The sun rose softly above the water. I had never seen it shine with such a sad light before—like a sunrise carrying the spirit of a sunset. The light was pale, weak, and it cast long shadows over the deck, making the air itself feel heavy.
Under that dim glow, hundreds of figures stirred. Most stood solemn, not a word spoken, letting the waves play their rhythmic tune and enduring the raw cries of the grieving daughter. The ship itself seemed quieter than usual—no chatter, no footsteps rushing about, just the groaning of the timbers and the creak of the sails.
It was the first time I had seen Elena in days. Her cheery self, once so bright, now felt like some distant, forgotten past. She collapsed on the floor between Sir Lawrence and Edmund as her father's body was lifted from the hatch. The same blanket that once covered the baron in his chair now draped over his corpse, the outline of his frame stiff beneath it.
