The storm hammers the ship. I cling to the soaked rope, my fingers stiff from the cold. Oliver and Santiago fight the waves ahead of me. We're all bracing for whatever comes next.
Suddenly, Grizz shouts from the foredeck. Two enormous yellow eyes rise from the black water. A thick, ink-dark tentacle whips up and slams into the stern, wrapping tight. The ship jolts—hard—wood groaning like it's being peeled apart.
"Santiago, fire! Rose, move! Captain, balance her!" Oliver shouts, sword already drawn.
Rose runs below deck to grab her bow. Santiago pulls his arquebus trigger, but the wet powder only hisses uselessly.
The ship tilts sharply left. The captain strains against the wheel, forcing it the other way, fighting to keep us upright.
Above us, perched on the top rail, Bartra fires stones from his sling at the creature. They bounce off harmlessly. I scan the railing—there's a small axe tied to it. I yank it free and start hacking at the thinner tentacles crawling over the deck, keeping them from reaching the others.
Rose returns and fires. Her arrow sinks into the creature's eye. It recoils violently, and the ship dips even harder.
Oliver sees what needs to be done. He leaps onto the stern rail and swings hard. His blade cuts into the main coil. Crack. The tentacle snaps free. The ship lurches, then steadies.
The crew cheers. We breathe—briefly.
Oliver doesn't. He stares into the water.
A low rumble rises beneath us. Not one—fifteen new tentacles erupt around the ship. Thicker. Stronger. They clamp onto both sides of the hull, squeezing. Water sprays in through splintering boards as the ship is dragged downward.
The brief calm shatters. Two crewmen slip from the flooding deck and vanish into the storm-torn sea.
Panic hits the crew all at once.
The nightmare is only beginning.
Fifteen colossal tentacles clamp around the ship. They crush the hull from both sides. Water jets through the cracking boards. The ship sinks inch by inch. Captain Oliver shouts, voice ragged. He grips his sword, but there's nowhere to strike.
He looks toward the lower deck.
"Santiago! Grizz! Fire the hull! Now!"
He knows the cannons have to fire from inside to blow off the tentacles gripping the critical beams.
Santiago and Grizz rush down to the gun deck. Rose, her quiver empty, throws small knives at the limbs. Bartra fires stones from the top rail. None of it stops the collapse—only delays it.
The helmsman collapses, spent, arms shaking. Oliver takes the wheel, trying to counter the pull, but it's hopeless. The ship is locked, crushed.
I keep hacking at the thin tentacles near me, but I know it's pointless. It's work for someone with no real skill. I'm cutting crumbs in the middle of a dying feast.
Santiago returns, face black with smoke. The cannons won't fire; everything's too soaked. They've tried everything. Oliver looks up. The fire in his eyes dies out. He lets go of the wheel. The ship slips, tilts, and begins to sink.
I see Rose. Tears run down her face—she's out of arrows, out of blades. Gruzz braces the mainmast, muscles straining as it begins to crack. Everyone is working, fighting with all they have. They're sailors, gunners, warriors.
And me?
I'm dead weight.
I hold my axe, swinging at nothing that matters. Leaving the small tentacles alone wouldn't change anything. I'm just here, watching people far more valuable than me suffer. I'm only a writer.
A violent crack thunders below. Freezing Atlantic water bursts through the deck. The hull is split open. We're going under. Horror spreads across the crew, and in the chaos, my eyes meet Oliver's. His gaze is empty, resigned.
But I can't accept it.
I can't let their suffering end like this—cold, pointless, swallowed by the sea.
A desire rises in me—absolute, sharp, merciless. Not just to live… but to end this nightmare in a way no one else can.
I know what I must do.
I drop the axe.
Inside me, a single, blinding intent roars:
I'll end this.
I won't let them suffer any longer—no matter the cost.