Drifting Omens

Cassian quickly learned that trust was not given freely aboard the Red Wind.

The first morning after stepping onto the ship, he was stripped of his belongings. Not in a violent ransacking, but in a methodical, practiced way that told him they had done this many times before. Bram, with his easy grin and deceptively quick hands, was the one to relieve him of his coin pouch before Cassian even realized it was missing. Elias, watching with his usual quiet scrutiny, had taken his dagger with a swift, decisive motion.

But it was Nina who found the small, leather-bound notebook tucked into his coat. Cassian lunged to grab it back, but Reza stepped between them, unimpressed by his outburst. “Easy, stranger. No need to get all sentimental.”

“It’s mine,” Cassian said through gritted teeth.

Saoirse raised a brow. “And now it’s ours. You’ll get it back when we’re sure you’re not a threat.”

He knew better than to fight them all at once, so he stepped back, seething as they riffled through his things. His silver signet ring, worn smooth over the years, was pocketed without hesitation. A compass with a cracked glass face, the needle perpetually wavering, was passed between them with mild interest. His deck of playing cards—one card missing, the others marked in ways only he could read—earned a smirk from Bram before it disappeared into his coat.

Days passed, and Cassian found himself sinking into the rhythm of the ship, though it was not an easy transition. The crew still regarded him with suspicion, their trust something to be earned, not freely given. Thorne, to his growing irritation, avoided him entirely. The captain was a presence felt more than seen, issuing commands, navigating the sea, but never sparing Cassian a second glance.

At first, Cassian thought he was imagining it. But no, Thorne was deliberately ignoring him. He didn’t so much as acknowledge Cassian’s existence beyond orders barked through others. It was infuriating.

The crew, meanwhile, had their own ways of making it clear he was not yet one of them. Meals were eaten together, but space was left at the edges, subtle but present. Tasks were assigned, but none that required trust—scrubbing the deck, hauling supplies, work that a child could do. Cassian grit his teeth and did it, refusing to give them the satisfaction of complaint.

But it was the superstitions that caught his attention the most.

There was an unspoken rhythm to the way they moved, the way they handled the ship. They never whistled while on deck, never counted coins out loud. They always turned a blade away from their bodies when passing it to another. Some of it was practical, but some—some were simply done because they had always been done.

It was late on the fourth day when Cassian, tired and frustrated, made his mistake.

He had been tying knots near the stern, watching the way Nina and Reza worked, mimicking their movements. His hands ached, unused to the constant labor, but he was learning. It was then that he absentmindedly set a coil of rope down onto the deck—crossed.

The reaction was immediate.

Bram swore under his breath. Elias, who had been mid-step, froze. Saoirse, sharpening her knife nearby, looked up sharply. The entire energy of the deck shifted, an invisible tension winding tight.

Cassian frowned. “What?”

“Uncross it,” Reza said, voice flat.

Cassian glanced down at the ropes. “Why?”

Saoirse set her knife down deliberately. “Because crossed ropes mean crossed fates.”

Cassian nearly laughed, but the look on their faces stopped him short. They were serious. More than that—there was real unease in their expressions. Even Elias, usually impassive, looked troubled.

Slowly, Cassian bent down and righted the ropes. The moment they were straightened, the tension in the air eased. Conversation resumed. The moment passed.

Cassian exhaled. “You can’t be serious.”

Nina shrugged. “You’re on this ship now. You’d do well to learn the rules.”

Cassian muttered under his breath, but he didn’t argue. He wasn’t sure he believed in such things—but he had learned, long ago, that sometimes, belief itself had power.

And aboard the Red Wind, superstition was as much a law as the tides.

A week passed. 

Cassian’s patience wore thin. The crew barely acknowledged him beyond what was necessary, and Thorne avoided him entirely. No explanations, no whispers of a plan, no answers about Matthias. Every attempt Cassian made to get information was met with an artful dodge or outright dismissal.

Desperation crept in. He needed to force Thorne’s hand.

One evening, as the ship rocked gently under the moonlight, Cassian clutched his side and staggered near the main deck, ensuring a few crew members saw him. He let out a sharp breath, then another, exaggerating the tension in his body. His vision swam—well, he made it seem like it did.

Saoirse was the first to notice. "Oi, what’s wrong with you?"

Cassian winced. "Nothing, just—" He stumbled slightly, making it look unintentional. "I need to sit."

Reza narrowed his eyes. "You don’t look fine."

The murmurs reached Thorne. Cassian caught the brief flicker of irritation on his face before he strode over, jaw tight. "What now?"

Cassian swayed again, this time catching himself against the mast. "Think I need a moment."

Thorne muttered a curse and grabbed Cassian by the arm, practically dragging him across the deck. "If this is a trick—"

"Would I really fake this?" Cassian breathed, letting his voice rasp just enough.

Thorne’s scowl deepened, but he led him below deck, away from prying eyes. The moment the door shut behind them, Cassian straightened.

"You absolute bastard," Thorne hissed. "You—"

"We need to talk," Cassian cut in, his voice sharp. "No more avoiding me. No more silence. You owe me answers."

Thorne exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, finally, he met Cassian’s gaze. "Fine. Talk."

Cassian’s pulse pounded. He had his chance. Now, he had to make it count.