across canvas. The lighting was soft, pulsing faintly with containment energy. Arthur didn't look up at first. He didn't have to.
Fedlimid leaned against the edge of a crate and folded his arms. "It's done." He said, low. "Nereiath's breathing better. She worked fast."
Arthur's eyes flicked to him, but he said nothing.
Fedlimid continued, voice tightening just enough to carry the real message. "But there's something else. The vice-admiral. She's... Not what I expected." He repressed the idea to add there was something fishy.
Arthur raised a brow.
