The air within the Typhoon had warmed since dawn, thick with movement and overlapping orders, the warship's many lungs exhaling in pulses of humming rhythm. Arthur moved through it half-present, drifting past crew and coils of command, his thoughts circling elsewhere.
The Dead Sheep trailed too far. He'd been leaping between it and the Typhoon too often, and though it granted distance, it also left gaps in oversight. He considered fastening the two vessels with runic cords, an anchored pairing, but that would mean visitors. Officers. Unscheduled inspections. Interruptions.
He exhaled through his nose and pressed on toward the high-rank quarters. Fedlimid had described the door well enough: end of the upper hall, opposite the weapons log, marked by a polished brass frame and, now, a brand-new lock gleaming under the handle like it had been made yesterday.
He knocked once, then twice, expecting silence. Expecting some game of refusal or mischief.
But the door opened.
