Chapter 9: falling man
The sea was quiet.
For once.
As the merchant vessel rocked gently on the ocean's back, Mikael sat near the stern, hood up, red coat folded beside him to keep from drawing attention. Sayra leaned against the mast, arms crossed, her gaze locked on the horizon with the intensity of someone trying to outstare a god.
"Do you ever blink?" Mikael muttered, not looking up.
Sayra scoffed. "Do you ever stop talking?"
He cracked a smirk. "Touché."
The two of them had settled into that awkward rhythm where silence meant comfort, but banter meant boredom. And right now, boredom was a luxury.
Above them, the sun hovered like it was stuck in place—burning high, casting shadows that refused to move. Just another oddity in this world. Another reminder that nothing here played by Earth's rules.
---
Sayra's father emerged from below deck, clutching a weathered map and an even more weathered face.
"Meltoon Port is too quiet," he said. "Ships are docked there that don't belong. Warships. Knights, maybe."
Sayra's eyes narrowed. "They beat us there?"
"They're waiting," he replied grimly.
Mikael stood, stretching like a bored cat. "Great. Nothing says 'welcome' like an ambush."
He walked to the edge of the ship, hand resting lightly on the railing, eyes drifting across the horizon.
Then he saw it.
A flicker. A shimmer.
Far out at sea, like a ghost through mist.
A ship.
It glided across the water silently. Its sails were tattered, its hull cracked—but wrapped in faint, dancing green fire. It didn't stir the waves. It didn't make a sound.
On its deck… sat a skeleton.
.A thick old book rested on his knee, and in his bony right hand...
...a glowing pen, scribbling something on its own, like it had a mind.
Mikael blinked.
Gone.
Just like that.
He squinted, shook his head. "...The hell?"
Sayra tilted her head. "What now?"
"Thought I saw something," he said. "Something… weird."
Sayra raised an eyebrow. "You? Seeing weird stuff? That's the most normal thing you've said all week."
He didn't laugh. Not this time.
---
Elsewhere.
On a deck that wasn't real, in a sea stitched between realities, the Archivist of Ash paused mid-scribble.
The pen in his hand stopped. Lifted slightly. Quivered.
He tilted his head like he was listening.
No one spoke.
Still, he answered.
"If you insist," he said to the empty sea. "Fine. I'll do it."
He sighed. The kind of sigh that felt older than stone.
"The boy's near a crack," he muttered. "Not the crack… but a crack nonetheless."
He tapped the pen against the open book once, then whispered, barely audible:
"I remember the last one who looked this far."
He looked up.
"He didn't end well."
Back on the ship.
The sea turned still.
Then… it boiled.
Sayra stumbled. Mikael grabbed the side rail. Below them, spirals of green light twisted beneath the waves like some ancient whirlpool waking up.
Then—
CRACK!
The sky split. A glowing line tore itself open in midair—like reality just got a paper cut.
From that rift, something fell.
A body.
A man. Human. Wearing weird cloths. His body smashed against the deck like a broken puppet.
Everyone froze.
He groaned. Blood pooled beneath him. And with the last rasp of breath, he whispered something that made Mikael feel like his spine had turned to ice:
> "This isn't… the same Earth… it's older… they're waiting… in the black sun…"
His eyes widened.
Then he died.
Silence.
Above them, the rift in the sky sealed shut like it had never been there.
Far off in the fog… the green flame flickered again.
The Archivist stood over his book. The pen trembled in his grip.
He looked toward Mikael's direction.
Paused.
Then slowly turned the page.
No words.
No jokes.
Just a cold, knowing silence.
[TO BE CONTINUED]