The captain stood at the helm and watched the sky darken over the open water. The crew was nervous. They could feel it in the air the way a dog feels lightning. She had sailed for forty years and had learned long ago that Umberlee always warned you if you were paying attention. She made the offering at the bow herself, pouring wine across the water. Not an apology. Umberlee despised apologies. This was respect, and it was offered because the captain understood that the ship was a temporary thing, a small negotiation with a power that did not care about human sails or human pride. The storm came hard and fast, and the crew fought it knowing they were not fighting the storm itself but rather the queen beneath it, and there was no winning against her. There was only survival, and the captain kept the helm steady because she had made a covenant in that pouring of wine. She would not beg, would not pray, would not offer excuses. She would only sail as well as she was able and let the outcome fall where the sea intended. When the storm broke, three good sailors had gone to the queen, and the ship was half-flooded and damaged beyond easy repair. The captain gathered the crew and said nothing at first, then spoke at last. 'We lived. The queen wanted payment, and she took what she wanted. We don't complain to Umberlee.' They understood. They had made the same covenant she had...