The days blurred together in pale blue and salt spray.
The patched ship drifted on steady currents, the sails holding more than they had any right to.
Art moved across the deck each morning, checking seams and reinforcing knots with new scrap fusions. The boy — Nico — watched, sometimes trailing behind, sometimes perched on a crate, legs swinging.
---
Below deck, Art rifled through a splintered cabinet that smelled of damp parchment and rust. His fingers brushed across cracked glass and a long-forgotten compass, its needle trembling in the faint lantern light.
He picked it up, turning it carefully in his palm.
"A compass," he muttered. "Old, but usable."
Nico peered around his arm, eyes wide. "So we won't be lost anymore?"
Art shook his head. "Not entirely. We still need a proper navigator… but it's a start."
He dug deeper, finding a battered marine chart rolled tight. When he spread it open, sea spray-stained markings showed vague outlines of islands, trade routes, and navy patrol lanes.
Nico squinted at the twisting lines. "Can you read it?"
Art traced a finger along the nearest island sketch. "Some of it. Enough to guess where we might be."
---
Back on deck, Nico watched for a while before hopping off his crate.
"Hey… could you try making something else?"
Art paused. "What did you have in mind?"
Nico hesitated, then grabbed a spare cutlass and a cracked musket. "What if… you put these together? Like a blade that can shoot!"
Art studied the pieces, expression neutral. He set them on the deck and closed his eyes.
A short, sturdy weapon. A forward barrel. A blade edge for close strikes.
Metal and wood shrieked and folded together under his grip. When he opened his eyes, a heavy, brutal blade-gun hybrid lay in his hands. Functional — just not practical.
He swung it once. Too heavy for quick strikes, awkward to aim properly.
"It works," he said finally, setting it down with a dull thud. "But it's not better than what I already have. Too slow. Too specialized. Maybe if we tied a rope to the blade it could be used for fishing."
Nico shifted, frowning. "Oh… I thought it might be cool."
Art gave a small shrug. "Cool isn't always useful."
---
Nico's eyes drifted to a shattered spyglass in a crate nearby. "What about… something to see far? Like… on your head?"
Art considered, picking up the broken brass and warped lenses. He imagined a visor — something to cover the eyes and magnify the world beyond.
Metal and glass bent obediently. When he set it on his head, the view warped and twisted; weight pressed heavy against his brow.
He removed it, setting it aside.
"It works. But sometimes simpler is better," he said calmly. "A regular spyglass might serve better than something clumsy strapped to the face."
Nico's gaze shifted between the Repeater Musket and the discarded spyglass pieces. His mouth opened, hesitated, then he pointed.
"What if… you put it on the musket? Like… a scope?"
Art paused. Slowly, he looked at the musket, then at the spyglass. His fingers twitched once at his side.
"Good thinking," he said quietly.
He picked up the Repeater Musket and the battered spyglass. He closed his eyes.
Long range. Stability. Focus.
Metal hummed under his grip. The spyglass frame split and narrowed, aligning seamlessly along the musket's barrel. Brass and iron sealed into clean lines, the lens centered above the bore.
When he opened his eyes, the new scope glinted faintly under the morning light.
Art lifted the musket, braced, and peered down the scope. The world narrowed into a sharp tunnel — distant waves now crisp, every line of the horizon clean and solid.
He lowered it, exhaling once.
"Well done," he said, a quiet certainty threading through his voice.
Nico's eyes shone, a small grin blooming across his face despite the salt-worn exhaustion.
---
Nico shifted from foot to foot, then finally pointed at one of the hybrid pistols in Art's belt.
"Could you… make me something from that? Something small. I'm not strong enough for those, but… maybe something to protect myself?"
Art tilted his head, gaze settling on Nico for a long moment. Then he slowly drew one of the hybrid pistols, turning it in his hand.
He picked up a solid block of scrap wood from a nearby crate. His fingers curled around both, and he closed his eyes.
A compact image flickered in his mind — a crossbow's shape, quick and lightweight, inheriting the pistol's force but sized for smaller hands.
Metal shrieked, wood bent and sealed. In his hands, a small repeater crossbow took shape, short-limbed but sturdy, with a simple crank to reload and a short bolt magazine on top.
He held it out. Nico took it with trembling fingers, eyes wide and round.
"Try the weight," Art said simply.
Nico cradled it, testing the grip, moving it side to side. A shy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"It's… perfect," he whispered.
Art only watched, his expression unreadable — but for a moment, his gaze softened.
---
Later that day, Art stood at the wheel, compass in hand, the marine chart spread at his feet.
Nico perched on a barrel near the bow, his new crossbow tucked proudly at his side.
A sudden shout broke the stillness.
"Smoke! There — on the horizon!"
Art raised a hand, shielding his eyes. Far ahead, a thin gray column spiraled into the sky.
He grabbed the Repeater Musket slung across his back.
He braced, peered down. The distant shape resolved sharply: a settlement. Not a marine fortress. Not drifting wreckage.
Art lowered the musket, jaw set.
"Settlement," he said. "Or an outpost. Supplies… maybe people."
Nico hopped down, eyes wide and nervous. "Are we really going there?"
Art adjusted the wheel, turning their patched sails toward the horizon.
"We don't have a choice," he said. "We need supplies… and a navigator."
Nico clutched his new crossbow tighter, feet shifting anxiously.
"Are you scared?" he asked softly.
Art looked at him, then back at the approaching land.
"No," he answered, each syllable slow and certain. "This is just the first horizon."
---
The wind snapped into the sails, the deck shuddering underfoot.
They stood together at the rail — Nico's shoulders small and tense, Art's tall silhouette leaning forward, gaze locked on that smudge of smoke and promise.
They sailed toward it, side by side. Toward land, toward danger, toward all the dreams waiting to be forged.