Up on the main deck, the familiar, comforting chaos of the Immortal Family had resumed. Father Skeleton, humming a jaunty sea shanty that was several centuries out of date, busied himself by meticulously adjusting random levers and polishing already gleaming consoles, entirely unnecessary tasks, but it clearly amused him.
Skelly Mom's delighted, screeching cackles could be heard echoing down a nearby hallway, likely at the expense of some poor, unfortunate Presidroid. And Skellbro, the little menace, could be heard occasionally dropping stray marbles that clanked and rolled erratically across the metal floor, solely, it seemed, to annoy any passing robotic crewmembers.
A profound calm, heavy and sweet as honey, settled over the Nightshatter. The steady, reassuring hum of its engines vibrated through the decks, carrying a sense of hard-won, desperately needed peace through the corridors. Roy walked slowly, his boots clicking softly on the polished metal floor, letting the crushing fatigue of the day's battles roll off him with every weary step. He paused at a hatch leading to the medical bay, pushing it open just enough to peer inside.
Lutrian lay sprawled on the nearest cot, a truly impressive snore escaping his lips, the half-melted ice pack now dangling precariously from his shoulder like a forgotten sock. Across the aisle, Warrex rested on another bunk, propped upright by a small mountain of pillows. His knuckles were a symphony of purple and blue, a thin, neatly stitched bandage circling one arm. Yet, he was devouring a steaming plate of what looked like unidentifiable meatloaf with a single-minded, almost terrifying focus, quick, efficient bites, hardly pausing to breathe, as if sustenance itself were another enemy to be conquered.
Takara stood patiently at the foot of Warrex's cot, carefully arranging an array of rune-etched bandages on a sterile tray. She dipped each one in a bubbling, faintly glowing solution, scanning its arcane integrity with a critical eye before handing it over to a tiny, hovering helper drone she scrapped together that whirred and beeped obediently around her ankles. Warrex, between heroic mouthfuls, paused just long enough to shoot her a grateful, slightly sheepish grin, clearly appreciative of her quiet diligence.
Roy slipped away unnoticed, a faint smile playing on his lips. He was satisfied they were recovering without his constant, anxious input. He continued his solitary patrol down the corridor until the faint, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread and surprisingly decent coffee lured him toward the mess hall. Inside, a circle of Presidroids, their historical costumes surprisingly neat despite the day's chaos, sat engrossed around one of the long, scarred tables. They were engaged in a calm, measured, almost scholarly discussion. Teddy, his wire-rimmed glasses perched jauntily on his metallic nose, gestured animatedly with one hand, meticulously recounting, with full sound effects, how they had systematically cornered and dismantled the unfortunate Rozhen during their duel.
Every so often, Lincoln would interject, politely correcting the timing of certain strikes, or clarifying the exact angle of the final, decisive blow, his voice a dry monotone that somehow made the brutal tale even more unsettling. Their voices wove together like academics dissecting an ancient, particularly bloody battle.
One of the base-model Presidroids, who always seemed to be polishing something, fetched a pitcher of chilled water, silently refilling the polished tin cups in front of its more distinguished brethren. It chimed in occasionally, offering small, precise, factual tidbits: the total duration of the fight down to the microsecond, the precise distance between each staggering blow, the probable decibel level of Rozhen's final, agonized scream. Its polite, almost deferential tone clashed amusingly with the visceral, blood-and-sweat subject matter of their conversation.
In the background, soft emergency lights, still active from the earlier alerts, flickered gently against the steel beams of the mess hall, casting long, dancing shadows. The low, steady thrum of the ship's massive power systems provided a cozy, reassuring warmth. Roy leaned against the threshold, a half-smile playing on his lips. The day's unrelenting violence, all the raw fear and gut-wrenching tension, now felt like a distant, fading memory in the face of this gentle, almost surreal domesticity.
The Presidroids, once so cold, so purely mechanical, now laughed with a warmth and camaraderie that was startlingly, wonderfully human. Teddy made a particularly cutting joke about Rozhen's misguided stealth tactics and his unfortunate choice of camouflage color, and even the stoic Lincoln let out a series of dry, rasping clicks that Roy suspected was the Presidroid equivalent of a belly laugh.
Eventually, Roy wandered over to a side table, retrieving a simple meal for himself, a slightly squashed sandwich and a cup of lukewarm, suspiciously bitter tea. As he settled into a chair, the animated conversation around him shifted seamlessly to smaller, more pressing matters. The precise schedule for comprehensive hull repairs needed to be done. Turns out primeval dragon claws do a number on advanced composite armor. Takara submitted an ambitious, slightly terrifying, proposed upgrades to the drone camera systems, involving something called "macro-zoom psycho-analysis lenses." Roy paid two percent attention to the specifics.
He listened, content for once to just let their voices, their newfound personalities, wash over him. Every once in a while, a wry, pointed remark about Warrex's questionable table manners or Lutrian's tendency to snore like a hibernating bear drew a low, appreciative chuckle from the assembled Presidroids.
A soft, metallic clang echoed down the corridor, somewhere in the depths of the ship, a Presidroid had likely dropped a tool, or perhaps Father Skeleton was once again attempting to teach the finer points of rattle dancing to a bewildered Sorrowclaw. Roy only smiled to himself, choosing not to investigate. For once, there was no looming, existential threat to manage, no urgent, life-or-death crisis demanding his immediate, panicked attention. Just a battered, exhausted crew, slowly mending their wounds, a handful of surprisingly garrulous droids recounting the day's bloody exploits with academic precision, and the soothing, rhythmic lullaby of the vast, indifferent ocean outside.
Eryndra eventually joined Roy near the reinforced observation window at the bow of the ship. The sky outside, now clear of smoke and dragon fire, was speckled with faint, distant stars. The sea, calm once more, lapped softly, almost apologetically, against the Nightshatter's hull.
"So," she mused, her voice soft in the sudden quiet, "we're at peace. For a few months, anyway." She leaned her head back, exhaling slowly. "Could be worse, I suppose. Could be actively on fire."
Roy managed a short, weary laugh. "Yeah, given everything, a break sounds… almost suspiciously good." He pressed a hand against the cool, thick glass, letting the tension of the long, brutal day finally begin to seep out of him. "I'm just glad nobody actually died. Except maybe a significant portion of that unfortunate forest. And possibly Evarran's last remaining shred of sanity."
Eryndra gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, leaning her shoulder companionably against his. Her presence was a quiet comfort. "Next time, though…" she began, her voice taking on a new seriousness, "we have to be truly ready for whatever Brask is cooking up. He won't stay satisfied with a truce forever. He's too ambitious. Too… Brask."
Roy didn't respond right away, just let the steady, gentle rocking of the ship and the vastness of the night sky ease his turbulent thoughts. After a moment, he looked down at Eryndra's gauntlet, noticing a faint, almost invisible scuff mark left over from her spectacular, terrifying display of Apparition Mode.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet, "remind me to help you polish that out later. Can't have the 'Goddess of the Iron Wrath' looking anything less than immaculate, can we?"
A soft, content hum, almost a purr, escaped her lips. She didn't look at him, just continued to gaze out at the stars. "Sure, Captain. Whenever you're ready."
From the dimly lit hallway behind them, Zehrina walked by, shot them a knowing, slightly amused look, then continued on her way. Her footsteps silent on the metal deck, disappearing into the shadows like a beautiful, enigmatic ghost
Roy watched her go, a thoughtful expression on his face. The duels were over. A fragile peace had been forged. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was only a momentary respite. The real storms were still gathering, out there, in the darkness beyond the horizon.