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The sea is a symphony. It is a poem of cries and noises and the screaming of gulls and whales. With just its sound, I know we are close to the shore.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. There is a swirl of sour and sweet smells. I smile. It's wonderful and, at the same time, terrifying. Werewolves are not meant to be at sea. We should be in the forest, running across the shade of the trees.
I open my eyes. There's still sea for miles, even if I know we will arrive soon–probably tonight. But in the meantime, I will enjoy this scenery, where the sky and sea meet, as if they belong to the same realm.
Ami drapes her arms on my shoulders and remarks, "Are you sure that one glass of alcohol is enough for you?"
"Yes," I answer.
We turn our attention toward the center of the deck where a long wooden table is erected. The warriors are resting under the sunshades while others are huddled around one end of the table. But some loud ones are laughing and bumping fists with each other every time they tied a knot correctly.
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