(Dylan)

  Dylan woke up to the rhythmic swaying of his hammock, its soothing movements tempting him to linger a little longer. He smiled, knowing the ship—his ship—was still in the air and heading home.

  His stomach growled, low and desperate. He winced from the spasm as it tried to digest itself in lieu of nothing. It’d been three days since they left the jungle and four since his last meal. Someone back on Earth had coined a phrase—or maybe from a movie? Dylan couldn’t remember; starvation was fogging his brain. Civilization was always nine meals from anarchy.

  The concept was simple: everyone would abide by the civil contract of being kind, sharing, and the general “do unto others” principle. But after three days of hunger, society’s rules went out the window, and people reverted to their baser instincts as the age-old paradigm of survival of the fittest made a resurgence.

  He didn’t have the energy to get out of bed, barely enough to look around his tiny cabin. While he couldn’t see it, a trunk under his hammock held what little remained of his belongings: his cloak, a pink crystal dagger, and a single pair of pants. The rest lay lost in the jungle they’d left behind—fallout from the crash.

  The cabin was small, barely larger than a closet, but large enough for him to lie down comfortably in his hammock. It was also the only quiet place where he could escape the questions and concerns he preferred to avoid. His hunger was becoming harder to hide, and after W’itney found out, everyone knew.

  He held the answer in his hands on his stomach. For the past three days, he’d carried the last loaf of flak with him everywhere. Flak: the magical food that sustained anyone for a full day with only a single serving. The thought of breaking it into small portions never left his mind, but he wasn’t sure magical food worked that way. Neither Runemist nor Wedge knew the answer either.

  It wasn’t worth the risk, and he’d gone a couple days without food while hiking around in the jungle before, so he figured he was up to the task. What were a couple more days, right? But without the constant threat of death to distract him from the mind-numbing hunger, it turned out to be a fucking nightmare.

  “Guess it’s time,” Dylan said out loud.

  He tried to sit up, but didn’t really move, his heart not in it.

  “Come on,” he said, psyching himself up. “The second we see civilization we can eat.” That was enough motivation to muster the will to sit up in his hammock. Both his feet dangled over the edge, half a foot above the wooden floor.

  Careful not to flip his hammock, he reached for a lukewarm mug of water and shoveled in two spoons of salt. The repetitive tinkling of the spoon against the sides of the mug filled his tiny quarters as he stirred.

  He set the spoon down and grimaced at the cloudy water in his mug. It reminded him terribly of flak and its own briny flavor. It went down without issue, his body too exhausted to react to its horrid taste. This was a trick he’d picked up from YouTube: the salt, he’d learned, could keep his mind clear a bit longer even as his body faltered. He never knew his dissociated episodes of binge-watching random facts would come in handy, but they did.

  Being too tired to get undressed last night had, unintentionally, saved him the effort of getting dressed this morning—a rare kindness from Past Dylan. Usually, that guy was nothing but trouble. All that remained now was to put on his black tricorn, hanging on the wall beside him with its ridiculous crimson feather.

  Now that he thought of it, it made sense that the hat wasn’t mundane. Only common-ranked, or higher, items remained unscathed in his possession. He sighed, glancing down at his clothes. Not even the steadfast deathwash machine could get out some of the stains.

  But other than a bit of discoloration, they were practically mint—no fraying or snags in sight. Charles really did make the best clothes, pants especially. And speaking of pants, just past them, he found his boots. Apparently, he’d gone to sleep in them too, and his lips pursed to the side as he noticed they were looking a bit melty. He’d need someone in Dartmouth to repair them; a shame Charles wouldn’t be around when he got back.

  But at least he’d have access to more flak. Dylan shuddered at the thought. He never cared for the food—exceptionally salty and as stale as week-old bread. And the only food on Mother of Dragons he knew he could eat safely. The last time he tried to eat a local dish ended up being the worst night of his life. It required a ton of potions, two menders, and a severed hand to get him through that night alive.

  Dylan snatched the hat off the wall, flopped it on his head, and slid off the hammock onto his feet. To his surprise, he didn’t collapse to the floor. He slipped the kraft-paper-wrapped loaf into his pocket and opened the door. A seven-and-a-half-foot-tall skeleton of a wingless dragon greeted him from the hallway.

  “Greetings, captain, I hope you slept well,” First Mate Echo said.

  The officer, and the rest of the crew, were lamprians—a mythical race of beings made of pure energy. They join with living hosts in a process called symbiosis, prolonging their hosts’ lives with increased longevity and resistance to mundane illnesses. In return, the lamprians learn from the host’s life experiences, and they get to keep the body after the host expires naturally.

  The whole skeleton part comes after, when they boil away the flesh in respect for the host’s surviving friends and family. No one needs the kind of trauma that comes from seeing the face of your dead loved one still walking around…

  “Like a baby,” Dylan lied. Half of his night was spent rolling over, trying to escape the hunger pangs. The rest was filled with fever dreams of the goddamned cupcake.

  “So, we’ve been friends for like, what, four days now?” he asked.

  “Friends?” First Mate Echo tilted his skull.

  “Colleagues?” Dylan tried again.

  “You’ve been the captain for four days now, yes.” First Mate Echo straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. He was always so proper and insistent on formality.

  Dylan scratched his palm. “You know… I don’t even know your real name.” All this time he’d just been calling him by his title, First Mate Echo. And if they were going to work together in the future, Dylan wanted to know the man, or rather the lamprian, behind the title.

  “Echo von Gym’othee,” he said, and then did that little head nod that was customary for draconi, his host’s former race. Lamprians tended to imprint heavily on their hosts, absorbing not only their personality but also their mannerisms.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “No way…” Dylan scrutinized him in a new light. “Are you telling me that the name of my first officer is, Gym’othee, as in... Jimothy?” The corners of his mouth trembled as he held back his amusement.

  “No captain. My host’s name was Gym’othee. As customary of my kind, you may simply call me Echo, or in lieu of that, since you’re on a lamprian crewed ship, and that may get… confusing, First Mate Echo would also suffice.”

  Dylan gave him a look from the corner of his eye. “So, I’m not allowed to call you… Gym’othee?”

  “Respectfully sir, I’d prefer not.”

  “Alright, First Mate Echo. What’s on the itinerary for today?”

  The first mate took that as his cue for their morning hallway meeting. Dylan wasn’t thrilled about making all the decisions for how the ship and crew operated, so he left most of that up to the first mate, who had done an impeccable job. But the first mate insisted on updating the captain about the ship’s daily operations every morning. As a compromise, Dylan agreed to these walk-and-talk meetings that took place in the hallways.

  “The newly promoted Spotter Echo is coming along, despite their rushed training. The engine is still holding. Regretfully, we’ve had to reduce speed again.”

  Dylan’s shoulders sagged as he stopped in the hallway. While his two-day-long headache never truly went away, it often worsened, like now.

  “How much longer?” Dylan may have just woken up, but his restless night left his voice heavy with weariness.

  “Four turns of the clock, at the most, sir.” The first mate didn’t dance around uncomfortable subjects, delivering bad news as efficiently as good.

  Dylan rubbed his aching temples. “Do you know where Ostello is?” Ostello and the salt water were all that was holding Dylan together. He’d been relying more and more on Ostello’s mana restoration ability as the days went on. Now it was nearly every four hours.

  First Mate Echo was also perceptive and protective of his captain. “Sir, we’ll be arriving at Nightshade within the day. Surely, we’re close enough for you to eat…”

  “No! I’ll eat the fucking flak when I can see the stronghold!” Dylan snapped, surprising himself. He winced, frustrated with his outburst.

  The first mate, stoic as ever, hadn’t even skipped a beat. “I’ll have someone locate Ostello right away, sir.”

  “Sorry, I’m a bit hangry. And not very pleasant to be around, apparently,” he admitted to Echo and himself. “Can I get the too-long-didn’t-read version?” He wanted to say TLDR, but acronyms counted as spelling, and translation rings didn’t do spelling.

  “Apologies, captain, still getting used to your command. There’s nothing of urgency to report, just a few small details I can handle, if you’d like?”

  Dylan really liked his first officer, but that wasn’t surprising. Dylan liked pretty much everybody, even Charles, who’d killed him three times so far. What he liked most about the first mate was the lamprian’s efficiency and his ability to ease up when needed.

  “That would be great, thanks. What about our crystalis—crystalises? Crystaliess?” He wasn’t sure the plural form of crystalis; there were two aboard—Former Spotter Echo and former Captain Echo. “How are they doing? Should I prepare a speech for their families, or…?”

  “Taken care of, sir,” First Mate Echo said, blissfully interrupting him. “I’m seeing to it personally.”

  That gave Dylan peace of mind, knowing it’d be handled gracefully and with care. And knowing that grim conversation was handled took a weight off his shoulders.

  “And… A'liyah?” he asked.

  “Still sequestered in the brig. I’m having the crew check on her every two turns of the clock to verify her location, but no one’s posted at the brig, per your orders.”

  Dylan nodded.

  ‘Good,’ he thought. He didn’t like his friend stuck in the ship’s jail but understood everyone’s concern with her and the temptation posed by the two crystalis.

  They’d finally made it to the stairs that led to the top deck, where the rest of the Nightshade teams remained. Wedge had continued training Eury and the draconi twins, W’itney and Hay’len. The big guy refused to entertain Dylan’s request to continue his training on the way back to the guild stronghold.

  Today, Dylan was grateful for Wedge’s foresight. He barely had the energy to get out of bed, let alone continue the brutal physical training regimen that had started when they left Nightshade.

  He quietly leaned against the stair railing, watching the twins climb and descend the rope ladders attached to the mast.

  Hay’len, the younger twin’s footing had slipped. Dylan winced and watched the violet-scaled draconi plummet to the deck. They landed with a crunch, but Runemist remained nearby and rushed to their side. A few moments later, whatever injury Hay’len had sustained during their grueling training was gone. Dylan knew, from personal experience, that they’d still be sore for the rest of the day though.

  Eury caught a glimpse of the captain on deck but pretended not to notice and focused on her training.

  Dylan made his way to the bow. Athrax, the old soldier with a pair of badass cybernetic arms, begrudgingly moved over to give him a spot at the front of the ship. Dylan leaned heavily against the railing, hoping the first mate would send Ostello to him, since it was hard to get around the ship and the sharply dressed elf could’ve been on any deck.

  And each deck meant a different set of stairs. Stairs—his only weakness at the moment. Along with terror tubes, puns, lootboxes, and pastries…

  His stomach growled, announcing its displeasure to anyone who’d listen.

  Athrax scoffed at the noise. “Still ain’t eaten? We’re, what? Four turns of the clock before we get back home?”

  “Eight…” Dylan corrected him. “Engine’s running too hot, had to reduce the output again.”

  The old soldier gave him a silent nod. “Still. Haven’t heard that much grumbling since you were back in the jungle telling us not to go down that hill. Should just whip it out and stuff your facehole with it.”

  Dylan knew he was talking about the flak, but he had a suspicion everyone’s “phrasing” was on purpose. That or translation magic was thirsty as fuck.

  “Nope,” Dylan said. “I’ll eat when I can see the stronghold. Not a moment sooner. The last thing I want is to feel this hungry ever again.”

  “Suit yourself.” Athrax shrugged and then made a passing joke. “You need me to fetch you a chair, captain?” He’d only tease Dylan when the first mate was out of earshot, knowing better than to take jabs at him with the protective lamprian around. “Those land legs you got are bloody wobbling all over the place.”

  Dylan turned to him with a straight face and said, “Actually yeah, that’d be nice.”

  Runemist came up behind them. “Well, go on,” she said. “Go get him a chair.”

  Athrax stood upright, not expecting his joke to retaliate against him. “I was just—"

  All Runemist had to do was raise her eyebrows at the old soldier to shut him up.

  The next words out of his mouth were, “Yes, ma’am,” before he gave up his spot on the railing to go find Dylan a chair. Runemist took Athrax’s spot beside Dylan.

  He waited for the old soldier to get below deck, then said, “You know all the chairs are nailed to the decking, right?” Runemist responded with an uncharacteristic grin.

  “I do. Maybe next time he’ll think twice before being an ass.” They enjoyed a couple minutes of silence together as the Everafter flew over the remote farmlands.

  Eight hours later…

  The first signs of civilization crept into view: a rural farm here, a cluster of cottages there. Then, a small town rolled by, its lone clocktower standing watch over the surrounding fields. Dylan perked up each time, hope stirring in his stomach as he asked, “Is that Dartmouth?” Every time, the answer was the same, and his gut grumbled louder with each “No.”

  Then he got a tap on his shoulder, and they pointed toward a speck on the horizon.

  “That is Dartmouth,” Wedge said.

  “Really?” Dylan couldn’t take it if he was joking with him. Not that Wedge was one for jokes.

  Ostello had restored his mana twice since he’d woken up. Even the unfortunate side-effect the ability had on him wasn’t happening anymore. His mana was just too low, and nothing could top him off anymore.

  He jammed his hand into his pocket, almost shifting off his chair to get at it. Whipping out the loaf, his hands shook with anticipation as uncontrollable amounts of saliva gathered in his mouth. The first bite was bliss, and he didn’t care he was chewing through bits of kraft paper he hadn’t managed to peel away in time.

  The guttural moans he let out drew a disgusted look from Hay’len, who made a face and backed away from Dylan’s ravenous mastication.

  “Wah-er,” he tried to say with a mouthful of food. It’d be easier to down it quickly if he had a mug of water. Cursing himself for the simple oversight, he continued to practically deep throat his meal. Everyone either looked away in disgust or embarrassment, everyone but W’itney, who had a grin and continued to watch him.

  “Wha?” Dylan asked, taking a momentary break to breathe.

  W’itney shrugged at him. “Oh, don’t mind me… I like to watch.”