Variables

Damian's axe came down, and the log split cleanly in two.

By the lumber pile on the dock, he had been working all afternoon.

Sweat ran from his temple, down his sun-bronzed neck, and into his collar.

He stacked the split firewood aside, straightened up, and wiped his face with his sleeve.

Then he saw the gray-blue silhouette on the sea.

A warship.

His wood-splitting motion paused for a moment.

Damian planted the axe on the ground, shaded his eyes with a hand, and looked out to sea.

He could already make out the hull number on the bow. White figures moved across the deck, and the seagull flag atop the mast billowed full in the wind.

He counted the days. It was indeed about time. A naval patrol ship came once a month, circled the outer waters of the island, and left. Sometimes it came close enough for them to see its side; other times, it was only a distant shadow.

White Wax Island was too small, too small to be worth docking at.

But today, this warship was clearly not merely passing by. It was heading toward the dock.

Damian instantly thought of yesterday evening.

Roy had stood beside the water vat behind the house, his sleeves rolled above his forearms, a slanting streak of dried brown blood staining his shirt.

He had said he had killed more than a dozen pirates at Gravel Beach, scuttled their ship, and thrown the bodies into the sea.

Damian's gaze left the warship and swiftly swept across the crowd on the dock.

Dockworkers unloading cargo, fishermen mending nets, fishmongers tending their stalls, an apprentice from the blacksmith's shop carrying a bucket of water past the dockside, the tavern owner chatting at her doorway—every face was familiar. He searched all around, but Barlow was nowhere to be seen.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder from behind.

Damian turned around. At some point, Barlow had appeared half a step behind him, still holding the fishmonger's ledger.

"We should leave now..." Damian lowered his voice.

"Wouldn't that look too suspicious?"

Barlow cut him off as decisively as he would have stopped his movement. He tucked the ledger beneath his arm, his gaze passing over Damian's shoulder to settle on the approaching warship.

His expression was no different from usual: unhurried, as if he were watching an ordinary merchant vessel.

Damian shifted the axe from his right hand to his left. "Roy and Mila might still be training in the woods. They may not have seen the warship."

"They might not rush straight to our household as their first stop, either," Barlow said. "You're making assumptions."

Damian said nothing. His fingers tightened around the axe handle, then loosened.

Barlow glanced at him.

"Don't panic."

His voice was low enough that only the two of them could hear it.

"Even if something happens, trust Dad. Trust Mila."

Damian waited a beat. When nothing further came, he asked, "And?"

"And what?"

"Roy."

Barlow gave a perfunctory nod.

Damian opened his mouth, then swallowed the words that had reached his lips. This was not the time to argue about that.

The warship docked.

Ropes were thrown down from the deck. The workers on the dock caught them and expertly looped them around the mooring posts.

The ship was larger than it had looked from afar. Its gray-blue paint bore signs of repair. The gunports were shut, but the positions of the cannons remained clearly visible. Sailors on deck were furling the sails.

The gangplank was lowered. Its wooden boards struck the stone edge of the dock with a dull thud.

An officer came down.

He wore a standard naval white uniform. The metal buttons on his epaulets gleamed under the sun, and the scabbard of the saber at his waist was dark blue, a full length longer than those carried by ordinary naval officers.

A small squad of marines followed behind him, around seven or eight men. Their steps were neat, their boots clicking against the stone-paved dock.

The people on the dock automatically made way.

The officer stopped at the foot of the gangplank. His gaze slowly passed over the faces in the crowd. Some of those caught by his eyes lowered their heads, some took half a step back, and some forced smiles before quickly losing them.

"We are pursuing a band of roaming pirates."

His voice was loud enough for the entire dock to hear, the voice of someone accustomed to giving orders.

"Have any of you seen a pirate ship nearby?"

As expected.

Damian's grip on the axe handle tightened again.

Among the crowd, a dockworker who usually unloaded cargo alongside Damian spoke first.

"No, sir. We haven't seen one."

He even bowed after speaking.

The officer's gaze lingered on his face for a moment before moving away.

"Is this the only town on your island?"

"Yes." The dockworker bowed again. "There's only White Wax Town on White Wax Island. This is the only dock from south to north, and the town is only this area."

The officer did not respond immediately.

He turned to face the island's interior.

From where he stood, the dock, market, dirt roads, scattered houses, and the distant white wax forest all lay in full view.

"That band of pirates may very well have landed from the other side and hidden somewhere on this island."

He turned back to face the crowd.

"Please rest assured. Our warship will remain docked here for two days. We will search the entire island and ensure everyone's safety."

A low stir rose from the crowd. Some people sighed in relief, some whispered among themselves, and some wore expressions of relieved understanding. The dockworker even started clapping, and several fishermen joined in with a few applause.

Damian did not clap. He lifted his axe and continued splitting wood.

The axe blade fell. The wood cracked apart with a crisp sound, once, then again.

Barlow stood beside him, opened the ledger, and lowered his head to read. His finger slowly moved over the accounts as though checking the quantity of fish caught at the market today.

"Docked for two days." Damian split another log, his lips barely moving. "They're searching the entire island."

"I heard."

"Gravel Beach is closest to our household."

"They don't know where those pirates came ashore. They don't even know whether they came ashore at all. If you want to deceive others, you must first deceive yourself."

"And you need to trust that Mila can handle it."

Barlow turned a page in the ledger. The paper rustled in the afternoon wind.

"Trust your sister."

The navy aboard the warship began carrying supplies onto the dock. Several crates of fresh water and rations were brought down, piled near the dock, and covered with tarps.

Part of the navy remained at the dock, asking the townspeople about the past few days. The rest headed into town along the dirt road, their orderly footsteps gradually fading into the distance.

Damian split the last log and drove the axe into the chopping block.

He looked toward home. The white wax forest blocked his view, hiding the two-story house, but he knew Mila and Roy were there, along with Dad.

Barlow closed the ledger and brushed the fish scales from its cover.

"Don't look toward home."

Damian withdrew his gaze. His hand released the axe handle, his fingers covered in wood chips.

On the dock, the seagull flag atop the mast snapped loudly in the wind.

That squad of marines walked farther and farther down the dirt road, their white uniforms shimmering painfully beneath the afternoon sunlight.

White Wax Town's peace had been shattered, from this moment on, by a gray-blue warship.