The New Ones came alive with celebration.
Barrels of ale cracked open, meat sizzled over makeshift grills, and the crew's laughter rolled louder than the sea. Tankards clashed, songs rose, and for a moment, the pirate ship felt more tavern than war vessel.
Marcellus danced atop a barrel, soot still streaked across his cheek, hollering some nonsense about fire not burning him anymore. Doran and Servin wrestled over a chicken leg, knocking into crates while the others cheered. Even Kael allowed himself the faintest smirk as he leaned back against the rail, arms crossed.
But Gareth sat at the edge of it all.
His smile came and went like a shadow.
Because beneath the deck, beneath the stomping feet and drunken roars, something pulsed.
Thump.Thump.Thump.
The cursed chest.
Every beat was like a heartbeat in his skull, every pulse carrying whispers that slid under the crew's laughter.
"…he will betray you…""…the captain's blood is not yours to trust…""…her daughter, her daughter, her daughter…"
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to raise a cup when Eira Vale shoved one into his hands, laughing at his solemn face. The drink burned down his throat, but the whispers only grew clearer.
Kael glanced at him from across the deck, brow furrowed. He knew something was wrong. But Gareth only shook his head, brushing it off with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
The chest throbbed again, and for a moment Gareth swore he felt it looking at him.
By midnight, the feast still raged. But the air had shifted. The laughter seemed sharper, the shadows longer, every sound slightly warped as though the ship itself leaned in to listen.
Gareth rose quietly and moved to the rail, letting the wind cool his burning face. The sea stretched endless, silver under the moon—calm, too calm.
Then he heard it.
Not just in his skull, but in the world around him. A low rumble, deep as the ocean floor.
The horizon split with lightning.
The storm hit without warning.
Waves rose like black walls, the deck pitching violently as the first strike cracked across the masts. The crew scrambled, songs turning to shouts. The cursed chest pulsed brighter below, each beat syncing with thunder that shook the timbers.
"Get the sails down!" Belmarius roared, coat whipping in the gale.
Gareth staggered, the whispers now screaming. His hands trembled on the rail, telekinesis flaring instinctively to steady ropes, to keep men from tumbling overboard.
But the storm wasn't natural. He could feel it. Each wave carried the chest's corruption, each gust whispering his name.
"Unleash. Take. Claim."
Lightning struck so close the deck burst into flame. Gareth's hand shot out, smothering it in midair. Kael barked at him from across the chaos, eyes fierce:
"Don't lose it now, Lenziuela!"
But the chest pulsed again, louder—like it was laughing.
"Stop with that nickname it's too good for me," Gareth said fondly. Masking the scared boy with a simple smile.
The sea raged. Waves like mountains slammed against the hull, and thunder cracked so close it rattled the bones of the New Ones. The sky was a battlefield of black clouds and white fire, the storm clawing to drag them under.
At the helm stood Captain Belmarius, cloak plastered to his frame by rain, his hands iron-tight on the wheel. His voice rose above the storm, sharp as a blade:
"Steady, you bastards! Feel her weight, trust her sway—this ship was built to survive worse than this!"
The crew scrambled, ropes snapping, sails flailing like wounded beasts. Yet every order Belmarius barked came at the perfect moment—turn here, cut that line, brace that mast. His eyes burned with a focus that no storm could break, steering the vessel through walls of water as if he were part of the sea itself.
"Hold, lads!" he roared, teeth bared. "Ride the wave, don't fight it—let it lift you!"
The New Ones soared on the crest of a roaring surge, lifted high into the sky before crashing down with a thunderous boom. The men held fast, hearts hammering, but none could deny it: their captain was the storm's equal.
Gareth clung to the rail, rain pelting his face like shards of glass. The storm was merciless, and yet… he couldn't tear his eyes from the helm.
Belmarius wasn't just steering a ship. He was commanding the sea itself. Every tilt of the wheel, every shouted order—it was as though the waves obeyed him, bending their fury to his will.
Beside him, Kael spat out seawater, his dark hair plastered to his face. "Gods above… is he even human?" he muttered, staring at the captain as if seeing him for the first time.
The ship bucked, and Gareth caught Kael by the collar before he went sliding across the slick deck. "Hold fast!" Gareth yelled, teeth gritted, even as his own arms screamed from the strain.
But even in the chaos, Gareth felt something else—a pull. From below decks. The cursed weapon they had brought aboard. Its presence was a drumbeat in his skull, whispering with every crack of lightning, The storm is nothing. The real tempest is you.
For a heartbeat, Gareth's vision blurred—flames, betrayal, shadows with familiar faces. He blinked hard, clutching his head, before Kael's voice dragged him back.
"Stay with me, bro," Kael snapped, shaking his shoulder. "Don't lose yourself now—not when we need you."
Gareth looked back toward the helm. Belmarius stood defiant, soaked to the bone, steering them between death and survival. And for the first time, Gareth realized: if the storm didn't break them, something else would.
The storm howled like a living thing, tearing at sails and bone alike. Gareth clutched the railing, knuckles white, when the world around him shifted.
The deck beneath his feet melted into sand. The cries of the crew twisted into the laughter of faceless pirates, voices sharp and cruel. Their shadows swelled taller than men, their mouths stretching too wide as they jeered.
"Boy of the Eclipse…" one hissed.
"Belmarius will gut you yet…" another croaked.
Their forms flickered—Marcellus with burning eyes, Kael with his blade pressed to Gareth's throat, even Lyra standing distant with a face carved from sorrow.
The cursed chest sat in the center of it all, black wood dripping seawater that hissed into smoke. From its seams, a voice spilled like a chorus of drowned sailors, hoarse and mocking:
"Fire took his family. The blade will take yours. Trust the captain… and die. Or betray him first."
Gareth's breathing slowed, his pulse steady. He did not flinch. His eyes locked on the chest as though he'd seen it all before.
Then—Umbrael stirred.
A searing violet ripple tore through his mind, shadows recoiling as if burned.
The illusions splintered, shattering like glass, the false pirates screaming as they collapsed back into the storm-tossed deck.
The chest snapped shut in reality, but Gareth still heard its final whisper, dripping with venom:
"You cannot carry me forever…"
Gareth exhaled, calm as stone, though Kael's eyes were already on him, sharp and suspicious.
The storm finally began to ease, the sea's fury calming into a rough, uneasy sway. The crew exhaled, sweat and seawater streaking their faces as the New Ones pushed through the last wall of rain.
On the slick deck, the cursed chest lay cracked, its blackened edges seeping faint smoke where Gareth's telekinesis had pulled it aboard.
Gareth kept his head low, his eyes calm, though his chest still thrummed with the echo of Umbrael's power. No one could know what it whispered to him—not yet.
Captain Belmarius stormed forward, coat whipping in the wind, eyes burning like a man who'd just seen his gods insulted. He planted his boot beside the chest and snarled, his voice carrying over the waves.
"By the Deep's black maw, what've ye done to me prize?" he roared, his words thick with salt and rage. "This chest were whole when we spied it on that damned island—now it lies split like a gull's egg under a boot!"
The crew flinched. Marcellus shifted uneasily. Even Kael's hand ghosted near his blade.
Belmarius jabbed a finger toward the broken treasure, spit flying from his words."Do ye fools know what we risked for this? The storms, the blood, the gods-damned curses? And now— now—it sits cracked, leakin' like a corpse in the tide!"
Gareth stayed silent, his face unreadable, hiding the storm that had raged inside his own skull.
Belmarius slammed his fist against the rail, his voice dropping lower, darker."I'll not be mocked by fate nor man. If this chest still holds somethin' worth its salt, we'll drag it out, even if it costs the marrow of me bones. Mark me words, lads—the sea don't forgive, and neither do I."
The crew muttered uneasily. Gareth only clenched his fist behind his back, masking the secret the chest had spilled to him—the warning of betrayal.
Gareth kept his face still, his breath slow, while Belmarius raged on. The broken chest hissed faint smoke, the stench of charred wood and something fouler rising into the air.
Then, without warning, Umbrael's voice whispered inside Gareth's mind, smooth and unshakable as the tide:
"Do you see it now, boy? Look beyond his fury. The Captain's veins run black. Eight parts of ten—corrupted, swollen with the taste of power. If you look with open mind you see nothing but look close , He is no longer merely a man steering a ship… he is a storm wearing flesh."
Gareth's gaze flickered to Belmarius—his sharp jaw clenched, his eyes burning too brightly, almost fevered. He slammed the chest with his boot again, barking orders to the crew in a growl that carried both command and madness.
Umbrael pressed deeper, a chill sliding through Gareth's skull.
"He hides it well beneath that pirate's tongue, but the treasure's rot has touched him. Soon he will not guide the New Ones—he will consume it. And you, Gareth… you must decide if you are the anchor or the knife."
For a moment, Gareth's knuckles whitened at his side. The warning from the chest echoed again in his memory: the Captain shall betray you for her daughter.
And now, Umbrael's truth layered atop it. Eighty percent. So close to gone.
The waves lapped against the hull, deceptively calm, while Gareth forced himself to breathe steady. He said nothing. Not yet.
Belmarius's fist slammed against the rail, the veins in his arm bulging dark, like ink spilling beneath his skin. His voice thundered in that rolling pirate snarl, but for a breath—just a breath—it wasn't only his voice. A second tone, low and guttural, echoed beneath his words, like something else was speaking through him.
His reflection in the glass of the porthole flickered—not the proud captain, but a hollow-eyed husk with blackened teeth and skin cracked like burnt wood.
Umbrael's voice slithered into Gareth's mind, cold and sharp:
"Eighty percent, Master. He is more shadow than man. A vessel cracking, leaking… the power owns him."
Gareth's stomach tightened, but his face stayed calm. He did not flinch, though the corruption oozed at the edges of reality itself, though the man before him was becoming something far worse than captain or pirate.
Belmarius's chest heaved, the storm of rage still simmering in his blood. His knuckles were white on the rail, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls.
For a moment, Gareth thought the captain might truly snap—might let the corruption swallow him whole.
But then, as if some anchor within him still held, Belmarius shut his eyes and exhaled. Slowly. Painfully.
The flickering shadow in his reflection receded, the guttural echo vanishing from his voice.
When he spoke again, it was softer—still harsh, still gravel-tongued, but human.
"Aye… forgive me, lads," he muttered, shaking his head. "I lost me tongue to anger."
He turned sharply, gesturing for Gareth and Kael to follow. His boots echoed down the narrow passageways of the New Ones—past storerooms, past the crew's bunks, down to a place deeper than Gareth had ever been. An iron hatch stood waiting, its surface etched with old rust and strange markings, a lock blackened as if scorched.
Belmarius drew a key from around his neck, hand trembling faintly as he turned it. The hatch groaned open, and a heavy stillness pressed out, like the air of a tomb.
Inside was a small chamber, lit only by a single lantern. Upon a simple wooden bed lay a girl.
Her hair, pure white, spilled like snow across the pillow. Her face was peaceful, almost too peaceful—eyes shut, breath faint, as though she were caught between life and dream. She had the fragile stillness of a statue, untouched by time.
Belmarius stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper raw with grief.
"She's my daughter. Hasn't woken a day since that cursed night." His jaw clenched, shadow falling across his face.
"Me wife… gods bless her soul, she gave her life to save the girl. Poured every breath, every beat o' her heart into her. Took the corruption into herself, so our child might live."
He placed a rough, calloused hand gently on the girl's arm, as though afraid even his touch might break her.
"She sleeps still. Sleeps, and never wakes. And every day, I pray the sea won't take her from me too."
The lantern flickered, casting long shadows over the chamber. Gareth felt the weight of it all—the sorrow, the love, the curse that chained both captain and child to this ship.
The silence of the chamber was heavy, broken only by the faint, fragile sound of the girl's breathing. Belmarius's hand lingered on her arm, his grief filling the room like smoke.
Then, Umbrael's voice poured into Gareth's mind, deep and resonant, carrying the weight of inevitability:
"No… she is not lost. The child is not asleep in death—she is awakening. A phase unseen, a chrysalis woven not of time, but of the sea itself. She is one of the rarest… chosen by the tide to bear its will."
Gareth's eyes softened, the corners of his lips curling into a somber smile. For the first time since they had entered, hope flickered behind his gaze.
Belmarius snapped his head toward him, voice rough. "Why do ye smile, boy? Do ye mock me grief?"
Even Kael narrowed his eyes, curiosity shadowing his usual stoicism. "What did Umbrael say, Gareth?"
Gareth's smile held, though his voice was low, almost reverent. "A hint only… but enough."
Umbrael's presence lingered, whispering one last cryptic phrase, like a tide retreating into the dark:
"That which the sea takes, it reshapes. That which it reshapes… it returns, not as it was, but as it must be."
The lantern flickered again, its glow briefly casting the girl's pale hair into silver fire.