Captain Elric did not waste time. The moment the quiet understanding settled between him, Luke, and Naeva, he straightened at the helm and let his voice carry across the dock.
"All hands!"
The words rang out sharper than any bell. Conversations stopped. Tools were set down. Boots shifted on stone and wood as one by one, the crew turned toward him instinctively, as if the months apart had never happened. They gathered near the ship's side, forming a loose but familiar line.
Elric rested one hand on the wheel, the other behind his back.
"I'll be direct," he said. "Are you ready to sail?"
No speeches. No dramatics. Just a question.
For a brief heartbeat, no one answered. Then a young sailor grinned.
"Been ready since the day we left her."
"My hands still itch for rope," another nodded.
"Tavern floors are no place for sea legs," a third chuckled.
Laughter followed—but beneath it, resolve.
Elric's lips curved upward.
"Good," he lifted his voice. "Prepare to depart!"
