Justice and Motives
"...Ha. Didn't sleep a wink."
Sepir scratched the back of his head and gazed at the rising sun. The boundary between night and day was more ambiguous than one might think. People often called the moment the sun crested the horizon morning, but in truth, morning began far earlier. Darkness didn't vanish in an instant. It always retreated slowly, bit by bit. First, the black at the edge of the sky faded. Then the shapes of the clouds blurred into view, and the fog drifting over the river began to catch the light. Only at the very end did the sun reveal itself.
Sepir watched the process for a long while. The deck of the Triangular Whale was still quiet. On a ship, someone was always awake while others slept, but this hour felt especially serene. Two night-shift sailors were checking the rigging, and a single helmsman gripped the wheel, staring blankly at the river. From afar, it almost looked like the ship was moving on its own, with so little human activity.
A thin mist still clung to the river. Like hazy smoke over the crimson surface, it scattered and reformed with each gust of wind. Sunlight grazed the fog, leaving faint traces of gold. But the river's own color remained unchanged. Still red. That hue quietly testified to what the river had swallowed over centuries.
Sepir rested his elbows on the railing. The cold wood crept up his arms. He narrowed his eyes at the water for a moment. The current was slow. This river didn't rage like the sea. To the eye, it barely seemed to move. But anyone who'd sailed long enough knew better. Calm on the surface, something always stirred beneath.
Sepir exhaled lowly.
"Hoo."
He hadn't slept a wink all night. His body wasn't tired—seasoned sailors didn't falter from a single sleepless night. But his mind had been restless. Close his eyes, and thoughts surfaced. Try to push them away, and new ones took their place. His crew's faces. The red river. Gold coins. The villagers. And—
The white sword.
Sepir shook his head lightly side to side.
"Too many useless thoughts lately."
He muttered to himself. Once the words left his mouth, he felt a little lighter. He turned back to the river. Far off, through the mist, the river's end faintly appeared. More precisely, the direction where it met the sea. Distant and vague, but a veteran sailor knew the way.
Sepir squinted at it.
"That's where my office is, huh."
A chuckle escaped him. The sea. Vast, wild, foul-smelling. But also the place that made a man feel alive. He'd lived there a long time. People romanticized the sea, but reality was far from it—cold, wet, hungry, deadly. Yet few left it. Once accustomed, the smells and sounds seeped into your bones.
Sepir tapped the railing with his fingers. Tap. Tap. Tap. The wood gave a low reply. He stood silent for a long stretch. Then he turned his head abruptly.
On the opposite side of the deck, one person stood. Philia. No telling how long she'd been there. She always appeared like that—soundlessly, standing soundlessly, gazing soundlessly. As natural as if she'd been part of the deck all along.
Philia rested a hand on the railing, eyes on the river. Her gaze wasn't far off from his own.
Sepir watched her a moment, then shrugged.
"Lady."
Philia turned her head slightly. Sepir grinned.
"Get any sleep?"
Philia answered curtly.
"Enough."
Her tone was the same as always—flat, devoid of emotion. Sepir nodded.
"Good."
He added,
"I didn't get a minute."
He scratched the back of his head again, looking a bit sheepish. Like a student who'd pulled an all-nighter before a test, awkward somehow. But the expression didn't last. His familiar smile returned.
"Well, can't be helped."
Sepir turned, slowly surveying the deck. Sails. Ropes. Railing. Masts. And the crew. The Triangular Whale. His ship. His handpicked crew. His plotted routes. His led vessel.
He gazed at it all in silence for a moment. Then murmured very quietly,
"...Busy day ahead."
A captain's job was never done. As long as the ship moved, tasks piled up. Sails needed checking, ropes frayed, supplies dwindled. And the river was ever capricious.
Sepir pushed off the railing. Rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. Then walked the deck slowly.
Knowing full well what today meant, better than anyone.
Yet he remained the captain. So today, as always—
He got to work.
"...What the hell is this?"
The voice was soft, but in the ship's stillness, it rang strangely clear. A sailor sorting ropes clicked his tongue.
"Toying with the captain's life. That bitch is a dog..."
He spat the words while yanking the rope, veins bulging in his hands. The line scraped harshly against the wooden railing.
The sailor beside him elbowed his side sharply.
"Hey. She'll hear you."
Across the deck, near the railing. Philia stood there. Motionless as ever. A breeze swept up from the river, barely fluttering her coat's hem. She kept her hand on the railing, eyes on the water—but in the opposite direction from the crew's glares. As if their stares didn't exist.
The sailor gripping the rope shut his mouth. His cursing lips froze. He turned his head slowly.
Philia still watched the river. Her eyes traced the mist crossing the crimson flow. Her face was expressionless. No anger. No displeasure. Nothing.
That made it worse.
The sailor swallowed a low curse.
"Fuck..."
He turned back, pretending to work. But his grip stayed brutal. The rope pulled tauter than needed.
His companion sighed. Tendons stood out on the man's knuckles. The strained rope creaked loudly. The sound echoed unnaturally on the quiet morning deck.
The other sailor frowned. He yanked the rope harder. Paused briefly.
For a split second, his eyes flicked to the railing again.
Philia. Same pose. Hand on rail, staring at the river. Unmoved.
The wind blew again. A few strands of her hair stirred faintly. That was all. No shift in her eyes. Her expression. Not even her breath.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Slow. Familiar footsteps.
Both sailors looked up. Sepir. Approaching from the bow. Sunlight climbed higher, brushing his shoulders. His face showed the sleepless night, but his expression stayed relaxed. Like any other morning.
He walked up slowly, then stopped. Glanced at the two sailors. At the rope. At the railing.
Philia. Still watching the river.
Sepir eyed her a moment, then chuckled.
"Lady. Good morning."
His voice was light. The two sailors tensed in unison. The one on the rope eased his grip hastily. The taut line slackened.
Sepir noticed, tilting his head to whisper,
"If that snaps,"
he said,
"I'll make you retie it."
A beat of silence. Their faces hardened together.
Sepir shrugged.
"Moderation in all things, eh?"
Sepir had meant to chide them lightly. Nothing grand—just a word or two.
"Sepir."
The voice belonged to Philia. Very quiet.
"Tonight. Execution at the peak of that island. I'll be waiting."
Sepir fell silent. He looked where she pointed. Mist hadn't fully cleared from the river. But through it, a silhouette faintly emerged.
An island. A small one rising mid-river. The river was so wide it resembled a sea rock from afar. Trees dotted it. At its center, a hill rose slightly higher.
Sepir narrowed his eyes.
"...Thought I'd die at sea after turning pirate. Haha."
A strange, aged resignation laced the words. He looked at the island again. Mist thinning, its outline sharpening. Larger than it seemed—a rocky mass thrusting from the river.
"Lady."
Philia shifted her gaze slightly. Sepir smiled lightly.
"Bet the view's nice up there."
He pointed to the hill.
"River and all."
"Sea too."
"And my ship."
Philia paused. Then curtly,
"Yes."
Consideration, perhaps. Sepir nodded at her reply.
"Good."
"What is?"
"A famous pirate like me getting buried in the dirt. Folks'll dig me up later for treasure. Won't be lonely then."
Philia looked up at him briefly. Then down. Is this guy insane?
Expecting his own grave to be robbed. She couldn't comprehend it.