chapter 2
Waves
The waves pounded against the side of a colossal ship, battered by a violent storm.
The sky was hidden beneath clouds so dense that not even a sliver of moonlight could break through.
The wind roared with fury, howling between the masts, making the ropes and sails creak.
A hand gripped the railing tightly.
It belonged to a boy—or perhaps already a young man—who brought his other hand to his mouth, trying to keep down what churned in his stomach.
He failed. He vomited over the side. The acidic taste still burned in his throat.
He looked at the thundering, raging sea, where wave devoured wave.
He watched with a grimace of disgust, regretting having stared for so long.
"Gods… that's vile. What kind of storm is this? If I throw up again, someone just toss me overboard."
"Heh..." He let out a bitter, sarcastic laugh—both aloud and inside his head.
For a moment, he turned green but managed to regain his color by sheer willpower.
He barely managed to lean back, trying to steady himself. For an instant, he lifted his gaze from the edge he was clinging to with both hands.
Just before a massive wave crested over the rail—uh—crashing into him and slamming him hard against the deck.
His body hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud.
He groaned in pain but managed to shift slightly, then stopped halfway.
The salty stench of metal, soaked wood, and vomit churned his stomach again.
He tried to rise but collapsed once more.
The world spun around him.
From the floor, he saw several men—each dressed in black uniforms—running back and forth, shouting orders.
Dozens, maybe more.
Their voices were drowned by the roaring sea. Some waved frantically, others dragged crates, some clung to ropes threatening to come loose.
"Is that sailor jargon? I don't get a word… damn, my head's spinning," he thought, pressing a hand to his forehead.
Each heartbeat pounded like a drum inside his skull.
His cheek touched the deck, blackened by grime and seawater.
"What a deep color," he murmured.
He ran his fingers along the wet wood, no longer caring about the smell he had despised moments before.
His fingers trembled, though he wasn't sure if it was from the cold.
His eyes began to close—slowly.
A figure seemed to notice the boy lying on the floor and tried to approach.
He spoke to him, concerned, trying to check if he was alright.
He said more things, but the boy couldn't understand anymore.
He was losing consciousness.
His eyes opened and closed, slower and slower, until they stopped opening at all.
The question echoed—then darkness swallowed him before an answer could come.
---
—HE'S REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS! —someone shouted.
The boy frowned.
"What's all that shouting? Wait..." —he noticed the gray sky overhead— "Am I lying on the ground?"
He tried to move, but couldn't. One of the men was holding his legs up, about thirty centimeters off the floor.
—Let me go. I need to get up —he said, his voice hoarse.
—Better not —replied another man, pressing two fingers to his neck—. We're on the bow. The storm hasn't let up, and with your clothes loose like that, you'll catch a cold.
The boy looked down and saw his uniform hanging loosely, half-unbuttoned.
—Why is my clothing like this? —he asked.
—We had to air you out and put you under the tarp —explained the man checking his pulse—. We didn't undo everything because of the rain, but once we reach land, go see a doctor. Fainting from seasickness alone isn't normal.
The boy nodded, holding back any more questions.
His body felt numb, as if he'd slept for hours—though only minutes had passed.
The noise didn't stop. Shouts, footsteps, orders. The deck never seemed to rest.
The floor vibrated beneath his back with every crashing wave, and raindrops struck his face like icy needles.
He stayed like that a while, legs raised, the man's finger still on his neck, feeling his pulse.
Then a voice called out, and the man left, leaving only the one holding his legs.
---
A few minutes passed. Finally, they gently lowered his legs.
The boy sat up. Still dizzy, but he knew he had to get inside—find shelter.
The wind kept howling, and his soaked uniform clung to him like a second skin of ice.
He could feel the fabric sticking to his body.
The man helping him ran off to assist the others.
He remained still for a few seconds, seated, watching as the whole ship rocked under the storm.
His body trembled, though he wasn't sure if it was from the cold.
"What kind of storm is this? Were they always this awful?"
"They're calmer on land," —he muttered, shaking his head slightly, still lightheaded.
Head down, he looked up.
Toward the darkness of night, to some uncertain point on the horizon.
But he saw nothing. Only shadows.
"The letter!"
His hands, now purple from the cold, darted into his uniform, frantically searching.
"It's not here? Did I lose it?" —panic set in.
"Those two from earlier—maybe they have it."
He tried to rise from the bench, but a violent jolt from the ship threw him to his knees.
He gripped the bench with his left hand and pulled himself back up, sitting again.
He stared at the chaos on the ship more closely.
Then, without waiting another second, the boy stood from the black bench.
He leaned against the wall behind him.
His legs still shook, but he forced himself toward a dark blue door, barely a meter away.
It was hard to open—the storm kept shaking it.
Still, he managed to push it open clumsily and slipped inside.
---
On the other side of the door
The wind stopped hitting him instantly. Only the creaking of wood and the whistle of waves against the hull remained.
A staircase stood before him, descending below.
He stepped down carefully, gripping the handrail with both hands.
The steps were slippery. One of his feet slid—he nearly fell—but managed to catch himself just in time.
At the bottom, he found a long hallway.
Dim lamps lit the space, casting a dirty white glow.
The walls were metallic, painted a pale brown reminiscent of classic wood tones.
He didn't have time to take in many details.
The ship lurched violently, tilted again, and he lost his balance.
He crashed into the right wall, then was thrown to the left.
He tried to brace himself with his arms, but though the corridor wasn't narrow, everything happened too fast.
He bounced from door to wall and back again.
The first door—locked. The second—also. The third rattled with the impact but didn't open.
The fourth—ajar—swung open.
The door gave way, and his unbalanced body tumbled through.
His shoulder hit first, then his hip.
He rolled across the freezing floor, leaving a trail of water. He panted.
He could barely see where he had fallen.
A groan escaped him. It wasn't just seasickness anymore.
"Shit."
Now his muscles were tense, his ribs ached, and his forehead burned.
The effort of staying on his feet had drained him.
—Are you alright? —asked a man's voice.
The boy looked up.
A man stood inside the room, in front of a small mirror, adjusting a blue tie on a spotless uniform.
"?"
"How…? How is he so still?" —the boy thought, watching the man remain perfectly steady despite the ship's violent swaying.
He said nothing, still sprawled on the floor. He just kept breathing heavily, chest rising and falling as he tried to stabilize himself.
The nausea kept building. He felt it in his throat, his eyes, his ears. Everything tilted, spun, swayed.
The man stopped adjusting his tie and walked over.
—You look awful. Let me help you.
He reached out and grabbed his right wrist. The grip was firm, but not rough.
Before the boy could react, he was pulled up easily—as if he weighed nothing.
He barely understood what was happening.
Then came a strange sensation: suddenly, his feet weren't touching the floor anymore.
And then—thud—he landed on his back. The man had carried him like a sack of grain.
He laid him down gently on a simple bed against the right wall.
—Doesn't look like you're getting better anytime soon —the man said—. But at least you're not as pale anymore.
The boy blinked several times, still dizzy.
"Was I really that pale?" "Huh?" "And that smile? What's he grinning at?"
The man gave a sly smile.
He looked down at him. His face was calm. Too calm.
—Hey, want a potion?