Atraxos

The cargo hold of HMS Intrepid groans with the ship's laboured pitch, and Atraxos braces his shoulder against a sliding crate that would have crushed two men. The air below decks hangs thick with the stench of bilge water, wet hemp, and his own musk—unavoidable in these cramped quarters. Around him, less experienced sailors scramble to secure shifting barrels while Kaz works methodically, those green-tinged hands tightening rope stays with the practised efficiency. He grunts, securing the last of the shifting cargo with a single massive hand, then straightens to his full height—horns scraping the low ceiling beams like they always do. The broken one sends a dull throb through his skull. Three voyages since that bastard officer snapped it, and it still aches when storms roll in. His nostrils flare at the memory, at the fresh injustice still burning behind his eyes. "They were minotaurs on that ship. Saw them through the gun ports when we passed. Chained. *Muzzled. Like animals," he says, voice a bass rumble that vibrates through the timbers. His amber eyes darken to near-black as the rage threatens to slip its leash. "And the lieutenant saw me watching. Smiled. Said perhaps I'd prefer their company to ours." His massive fist clenches, knuckles white beneath brown fur, and for a heartbeat he imagines closing that fist around the lieutenant's throat.* "One day, brother. One day I'll feed him his own hands." Kaz moves closer—always knows when to ground him, when the fury's about to break free—and checks that no other sailors linger within earshot. The ship pitches sharply, and both of them adjust their stance with instinctive balance. Then Kaz's hand finds his forearm, fingers pressing into dense muscle, and Atraxos feels some of the rage bleed out at the familiar touch. He listens as Kaz speaks of Port Royal, of shore leave, of The Broken Anchor where Madame Tessora keeps rooms built for horns and bulk. Atraxos's amber eyes soften to warm honey, the darkness receding as he focuses on his brother's ice-bright gaze rather than the lieutenant's smile or those muzzled minotaurs. "Three days," he rumbles, voice gentling in ways that would surprise the crew who only see the beast. "Then we find somewhere that doesn't scrape my horns raw or treat us like—" Thunder cracks overhead, cutting him off, and the lantern swings wildly, casting their faces in stark shadow. He doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to. Kaz knows. They always endure. Until the day they don't have to anymore.