The crew of the Red Wind was not meant for stillness.

They thrived in movement—in the sway of the ship beneath their feet, the pull of ropes between calloused hands, the crash of waves against the hull. They were creatures of instinct, of momentum, of direction.

But now they stood together on the main deck, motionless.

The morning sun had long since burned away the mist, leaving the sky an unbroken stretch of pale blue, the wind carrying the sharp scent of salt and tar. Yet none of it reached the crew. The air between them was thick, heavy with something unspoken, something restless, pressing into their lungs as they watched their captain.

Watched. And waited.

Thorne stood above them on the quarterdeck, braced against the railing, his stance loose, casual—but Cassian could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed, then curled into fists before relaxing again. His shirt clung to his back, still damp from the humidity, open at the collar where the ties had come undone. The bruises along his jaw had darkened overnight, a stark contrast against his sun-warmed skin, and the split in his lip was fresh, a testament to the night before.

A testament to Cassian.

And yet, Cassian did not feel victorious.

He leaned against the mast, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as he observed. He had no reason to speak. He already knew what they were about to learn.

It was the rest of the crew who stood in uncertainty, their unease almost tangible.

León —the boy who had tried to slit Hypnos’s throat— had taken the front, a position he had not been given but claimed for himself, his wiry frame tense, dark brows furrowed in frustration. He was younger than most of them, still carrying the remnants of boyhood in the angles of his face, though the sea had carved sharpness into him. His tan skin was marred with faded scars, his nose slightly crooked from a past fight he hadn’t won, and his fingers twitched at his sides like he was ready to throw another punch.

Saoirse stood just behind him, her stance more composed but her expression no less pointed. Her auburn hair was braided back, strands escaping to frame the sharp lines of her face, and her green eyes—usually steady, usually certain—were narrowed with something dangerously close to doubt.

And then there were the others.

Nina, arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable but gaze sharp as ever, her long dark hair pulled back, revealing the silver hoop in her ear that caught the sunlight. Javi, the most soft-spoken of them, yet his fingers drummed against the hilt of his dagger, his dark eyes calculating beneath the shadow of his hat. Solas, broader than most, his stance wide and unshaken, but his mouth was pressed in a thin line, his fingers flexing at his sides. Even Roone, usually unbothered, leaned against the railing with his arms crossed, his dark skin glistening under the sun, his bald head tilted slightly as if weighing the situation before speaking.

But no one spoke.

Not at first.

Thorne exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crew. Tension coiled tight between them, a rope fraying at the edges. He could see it in the set of their jaws, the way some avoided his eyes while others—like León—stared him down, waiting.

"You don’t trust me." His voice was low, measured, but it carried across the deck like the crack of a whip. "Not fully. Not after this."

No one spoke, but the weight of their silence was answer enough.

Thorne tilted his head, gaze flicking toward León, then to the others.

"You think I keep you in the dark because I enjoy it. Because I like pulling the leash tight and watching you squirm." He took a slow step forward. "But that isn’t it." Another step. "You want to know where we’re going?"

A pause.

"We sail east."

And the silence shattered.

León scoffed first. A sharp, incredulous sound. Then came the shifting of feet, the murmurs of uncertainty, the low, building hum of dissatisfaction.

León exhaled sharply through his nose, then shook his head, stepping forward with the reckless confidence of someone who had never been struck down too hard.

“That’s it?” he demanded. “That’s all we get?”

His voice carried across the deck, drawing more attention, more weight.

A muscle in Thorne’s jaw ticked, but he remained silent.

León took another step forward, his stance wide, his arms crossed over his chest. His voice was louder now, frustration slipping between the cracks of his composure.

“We’ve followed you for years,” he said. “Through storms. Through gods-damned nightmares. Through strangers boarding our ship with no name and even less explanation.”

His gaze flicked to Cassian. Brief but sharp.

Cassian only raised an eyebrow.

León turned back to Thorne, voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“And now you say we sail east, just like that, and we’re meant to follow blindly?”

Silence.

Then—

Saoirse’s voice, softer but no less firm.

“You always know where we’re going,” she said. “Always.”

Thorne’s expression didn’t shift.

“We trust you,” she continued, measured. “But—”

The hesitation hung between them.

But this time, something was different.

The doubt was there, lingering in the space between glances, in the way hands tensed at belts, in the way Roone finally spoke, his deep voice slow, careful.

“What’s in the east, Thorne?”

A question.

Not an accusation.

Not yet.

But the weight of it settled.

The ship groaned, the wood shifting beneath them.

And then—Thorne laughed.

Low. Quiet. Almost amused.

But his fingers were white against the railing.

"You don’t think I know everything that happens on my own ship?" His voice was low, smooth—dangerous in the way the sea is before a storm. His golden eyes swept over them, sharp as cut glass. "You don’t think I knew what you did last night, León?"

A shift. The weight of the crew’s stares turned toward León. Some in shock. Others—Cassian noticed—less surprised. They had known. Or at least suspected.

León squared his shoulders, but there was the barest flicker of hesitation before he said, "Then why haven’t you done anything about it?"

Thorne exhaled through his nose, then moved.

Not quickly. Not sharply.

Slow.

Deliberate.

He descended from the quarterdeck one step at a time, the boards creaking beneath his boots, his presence coiling tighter around them with every measured step.

When he reached León, he didn’t stop.

Not until there was barely space between them.

Cassian watched—watched the way León’s fingers twitched, the way his chest rose and fell a fraction too fast, the way he held his ground but didn’t step forward.

Thorne lifted a hand and pressed it against León’s chest.

A touch.

A warning.

León stiffened.

Thorne leaned in slightly, his voice softer now—but no less commanding.

“We sail east,” he repeated. “And you will follow that course, because that is what I ordered.” His golden eyes flicked between them, measuring, unyielding. “Or would you rather I start questioning who else knew what León planned last night?”

A hush.

Deep. Rooted.

León’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. Around him, the crew shifted. A few cast wary glances at one another. Some—Saoirse among them—looked as though they wanted to speak, to question, but none dared.

Because Thorne wasn’t just their captain now.

He was their executioner, should they push too far.

The moment stretched.

And then—Thorne stepped back.

“Back to your stations,” he murmured.

One by one, the crew hesitated, then dispersed.

Slowly. Carefully.

But Cassian—

Cassian saw the way Thorne exhaled once they were gone.

Not in relief.

In exhaustion.

Because he’d won.

But barely.

And next time—

Next time, they might not listen.