The metallic tang of cold copper filled the cramped, drafty interior of the Wind-Shed. Silas Finch worked with a rhythm as old as his family, his massive, grease-stained arms moving with a quiet, deliberate urgency. The only light in the workshop came from a single, heavily shielded tallow candle, its weak yellow flame casting long, skeletal shadows across the dual-runner frame of the Sea-Skimmer. Silas wasn't using his blowtorch tonight; the flare of refined sulfur gas would be a beacon in the rising salt-mist, and the hiss of the flame would betray them to Gregory’s observers huddled outside the double doors. Instead, he worked with a silent hand-drill, its steel bit chewing slowly into the dense, pre-fossilization fossil-oak of the starboard runner. Shhhk. Shhhk. Shhhk. Beside him, Leo—the sixteen-year-old orphan who had sneaked onto the sled only days ago—held a wooden tray of copper rivets, his young, sun-burnt face pale with tension. Tristan Gale stood near the shed's side hatch, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sheath-knife, his left arm tucked deep within the heavy leather of his duster. His left hand was dead. It had been dead since the Great Solidification, a cold, porcelain-like weight of Stage 3 calcification. The fingers were permanently curved, frozen into the rigid grip of a man who had refused to let go of his ship's wheel while his crew turned to stone around him. He could feel no pain there, no heat, no cold—only a dull, heavy static that hummed in his shoulder whenever the wind shifted. But tonight, his chest felt tighter than usual. The dry, persistent salt-cough clawed at his throat, and he had to press his right hand flat against his ribs to force the reflex down. Every breath tasted of the abrasive, mineral-heavy dust that drifted through the cracks in the wooden walls. A low, rhythmic knocking sounded on the side hatch. Three short taps, a pause, then one long scrape. Uncle Douglas Vance’s signal. Tristan cracked the hatch, the cold midnight salt-mist swirling into the warm, grease-scented air of the workshop. Douglas sat in his low wooden wheelchair, his face weathered like cracked leather, his gray beard dusted with white salt crystals. "Gregory knows," Douglas whispered, his voice a raspy, urgent breath. "One of his scouts just came back from the outer flats. They realized the bait map was a fake—that the coordinates lead straight into Kaelen's raider territory. Gregory’s furious. He’s already at the Water Registry, and he’s alerted Corporal Miller of the Harbor Guard. They’re locking down the dry-docks. You have to launch now, Tristan. If you’re still on the timber blocks when the guard arrives, they’ll chain the Sea-Skimmer to the floor and throw you in the bilge." Tristan finally turned, his gaze dropping to the unfinished runner. "Silas, drop her," Tristan commanded, his voice flat and calm. Silas didn't argue. He slid the heavy wooden jacks out from under the Sea-Skimmer’s frame. The sled settled onto the wooden launch ramp with a low, heavy groan, the newly installed copper sheeting on her runners gleaming dull red in the candlelight. Barnaby Vance, the mute giant deckhand, stepped out of the shadows, his massive frame shifting as he gripped the rear push-bar. "Leo, up the mast," Tristan ordered. "Get the sails ready to drop. Don't hoist them until we clear the doors. The wind is shifting northeast—it's a cold, heavy draft off the outer flats. It'll pull us straight toward the Shallows Border Post." They pushed. Barnaby and Silas threw their weight against the push-bar. The wooden rollers of the ramp groaned, then the Sea-Skimmer began to slide. The side doors of the Wind-Shed swung open, and the sled glided out into the thick, swirling salt-mist of the lower docks. The mist was their only shield, a damp, alkaline fog that smelled of old sea-salt and sulfur. It swirled through the rusted skeletal remains of the dry-docked warships, obscuring the dim yellow lanterns of the harbor checkpoints. They glided down the narrow, salt-crusted alleys, the runners making a low, wet grinding noise as they slid over the petrified stone waves of the harbor. But the alarm had already been sounded. A brass bell began to toll from the Sovereign's old radar mast, its heavy, resonant clangs echoing through the mist. Clang. Clang. Clang. "Harbor Guard!" a voice roared from the fog ahead. "All vessels halt! Checkpoint lockdown is in effect!" Ahead, the Shallows Border Post loomed—a massive, rusted iron wall constructed around the harbor entrance. A single, narrow gap in the iron plates was the only exit into the open stone sea. As the Sea-Skimmer accelerated, catching the cold midnight draft, the heavy, rusted iron portcullis of the gate began to drop. "Miller's closing the gate!" Silas shouted, his voice strained as he trimmed the mainsail. "We're going too fast to stop! If we hit that grate, the mast will snap and the frame will split!" Tristan knew they couldn't stop. The momentum of the heavy sled would shatter her frame if they hit the iron grate at this speed. He dropped the emergency brake—the heavy iron spike—but the stone floor was too hard, the spike carving a deep, smoking groove without stopping the vessel. "Barnaby, hold the brake!" Tristan yelled. He leaped off the moving deck, his boots skidding across the salt-crusted stone. He ran toward the gatehouse, his duster flying behind him. The override winch was located in an open-air stone alcove, but the guards had secured it. A heavy copper clamp, heated to a dull orange glow by a coal-brazier the guards kept nearby to prevent the gears from freezing, was locked tight around the winch drum. Silas ran after him, swinging his heavy steel spanner against the iron lock housing of the clamp. Clang! The spanner bounced off, leaving only a bright silver scratch on the reinforced iron. "It's too thick!" Silas roared. "The heated clamp is locked solid! I can't break it!" Tristan didn't hesitate. He pushed Silas aside. He reached out with his left hand. The calcified, unfeeling stone of his Stage 3 hand gripped the hot copper clamp. He could smell the faint, acrid scent of his own leather duster sleeve singing against the hot metal, but he felt nothing. No heat, no pain. He planted his boots, using his entire body weight to turn the clamp. Crack. A sharp, sickening sound echoed through the alcove. It wasn't the metal. It was the stone-tissue of Tristan's left hand. Hairline fractures traced across his gray, mineralized knuckles, a fine, pale-gray dust filtering out of the cracks. But his grip did not slip. With a final, desperate heave, his unfeeling stone-grip shattered the heated copper lock, and the winch drum spun free. The portcullis began to rise, but it jammed halfway. "The safety chains!" Leo shouted from the deck. The young apprentice didn't wait for orders. He leaped onto the rising iron grate, climbing the rusted bars like a cat. Corporal Miller's guards opened fire from the upper catwalk, light crossbow bolts thudding into the wooden frame of the gatehouse. One bolt grazed Leo's shoulder, tearing his canvas shirt, but he kept climbing. He reached the top, using his heavy rigging knife to hack at the secondary safety chains. Clank! Clank! The chains snapped, and the portcullis rose another three feet—just enough for the Sea-Skimmer's mast to clear. Tristan lunged back onto the moving deck as the sled slid beneath the rising iron grate. They burst through the Shallows Border Post, sliding out into the vast, open plain of the Fossil Sea. Behind them, Corporal Miller's shouting faded into the roar of the wind. They had escaped, but they were now outlaws, stranded in the open stone sea with incomplete water rations and a navigator whose hand was cracked and crumbling.