3. Voidship

The wait paid off.

Roughly an hour after the island had settled back into the flow, a shape emerged from the swallowing dark above. At first, only a faint cluster of warm lights appeared, steady enough to rule out a void creature and too small for one of the great Company vessels. Then the hull followed, a compact wooden vessel easing out of the black beyond.

Unlike the huge Company vessels, this one slowed well before the voidport, adjusted its angle twice, and descended with caution. When the ship finally touched down, dust rippled across the stone in a broad wave and nearly choked Alistair in his hiding place. He shut his eyes too late and had to bite back a cough as grit worked beneath his lids. By the time he wiped his vision clear, the bridge had already been lowered. A pair of crewmen stepped down first and tested the planks, one wiry and alert, the other broader and more worn. Neither wore the colors or bearing of slavers.

Relief came strong and sudden, though he kept it under control. Danger did not always sail under the Company’s banner.

A moment later, half a dozen youths followed, all around his age and very obviously not slaves. Even from a distance the difference was painful. Their clothes were simple, but whole. Their faces were tense, eager, bright with fear and expectation instead of the drained emptiness he had seen all morning. They looked like what young people were supposed to look like when approaching ascension. Some carried themselves stiffly. One kept rubbing his palms on his trousers. Another was trying too hard to grin.

The sight told Alistair a lot. This was a charter run from a smaller island, or perhaps a cluster of villages, that had paid for passage so their children could ascend. Runs like that were common. A family might save for years for it. Some villages would sooner go hungry than let the year’s candidates miss their chance.

He watched the crewmen and youths interact for a little longer, confirming what he needed. They shared paid duty rather than kinship. That made them easier to approach than a faction group would have been, and probably easier than a larger merchant crew too. By the time the first of the youths stepped into the portal, Alistair had already decided he could not wait much longer. Hiding might keep him alive, but doing it forever would kill him.

He came out from behind the broken rock slowly and with both hands visible. Even so, he made sure to be ready for anything.

“Hello,” he called, forcing warmth into his voice.

Both crewmen stiffened immediately and reached for their weapons. The wiry one moved first, not drawing steel all the way but making it clear he could. His eyes swept over Alistair in a single hard pass, taking in the rags, the dirt, the hollow face, the age. The broader one did the same half a beat later, slower but no less wary.

“Stop there,” the wiry man said. “No closer. Say what you want.”

The words were wary rather than cruel, and to Alistair, that almost sounded like kindness.

He stopped where he was and lowered his raised hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a problem. I was left behind here.”

“Left behind?” the broader man repeated, frowning. “Who leaves someone on an ascension island?”

“My family.” Alistair paused briefly, then forced his mouth into something halfway between bitterness and shame. “They didn’t agree with my class choice.”

The wiry one did not relax. “What class?”

In another situation, the question might have been offensive. Asking strangers about their class was taboo. Here, though, it was acceptable. The boy could easily have been abandoned after receiving a less honorable class.

Alistair had chosen the lie long ago, but even so he gave himself a breath before answering.

“Voidfarer.”

The word landed as he had hoped. Even the suspicious one’s eyes shifted slightly. Voidfarer was not some grand class, but it was respectable, useful, and could explain why a stubborn father on a poor island did not want his son to have it. Alistair pressed before the silence turned against him.

“My parents are crafters. And they wanted me to stay home, following the same class.” He gave a dry, humorless smile. “But I didn’t.”

The broader man glanced at his companion. The story had convinced them enough that they did not dismiss him outright. Alistair kept his posture careful and tired, waiting for their verdict.

“I need passage,” he said. “I don’t have shards, but I can work for it.”

Glenn kept studying him. “You have experience?”

“Not much.” Alistair made himself hesitate, then look down in defeat.

The broader crewman huffed once through his nose, almost amused. The other narrowed his eyes a little more, as if trying to spot a lie.

“And why should we believe you?” he asked.

Because I have no other choice, Alistair thought. Because if you leave me here, I will probably die.

What he said was, “I don’t know.”

The answer was sincere. He really did not know what else to say. And so was his downcast expression.

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The broader one snorted quietly. The wiry man held the stare another second, then jerked his chin toward the ship. “Doyle, stay with the kids. I’m taking him to the captain.”

Doyle clearly disliked the decision, but he was easier to read than Glenn. His reluctance showed plainly before he hid it badly under a shrug. “Fine.”

Glenn motioned with two fingers. “You. Come on. Slow.”

Alistair obeyed and followed him over the bridge.

Up close, the ship looked even smaller than it had from hiding, but also more real. The hull was built from dark timber patched in several places with lighter boards that had weathered differently over time. The railings did not match perfectly from bow to stern, which suggested repairs done in a hurry. Torches were fixed in brackets, placed casually. The deck was narrow enough that two men carrying cargo side by side would have to coordinate not to bump shoulders.

“The Chant of the Void,” the man said when he caught Alistair glancing at the stern marking.

He led Alistair to the captain’s cabin, set a knuckle against the frame, and opened the door without waiting for an answer. The cabin was cramped, sturdier than the rest of the ship, and built for function before comfort. Charts, instruments, and bound logs occupied most of the surfaces. Behind them sat an older man in a reinforced chair fixed against the floorboards, imposing despite his age, with a weathered beard and the sort of face that commanded authority.

“Captain Harlan,” the crewman said, “found this one hiding on the island. He’s asking for passage.”

The captain looked him over once, no wasted movement in it. “That so?”