Ingbord sat slumped against a coil of rope near the ship’s railing, wrapped in her cloak. The heat of her fever had flushed her cheeks, turning her usually pale skin pink. Her hair stuck to her temple in damp strands, and she squinted against the drizzling rain, miserable.

  “Don’t die of thirst. Its undignified.” He easied down beside her. “Drink.” He held a waterskin out to her. She took it without protest, her throat working in slow, aching gulps before she turned her face away.

  “I hate being sick,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “I feel dull and weak.”

  “You are neither.”

  She made a dismissive noise and tucked her head against her knees. The ship rocked gently beneath them, a steady, soothing rhythm. For a long time, they said nothing. The crew moved around them, busy with their own work, and the sounds of the sea filled the air—waves lapping against the hull, the creak of wood, the low murmur of deckhands.

  After a long silence, Ingbord sighed. “Why don’t you like Eysian songs?”

  Eoin let out a short, breathy laugh and rubbed a hand over his jaw. He looked sideways at her, mouth working.

  “The syllables are harsh to my ear. The melody sounds…” he hesitated, “…clumsy.”

  She cracked one eye open and peered at him. “That’s a lie.”

  He smirked. “Half a lie.”

  “Sing me one of yours, then,” she murmured, closing her eyes again. “Something from your home.”

  Eoin hesitated, his fingers flexing against the deck’s worn planks. It had been years since he’d sung in his own language. Truly sung—not murmured under his breath, not half-whispered to himself in lonely places.

  He exhaled slowly, then he began.

  His voice low and quiet at first, almost hesitant. The words curled from his tongue like water slipping over stone, liquid and smooth, soft and rolling. The melody was unlike anything of Eysa, unlike anything of Othmark or Ilroya or the mainland. It was older, stranger and beautiful.

  By the time he reached the second verse, Ingbord had gone still. She wasn’t asleep—not yet—but she was listening, sinking into the song as though it soothed the raw edges of her fever.

  When he finished, his voice fading into the hush of the sea, she let out a long, slow breath.

  “That was beautiful,” she murmured. “What was it about?”

  “An old song,” he lied easily. “About a great king. He rides to war, slays his enemies, and salts the ground behind him.”

  Ingbord made a small, drowsy sound of approval. “A fine song.”

  “A fine song,” Eoin echoed, eyes on the sea.

  And a fine lie.

  A lullaby. A song his mother used to sing soft and sweet, about a swan who saw a fair prince swimming in her pond. The swan fell in love with him. So much so that she traded feathers for skin and flight for hands to become a woman. She married him, bore his children, and her happiness spread over the land, making flowers bloom, crops flourish, and water sweet in every well.

  He swallowed hard and looked at Ingbord.

  She had drifted into sleep, curled into herself beside the salt boxes, fevered but resting.

  His heart twisted.

  He would see her home to Eysa and Torsten as promised -- although he could never go home himself.

  *********

  The Plover sailed in unexpected good grace. Overnight, the rain swept south, leaving the deck sun-warmed and dry by morning. Ingbord stood as far forward as the rigging allowed, eyes fixed on the western horizon, straining for the first glimpse of Eysa.

  “Tomorrow. Maybe,” Eoin drawled from his patch of sun.

  “Tomorrow we arrive, or tomorrow I see it?” she asked, her tone tight.

  “Maybe both,” he said stretching, shirt loose, collar falling open.

  She shot him a look. “Is that supposed to help?”

  He tilted his head, smiling. “Would you prefer a story?”

  She didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away either.

  He sat up a little straighter, gaze drifting toward the sea. The smile faded, slow and quiet.

  “Has anyone told you about the Twice-Born Storm?”

  *********

  The Twice-Born Storm

  A storm at sea is a lover. She demands skill, trust, and surrender in equal measure. A clever man can run with her, bend with her, fight her and revel in her fury. He can move with her, feel her breath in the sails, let her carry him to the edge of the world and back again.

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  But on land? On land, a storm is a monster. She does not test—she breaks. She does not challenge—she consumes. She does not temper, she takes. She destroys, drowns, and erases without mercy.

  In autumn, she came.

  Roiling, turning, dark as ink, she churned against Eysa’s shores, a cyclonic fury beneath blackened clouds. She brushed the southern coast first, dragging torrential rain in her wake. Eysians, born to wind and water, knew what to do.

  They pulled their boats ashore. Drove their sheep to higher ground. Shuttered their homes .Held their children close.

  For two days, she raged.

  Thatched roofs ripped free. Rain slashed like knives. The wind howled through the valleys, a living thing with a voice like madness.

  Then—she quieted.

  The rain eased. The clouds thinned. Fury abated, she spun out to sea, spent and sulking.

  Eysians stepped out to assess the damage. Repairs began. Sheep were brought down from the hills. Children, laughing, were sent into the streets to work.

  The island shook herself off, as she always did.

  But the wind didn’t quite stop. The storm didn’t quite go.

  She lingered, stalled. Spun and spun and spun, growing once again in strength. And then—she turned back, with twice the fury for three days more. A twice-born beast, wilder than before.

  She ripped the roofs right off houses. She sent pastures underwater. She dragged lambs, calves and men screaming into the sea.

  She did not test. She punished.

  And the land, still wounded, still bleeding, had no choice but to bear it.

  Torsten did all that was necessary.

  He ordered dawn-to-midnight work cycles.

  He ordered drowned beasts butchered and smoked. He ordered reeds cut and roofs thatched. What could be salvaged was salvaged. But what was lost was lost. He inspected. He ordered. He reassured.

  He opened the keep. He brought his people inside, fed them, warmed them. He stood before the grieving, measured out food rations, listened to the anger, the sorrow, the unspoken fear.

  He saw to the dead.

  He worked alongside his people until his hands were raw and bloody.

  And all the while, his wary eyes were on the sky—watching, waiting.

  Because a storm like this? What if she didn’t stop at twice?

  The worst of the storm had passed. It no longer shook rocks from the cliffs or swallowed fields whole. But she had left marks. The harbour was broken, docks tattered and fishing boats splintered and wrecked against the rocks.

  Torsten moved about the keep sleepless, looking for anything to set his hands to. He had been walking the halls for the past hour, listening to the wind, feeling the weight of it all of it settle in his heart.

  Had he done enough? Would it ever be enough?

  His body ached. He was tired down to his bones, but his mind would not let him rest. The weight of Eysa, its survival, its future dragged him down and settled like lead in his heart. He was so tired, but there was always more to do. He found it wasn’t in his nature to sleep after a storm.

  Eoin wasn’t sleeping either. It wasn’t in his nature to sleep during a storm. He sat wedged in a window embrasure, one leg dangling to the floor, one knee drawn under his chin. The wind poured through the open space tugging at his hair and clothes. The last gasps of the storm curling around him damply like a lover’s breath.

  “Go to bed, Torsten,” he said without turning his head.

  There was a shift of movement, then a sigh.

  “Even if I did, I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Torsten admitted at last. His voice was low, scraped raw by the past few days. “I’ll lie awake until I’m certain this storm can’t come back.”

  Eoin’s fingers drummed idly against his knee. “Me as well.”

  For a while, neither of them spoke.

  “Got any of that piss-weak ale in your room?”

  Torsten snorted. “Not a drop. I’ve got wine.”

  At that, Eoin finally turned his head, his hair in his eyes and his face half shadowed.

  “Oh excellent. Let’s go to your rooms, drink vinegar, and watch to make sure this storm leaves your shores and doesn’t carry anything or anyone else away with her.”

  Torsten let out a breath--not a quite a laugh, but close.

  He should have told Eoin to go to bed. Should have gone to bed himself. Should have tried to rest, even if sleep wouldn’t come.

  But instead, he nodded.

  “Alright.”

  So they stood on the balcony of Torsten’s chambers, the sea stretching black and endless before them. The last vestiges of the storm had fled to the horizon, dragging the fury of the past days away with it. Only a few stray gusts of wind remained, curling between the stones, stirring the scent of rain and salt.

  Eysa was calm now. But Torsten was not. The wind has settled. But his burdens had not.

  Eoin leaned against the stone railing, turning the wine cup idly in his fingers. He should have felt lighter, now that the storm had passed. Yet with no wind left to take him, he felt heavier than ever.

  The sky was shifting—deep navy softening to violet, the first strokes of pink feathering at the edges of dawn.

  Torsten exhaled, slow and careful, then—so quietly Eoin almost didn’t hear him—

  "I never wanted any of this."

  Eoin tipped his cup, watching the light of candles shift through the wine.

  Then, simply—"I know, princeling."

  “Been a while since you called me that,” said Torsten with a weary smile.

  “Been a while since you deserved it,” Eoin replied saluting him with his cup. “Prince.”

  Torsten exhaled, slow and shuddering, staring down at his hands.

  And then—carefully, uncertainly—he reached.

  Not far. Not for much. Just fingertips brushing the edge of Eoin’s wrist, curling there. A hesitation. A pause.

  Torsten’s breath came uneven, something caught between exhaustion and something else—something hesitant, something wanting.

  Eoin watched him, his expression unreadable, but he did not move away.

  Torsten’s fingers tightened slightly, as if testing the shape of this moment, as if preparing himself for the weight of it.

  He lifted his gaze.

  And when he leaned in—shy, uncertain, seeking—Eoin let him come.

  Torsten’s lips brushed against his—hesitant at first, as if he half-expected Eoin to stop him before it could become something real.

  Eoin did not stop him. Instead, he let Torsten find his way.

  The kiss was unpracticed, uncertain in its shape. Torsten was testing the shape of this - of them - and Eoin let himself be tested.

  Torsten pulled back, just a breath, searching Eoin’s face.

  Whatever he saw there, it was enough.

  He kissed him again.

  And this time, Eoin met him halfway.

  There was no rush, no desperation—only a slow, careful unfolding.

  And Eoin, for the first time in a long time, allowed himself to be reached.

  Later, as the warmth between them cooled to quiet, Torsten turned to Eoin, his voice quieter than usual. “Was that alright?”

  Eoin turned his head away, holding his eyes shut for a moment. Then, dryly, “I’d say it was…alright.”

  Torsten exhaled a short laugh, but he didn’t let it go. “No, I mean… was that alright?” His brow furrowed. “Did I… Could you have said no?”

  Eoin’s sea-grey eyes met his, considering. Then he nodded. “Truthfully, my prince. I could have told you no.”

  *******

  “…and the following spring,” Eoin murmured, finishing his tale with the lazy rhythm of a man sun-drowsed and unguarded, “as soon as the harbour was free of ice, Torsten’s magician stepped off a ship sent by Othmark onto the land.

  Some thought the harbour was lost. But the magician thought not. She got to work, building a crane and winches. She replaced the snapped pilings with stone anchors packed tight with reed and ash. Patched the cracked quay with mortar. Lifted the net sheds on stilts, braced the fishhouse, drained the low yard.

  She reretted the spoiled flax and spun rope instead of linen. She shifted sheep, and turned some fields.

  And the island, bruised and bitten, began to stand again.