While Solace was transferred to the medical bay, the sun hung low over the Itou Sea, casting long, amber streaks across a vast expanse of water that should have been teeming with the silver scales of the evening catch. Here, far north of the shattered remains of Aurica, the waters were supposed to be the mildest in the world, a cold, deep sanctuary buffered by thousands of miles of ocean from the nightmare continents to the south.
The Itou Sea.
The SS Gilded Harvest, a heavy-tonnage fishing vessel commissioned by the Kingdom of Theon, sat like an iron island amidst the waves. It was a marvel of naval engineering, equipped with a full research suite and a dedicated security detail of Thread-users to protect the state's investment.
On the bridge, Captain Marek frowned, tapping his pipe against the glass of the navigation console. "Status on the nets?"
"Empty, sir," the deck hand replied, sounding unsettled. "The sonar's gone quiet. It's like every fish for ten miles just... vanished."
A sharp ping resonated from the research terminal. Dr. Aris, the head of the onboard biological team, beckoned the Captain over. "Sir, you need to see this. We've drifted into an anomaly."
Marek looked out the reinforced windows. About a hundred yards ahead, the crystalline blue of the Itou Sea had been smothered. A black, viscous patch, thick as tar and stagnant as a swamp, sat atop the water. It didn't ripple with the waves; the waves seemed to break against it, as if the liquid had a density that defied the laws of the sea.
"Oil spill?" Marek asked, though his gut told him otherwise.
"No," Aris whispered, her face pale in the glow of her monitor. "The thermal signature is... warm. Almost feverish."
The Gilded Harvest edged closer, the massive hull groaning as it pushed into the sludge. The sound of the water changed from a splash to a sickening, wet slap. The security team, led by a man with a Thread of Iron, stood at the railing with spears leveled.
"Light it up," Marek ordered.
Powerful floodlights cut through the twilight, stabbing into the black viscous patch. The light didn't penetrate the depths; it reflected off the surface, revealing a macabre mosaic.
A pale, severed arm floated past the hull, its fingers twitching rhythmically. Then, a torso, sliced with surgical precision, followed by a cluster of human heads, their hair tangled together like seaweed. They weren't decomposing; they were preserved in the black ink, their expressions locked in a state of silent, wide-eyed realization.
"Gods save us," one of the guards choked out, his Iron Thread flickering with his fear. "There are hundreds of them..."
Before the research team could deploy a sampling drone, the black patch beneath the ship began to churn. It wasn't an explosion; it was a slow, deliberate rising. The viscous liquid began to crawl up the iron sides of the ship, muffling the sound of the engines, dragging the Gilded Harvest downward into a silent, inky grave.
***
Theon: Naval Intelligence Bureau
In the capital of Theon, miles away from the salt and the blood, the Naval Oversight Command was a hall of glowing screens and rhythmic clicking. This was the brain of the Kingdom's maritime power, monitoring every ship from the Kirola border to the northern reaches of Nuan.
A junior analyst at Station 7 suddenly leaned forward, squinting at his glass display. He toggled a few switches, his brow furrowing.
"Commander?" the analyst called out, his voice cutting through the hum of the room.
A stern woman in a crisp naval uniform walked over. "Problem, Specialist?"
"I've lost the heartbeat on the Gilded Harvest, ma'am," he reported. "Transponder is dark. And the link just... severed."
The Commander looked at the map. The ship's icon had turned a dull, flickering grey. "Check for atmospheric interference. The Itou Sea gets heavy fog this time of year."
"I've already run a sweep, ma'am. The weather is clear. No essence storms reported in that sector. It's too far north for Threaded Beast interference from Aurica. One second they were transmitting a full cargo hold report, and the next... absolute silence."
"Try the backup frequency. Signal the nearest escort vessel," the Commander ordered, though her hand moved instinctively to the hilt of her ceremonial saber.
"I'm getting nothing, ma'am," the analyst replied, his voice dropping an octave. "It's not just the signal. The ship's entire presence on the resonance grid is gone. It's as if the Gilded Harvest simply stopped existing."
The Commander stared at the empty patch on the map, the vast, lonely stretch of the Itou Sea. "Seal the logs. Raise the alert level for the Southern Fleet to Yellow. I need to report this to the High Ministry immediately."
She turned and walked toward the heavy oak doors of the command center, leaving the analyst staring at a screen where a single dot had vanished, leaving no ripple behind.