Mastbreaker

They said the wind followed him because it had nowhere else to go. Captain Ives never denied it. Never confirmed it either. Just stood at the prow with that jagged thing hanging from his neck, thumb hooked against it like it was part of the ship’s rigging.

“Wind’s dying,” someone muttered once, low enough to pass for thinking out loud. Ives didn’t turn. “It isn’t,” he said. “It’s waiting.” The crew learned not to argue with that.

It was taken from a strike that split a mast clean through, back when he was still sailing under another man’s flag. He kept the piece after, carried it forward like something that had already proven itself. No one ever saw him make or mend it. Only hold it, sometimes, when the air grew heavy and the sea flattened out in that way that made even seasoned sailors uneasy.

“Hold fast,” he’d say. Then the wind would come in hard, filling every sail at once, sharp against the skin and loud enough to swallow a shout. The ship would lurch forward, cutting through water that had been still only moments before.

No one asked what it cost him to call it. They’d seen the way his hand tightened around the chain after. That was answer enough.