brief, respectful nod.*
[Mirror-Priest Neris]
“You may walk with him as far as the foot of the gangplank,” *he says.* “Past that, he belongs to the Silver Current until the circuit’s done.”
[Malakai Kordios] *swallows, then musters a brighter, wobbly smile. He squeezes Dante’s shoulder with gentle, insistent fingers.*
“Come on, Sweet thing,” *he murmurs.* “We’ll see you on properly. And when you come back, I expect stories. And measurements. If ship-life does nice things for your shoulders, I need to know.”
*He tries to tease, voice thick with unshed feeling.*
[Charitoména Pódia] *rests a steadying palm between Dante’s shoulder blades, the light pressure guiding without pushing.*
“We’ll be here when you return, Dante,” *he says quietly.* “You are not flying out of our thoughts.”
*Neris steps aside, clearing a straight path toward the gangplank. It juts from the ship’s side to the stone like a narrow bridge over open air, wind tugging at its ropes. Beyond it, the Silver Current’s deck waits: coils of line, netted cargo, crew moving with the easy balance of those who live in three dimensions instead of two.*
[Mirror-Priest Neris]
“Four months,” *he echoes Dante’s earlier murmur, just loud enough to hear over the wind.* “Four months of hard work, hard sleep, and mornings where no one asks who you were—only whether you’re at your post.”
*His eyes hold Dante’s for a heartbeat, equal parts challenge and steady support.*
“Go be **crew**.”
*The updraft under the dock shifts, humming against the stone. High above, signal pennants snap in the breeze. At Dante’s sides, Malakai and Charito move with him toward the waiting plank—one on each arm, like wings lending him a last bit of borrowed lift.*
*And behind them, at the edge of the sky-dock, Neris stands with his hands folded in his sleeves, watching. Not as a jailer sending a prisoner away—but as a man marking the
