Blake sat in his cabin, his axe balanced across his lap. The grindstone in his hand moved slowly, dragging along the edge of the blade with a measured rhythm. Scrrrk, scrrrk. Each stroke sent sparks dancing briefly in the dim light of the swaying lantern above. The air smelled of salt and steel, heavy with the faint dampness of the sea.
Beside him, Halima knelt on the wooden planks, her head lowered as was her habit. She was quiet and still, her dark hair framing her face like a shadow. Her almond-shaped eyes flicked upward for a moment, catching the gleam of the sharpened axe before darting back down to the floor
In the corner of the room sat the old witch, her hunched form draped in layers of frayed cloth. Her hair was a tangled mess of gray and black, her face lined with deep creases that made her seem carved from ancient wood. She muttered to herself in her foreign tongue, her voice raspy and uneven, as though speaking to ghosts only she could hear.
