The bell rings when the tide is wrong, and Raven knows what that means. He pulls the bone pouch from beneath his coat. Already the leather is damp, slick with saltwater that wasn't there a moment before. The drowned gods are watching someone. They want him to see what they see. He walks to where the dock meets the water. The wooden marker post stands half-submerged, its carved lines marking tides that came and went years ago. Raven kneels on the wet planks and opens the pouch. The bones spill out before he tips them. They arrange themselves in the salt spray, white against dark wood. The pattern forms and his vision blurs. Pain flares behind his eyes like broken glass. A ship crosses water it shouldn't cross. A man stands at the wheel, face tight with choice. The drowned gods whisper through the bones: *boundary, tribute, memory*. The words taste like copper and brine. When the vision recedes, Raven is on his hands and knees. The bell has stopped ringing. His memories shift in his head, settling into new places. He can't remember what he ate this morning, but he knows what the gods want. Someone needs guidance. Someone stands at a crossing point. He gathers the bones with shaking fingers and waits for them to arrive.