Saint of Rust

The shockwave knocked everyone flat.

When Elara opened her eyes, it was raining.

Not the miserable drizzle of the coast, but a torrent of sweet, fresh water. The sky had broken open. The ocean was churning as the current, held back for decades, rushed forward with a roar of liberation.

The *HMS Wrath* was retreating, its sails tattered by the explosion, fleeing the sudden magical storm.

Elara lay on the deck. Her hands felt numb. She was exhausted, hollowed out.

"Elara."

Silas was there. He was clutching his bleeding shoulder, soaking wet from the rain, grinning like a lunatic.

"You did it," he breathed. "You actually did it."

Elara looked at her hands. They were trembling. "I broke it."

"You fixed it," Silas corrected.

He offered her his good hand.

Elara hesitated. "I... I can't turn it off. I'm dangerous."

Silas didn't wait. He grabbed her hand. He pulled her up. He pulled her close, wrapping his good arm around her waist, pressing her wet, shivering body against his.

"I'm not afraid of a little rust," he whispered against her ear.

Elara rested her head against his chest. She listened to the rain washing the world clean. She looked at the horizon, where the way home lay open. But she knew she wasn't going back to the convent. She wasn't going back to being a Lady.

She squeezed Silas's hand, careful, gentle, but firm.

"Captain," she said softly. "Where do we sail next?"

Silas kissed the top of her head. "Wherever the wind takes us, Saint Elara. Wherever the wind takes us."