It's like flexing a muscle. Isabela steers out from the Kirkwall docks and stares out at the waves, as the tides sweep them out into the water. She wave of her craft beneath her feet makes her sway and she widens her stance to accommodate. A twitch of her fingers pulls the wheel closer and she leans against it.

If it weren't Kirkwall she wouldn't chance this departure, the half face in the closest waxing moon, would be a warning. The pounding in her chest, the nerves that make her bare shoulders break out in pinpricking gooseflesh, it's not the moon's fault. It's just the leaving. Under cover of darkness and retreating tides.

"No goodbyes, no regrets," she whispers, alone and to the waves.

"Captain," calls the Boatswain, and Isabela turns slightly to look over the railing. "There's a light on shore."

She follows the line of his arm as he points behind them. There's not enough moonlight to illuminate the red hair she imagines. But she recognizes the stance, and the shadow of the sword and shield.

A sigh escapes her chest with an ache. She'll be back, she knows. Someday.

She casts her voice down at the Boatswain, or one of a dozen crewmates in distant earshot. "Hang a lantern," she commands. "Let them watch it disappear into the night."