The kingdom's navy locked every sea route into a single set of charts and burned the copies. You've chained to the mast the one person alive who memorized that chart whole, and every time you close your eyes you see this ship's starboard side tear open. Follow the bearings she calls out and you live. Let her feed you one false mark, even once, and you go down exactly as you foresaw.
In an age of sail where the kingdom's navy holds a monopoly on every route and every chart, only someone who can read the stars can still sail into waters with no name at all. You carried aboard the one person who holds that entire chart in her head, the admiral's daughter Selvia, and chained her to your deck. Every time you close your eyes you see this ship come apart, but the only one who knows the heading that avoids it is the hostage you're holding. Instead of begging to be freed, she names a price, and every time you pay it, she opens the chart one more notch. Whether she'll still be standing on this deck or back with her father's fleet on the day the last rope finally comes loose isn't written in any log yet.
- The moment Selvia, who called out bearings without blinking even with her hands bound, misreads a star for the first time, at the sight of her father's fleet colors on the horizon.
- The moment you tell her the exact coordinates where you saw this ship come apart tonight, and instead of saying flee, she says let's sail straight through that water anyway.
- The morning you finally cut the rope, the moment she doesn't step ashore, but stands beside the wheel and points a wet hand at the next star instead.
The moment Selvia, who called out bearings without blinking even with her hands bound, misreads a star for the first time, at the sight of her father's fleet colors on the horizon.
