The days passed, marked by relentless discipline. Under the watchful eye of Master Antonin, Mero endured a rigorous education where the slightest weakness was detected and corrected. Each morning, the salty sea air mingled with the rough pages of ancient imperial texts. As the days went by, the readings grew denser, blending accounts of historical battles, complex philosophical treatises, and diplomatic documents where every word carried the weight of either a promise or a threat.

The bitter taste of salt seemed to seep into the words etched on those timeworn parchments. Mero sometimes struggled with the scholars' convoluted expressions, but his determination was unwavering. Every correction from Master Antonin echoed like the strike of metal on an imperfect blade. Slowly, his mind was forged, mastering the subtleties of imperial language. Now, he could speak with a certain elegance, effortlessly adopting the refined turns of phrase used in the Empire's high circles.

The afternoons offered little respite. Sitting directly on the deck or in a sheltered alcove of the ship, protected from the biting wind, Mero delved into the complex worlds of science and politics. The old master sketched detailed maps, tracing the shifting borders of neighboring kingdoms, discussing secret alliances and fierce rivalries. Every signed treaty was merely a pawn moved on the ruthless chessboard of power. Every war had its reasons, often invisible to the simple soldiers who bore its burden.

"Never forget, Mero," said Master Antonin as he drew a sharp line on a map, "a king does not take up arms over an insult. He does it because that insult threatens something far more precious: trade, honor, or sometimes simply survival."

The young man absorbed these words, aware that this knowledge, though theoretical for now, might one day prove vital.

But the lessons were not limited to the mind. Every late afternoon, physical training resumed. The ship's deck transformed into a true arena where the clash of blades and the labored breathing of combatants filled the air. The saber became an extension of Mero's arm, while the dagger and bow demanded a precision that only intensive training could offer. His muscles hardened, his breathing steadied, and his movements gained fluidity.

One evening, as twilight cast its first shadows, an unusual stir spread among the crew. The sailors, weary of the relentless routine of the voyage, sought a distraction.

"Captain, please!" called one of them, a sturdy man with a salt-and-pepper beard. "How about a shooting contest? Let’s see who's the best marksman aboard."

The captain, a massive man with piercing eyes, pondered for a moment before nodding.

"All right. But no foolishness. Three shots each. A target on the beach. Whoever gets closest to the center wins. The prize? A bottle of fine rum for the sailors. As for the others... we’ll see."

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A cheer erupted. Everyone eagerly prepared for the contest. A crude target was painted on a worn wooden plank, with a red circle marked at its center. The muskets were carefully inspected, and the powder measured with precision.

The first shooter took his position under the focused gaze of his comrades. The gunshot echoed through the air, leaving a trail of white smoke. The projectile struck the target but slightly outside the red circle. Laughter broke out.

"Were you aiming for a seagull?" joked a sailor.

The following shots varied, some brilliant, others complete misses. Jokes and encouragements flew freely.

When it was Leïla’s turn, a murmur of surprise swept through the crowd. Few expected her to participate. Silent and focused, she loaded her musket with disconcerting confidence.

The shot rang out, clean and sharp. The projectile struck dead center in the red circle.

An incredulous silence fell. The second shot confirmed the feat, as did the third. Three perfect hits. The crew erupted into applause and nervous laughter.

"Where’d you learn to shoot like that?" dared a young deckhand.

Leïla merely shrugged with an enigmatic smile.

"Let’s all remember never to anger her," joked a sailor, prompting another wave of laughter.

Mero took his turn, determined. The first shot struck solidly on the target, as did the second. But the third, rushed by overconfidence, veered widely, disappearing into the sand.

"Not bad, but no rum for you," teased a companion with a laugh.

When the contest ended, the captain declared Leïla the winner, and the evening took on a festive tone.

A large fire was built on the beach. The flames rose high, dancing under the starry sky. The air filled with the intoxicating scents of burning wood, salt, and grilled meat. Instruments appeared: a tambourine, a wobbly hurdy-gurdy, and a wooden flute. The music filled the space, lively and joyful.

The young deckhands, still exhilarated by the contest, invented clumsy but energetic dance moves. The older sailors, laughing easily, shared anecdotes of storms, sea monsters, and hidden treasures.

Leïla, always reserved, eventually gave in to respectful invitations from some crew members. She danced with unexpected grace, earning silent admiration from those watching.

Even Master Antonin, usually so austere, was caught up in the atmosphere. He tapped his foot in rhythm, even cracking a rare smile.

Mero, swept up in the ambient euphoria, joined the dancers. The tensions of past days melted away under the warmth of the fire and the magic of the music. He laughed with the deckhands, attempted a few clumsy steps, and fully savored this moment of lightness.

The sea, in the background, continued its eternal song, blending its murmurs with the human celebration.

As the night wore on, some sailors, exhausted but happy, fell asleep right on the sand, lulled by the waves and the fading notes of the musicians. Others returned to the ship, their hearts still light from the unforgettable evening.

Mero, sitting by the dying embers, gazed at the stars scattered across the sky. A pleasant fatigue weighed on his limbs. This night would remain etched in his memory, not only for the competition but for the sincere camaraderie forged around the fire.

The journey into the unknown continued, but this unexpected stop had brought precious warmth to the crew. The blades of the Garabol Strait would wait a little longer before revealing their threat, while the navigators' hearts were momentarily filled with comforting light.