Ren's hands tightened on the rail until knuckles bloomed white.
The song rolled over the deck like a tide—low, layered, almost tender.
Something in his chest answered it with an animal tug.
The pendant at his throat throbbed in time.
"Kira," he hissed, voice barely more than breath. "Do you hear that?"
"It's beautiful," Kira whispered, voice threaded with warning.
She moved like someone not willing to say the word danger aloud.
"Don't look. Don't sing back."
Lin's hands stopped mid-tweak on the valve.
His head tilted, as if tuning an invisible instrument.
"Hold steady," he said, tool between teeth. "Listen to the gaps. Don't fill them."
Ren leaned over the rail anyway.
Below, shapes flowed—long, sinuous curtains of fog threaded with pale light.
The music grew in his bones.
The fossil scale at his collar warmed until the skin beneath it prickled.
A singer of mist lifted its head.
The eyes—holes that swallowed light—focused as if focusing a lamp.
The air around Ren tightened like a cord being pulled.
"Shut it off," Kira said, not asking.
Her hand slapped at his chest to find the tuner.
Her fingers closed on the small device and the little knob clicked.
A high, metallic squeal answered the song.
The tuner blinked red.
Sparks whispered along its seam.
"Too close," Lin muttered. "It's matching the cadence—stop fiddling."
Ren forced his hands into his pockets, pinching the pendant through cloth.
The song pushed, a tide inviting him to lean.
Tension flared along the scar under his jaw.
"Don't—" he started, voice cracking.
The words dissolved under a harmonized note that pressed against his teeth.
Kira's palm landed flat on his chest to ground him.
"Listen, Ren. Breathe into the deck. Anchor."
Her breath, sharp and practical, steadied his ribs.
"You're not a beacon. You're not a bell."
The singer below bobbed, light folding like silk.
It sang again, low and intimate.
"Lin—now," Kira snapped.
Lin's hand dove into a crate.
He produced a small bronze bell no larger than a teacup.
He struck it once; the note cut clean, clanging like a ledger dropped.
Fog rippled, confused.
The singers paused, heads tilting.
"Good," Lin said, voice calm as a hand on a rope.
"Don't answer. Break the pattern."
The bell's dissonant ring made the song stagger.
The singers hesitated, shapes trembling like glass.
The Sussurro Curioso crept upward as Lin yanked ballast lines.
Kira's fingers dug into the rail.
"We go, now," she ordered. "Kick the emergency weights."
Lin cut at ropes with practiced motions.
The craft popped through the fog like a throat clearing.
Air slapped their faces—clean, cold, honest.
The singers below slunk back into the white like something disappointed.
Ren sagged against the rail, chest stinging.
The tuner clocked a small, angry beep and then settled into a rattle.
Tiny cogs inside had overheated.
"You okay?" Lin asked, eyes flicking to the pendant.
Ren forced a laugh that tasted like metal.
"I'm fine. The tuner took more than I thought."
Kira jabbed a finger at his chest.
"You owe me a new curse when we get back."
The fog calmed into a soft, even surface.
From below came a ripple of movement.
More singers slid under the craft like knives of cloud.
One lifted and fixed a column of star-spark light on Ren.
The pendant answered with a little pulse.
The tuner skittered, ragged, its red light strobing.
"Control it," Lin said. "Don't fight the tide—be the canal."
Ren pressed both palms to his knees and bowed his head.
The song probed, a gentle knife.
Sweat beaded at his temples.
"Not—" his jaw shut around the word.
Kira's voice was a blade.
"Use the bracelets. Feel the ground. Feel Li's knot."
The singer drew near, eyes like falling stars.
The pendant matched the song for a heartbeat.
The tuner shrieked in a tiny, furious peal of overload and then stilled.
Ren's limbs went light.
He locked his jaw and breathed into the deck.
"Kira—" he rasped. "Help me."
Kira wrapped an arm around his shoulders like rope.
"Anchor with me," she breathed. "If you go, I pull you back."
Lin watched the singer's head incline.
He struck the small bronze bell again.
A single, pure note cut the melody like a knife through water.
The singers jolted.
"Now!" Lin ordered.
He yanked the emergency weights.
The Sussurro Curioso kicked upward in a violent, smooth shove.
The fog folded away.
The tuner smoked and then cooled with a final metallic sigh.
The pendant stilled.
Ren dropped to his knees on the deck, lungs empty.
Kira crouched and offered him water.
"Don't make me forbid you an entire industry," she said.
Lin's face had gone serious.
He pointed to the east.
"Those lights—they mark trade lanes," he said.
"We burst through the singers, but the route isn't empty. Watch the edge."
Ren pushed himself upright.
The pendant lay quiet and small against his chest.
Night stretched wide.
Lin checked the balloons and muttered measurements.
Kira double-checked the seam.
Ren steadied himself at the rail.
"That was close," he said, voice low as ash.
"Close is a place you don't want to live," Kira snapped gently.
Lin's hand came to rest on the wheel.
He shaded his eyes and scanned the horizon.
"See those blinking lights?" he asked, pointing.
"Not part of the natural lanes."
"Pirate trickery?" Kira offered.
"Or trade-watchers," Lin said, slow.
"People who mark who moves where. Either way, eyes on the edge mean we've been seen."
The crew fell into a hush.
The sea of cloud below went flat and patient.
Secure, but breathless, they look back.
The fog calms.
But at the edge of the mist, hovering in the air, is a small, elegant observation craft.
And on the bow, holding a long telescope, is Sorren, the man from the Merchant Guild.
He has found them.