The wind swept across the deck, carrying the scent of salt as the ship cut steadily through the blue water.
It had been a fine stretch of sailing. Surprisingly fair weather had followed them since their departure, even after their brief layover on an island.
Everything had gone well.
Everything—except for one small matter.
"I told ye, it be comin' up within twenty nautical miles!" Seadog Grimm barked from the sterncastle, his weathered hand pointing across the horizon. "Best haul the helm starboard now, or we'll run straight into it!"
"What nonsense are ye spoutin', old salt?" another voice snapped back. "The wind's fair, the sea's clear, an' there ain't no blasted island on the chart! Why should we swing the ship off course like a drunken gull?"
The two men continued their heated exchange above.
Down on the lower deck, Luke rolled his eyes.
"Here we go again…" he muttered with a sigh. "How long is this going to last?"
