Isabelle ordered the Saint Asne into the fjord, a great fissure running from the sky above to the Miasma below.

She reefed all but the smallest maneuvering sails, and sent Rebecca flying ahead to scout the mist-filled passage for reef stone and other obstacles. The helmsman held the ship steady against the vortex shear as they passed through the gap. The shadow of the canyon walls fell across them, plunging the passage into dimmest twilight.

A breath of warm mist caressed her face, the heat stinging after so many weeks of relentless winter. It brought with it the muddy smell of a swamp. Whence came this heat she could not tell, but by the time the outlet to the sky disappeared around a bend behind them, the rime on the ship started to melt, splattering the deck with an unsteady rain of heavy, wet splashes.

A light appeared in the fog ahead. Rebecca had planted an alchemical lantern on a conical chunk of rock twice the size of the ship. It spun slowly by to starboard.

The chasm narrowed. Isabelle gripped the rail tightly enough to leave finger grooves in the wood. If the fjord got much narrower, they’d have to anchor and take the launches in.

More reef stones speared from the fog, each one marked by a lantern. All along the top deck and the turvy deck, men stood by with stout poles to fend off any stone that got too close.

From the murk far ahead shot a pair of reddish-orange lights, flying in formation. They swooped and looped and weaved in and out of the reef stones much like … or rather exactly like a child at play. The lights were Rebecca’s hand lamps. Shooting through the air without wings or wind, she did an acrobatic tumble, used the bowsprit as an entirely redundant springboard, and landed in front of Isabelle with a smart salute and an ear-to-ear grin that said “Yeeeeeahoooooooo!” without actually making the noise.

“Capitaine,” she said, without waiting for a prompt. “The channel opens up just around the next corner, and there are waterfalls, and it’s green!”

Whilst not being the most professional report ever delivered, it had one of the most profound effects. Men tense with dread and uncertainty shifted their balance forward, the gleam in their eyes of victory near at hand.

“Well done,” Isabelle said. She resisted the urge to tousle Rebecca’s white mane. “A pistol shot off the bow if you will, and guide us in.”

“Aye, Capitaine.” Rebecca bounded over the side. Her body twisted in midair, stretching out into the undulating, green-and-blue glittering shape of her ghostfire wyrm. She rippled through the air, looping and making helixes while she waited for the ponderous ship to keep up.

“Helmsman,” Isabelle said. “Follow that wyrm.”

“Aye, Capitaine.”

The Saint Asne rounded another bend, and Isabelle was not alone in her gasp of astonishment.