Were there any gods, Phosis would have offered a prayer. In their absence, he muttered assurances to himself and the Master.

  They had made landfall in the dead of night, the fat-bellied hulks beaching themselves on the shore as their crews began to rip them apart for supplies. Now that the sun was rising, he felt as though he was being cooked alive.

  His broad frame was bound in his heavy metal armour, rough steel plates covering his chest, right arm, and legs. His left arm was bare from the shoulder, ensuring the deep-cut and swirling marks of station the Master had personally carved into his scales were displayed for all to see. He stood atop a sand dune overseeing the scurrying masses as they unloaded the holds and ripped open the hulls of their battered and broken vessels.

  The air stank of sodden, rotting wood and was filled with the raucous sounds of thousands of voices. They whooped and shouted as they delighted in the simple pleasure of dry land before they were set back to work. They rushed back and forth at the bidding of bellowed commands and cracking whips; lugging crates, dragging away what wood might be saved, and ripping down sails to make tents or even clothes for their filthy bodies.

  There would be no return journey, except in victory. Their route through that abyss was too dangerous to risk another crossing; all their bait-ships and many more besides had been lost. But Phosis had survived. That was enough.

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  The master had blessed him with a new name for this task. His birth name now lay forgotten, while the new filled him with purpose and strength. He would succeed here, not just for the Master’s sake, but for his own, for this powerful name.

  Another ship crashed upon the shore, sending sand hurtling in every direction. Phosis raised an arm to shield himself as the coarse grains added a new layer to the grime covering him.

  The vessel was one of the largest in their fleet; a behemoth with gilded sails and a serpentine figurehead. It had lurked at the rear of their fleet for the entire voyage. A ship of such craft consigning itself to death on this burning shore cemented to all watching that this had been a one-way trip.

  Phosis scowled, the arrogance bleeding from the ship’s design exuded the self-centred mind of its most valuable cargo. Care would need to be taken, for he was not the Master’s only hand-picked minion on this expedition, and this cargo posed as much threat to Phosis as the Master’s ire.

  The Weaver was nearby, sitting cross-legged on the ground. He had not reacted to the shower of sand that had washed over him, remaining hunched forward without even a twitch, absorbed in manipulating the orb. His scales were so inundated with sand he made Phosis’ hide itch just by looking at him.

  Phosis had no idea when he had acquired the orb or what it was made of, but it had consumed all of the Weaver’s attention for some days now. Its gelatinous surface only reacted to his twisted touch, pulling and stretching and shifting. He had been eating less, and his ramblings had been getting worse.

  Phosis knew their expedition was a mess, but they could not fail. Not now.

  He turned southward, staring down the shoreline towards their goal. He could not see it, but he knew it was there, far beyond to the south. A place of steel and stone. A place the Master desired, and so it would be his.