The sun hung low over the gray waves, casting long shadows across the fractured decks of the three battered ships. Silence had settled after the storm, but it was a deceptive calm. Sailors moved cautiously, their nerves frayed from the previous night's chaos.
Edric stood at the bow of the Iron Falcon, eyes scanning the horizon. The lessons from Driftport—the whispered warnings, the maps, the rumors of unnatural creatures—kept running through his mind. The sea is alive. It hunts. Always.
Below, his surviving knights gripped the rails nervously, and for the first time, even Edric felt a flicker of unease.
From the depths of the water rose an eerie, lilting melody, faint at first, then swelling, sweet and haunting. It wrapped around the crews like invisible chains, tugging at their hearts and minds.
"Do you hear that?" one of Edric's knights whispered, eyes wide. Others murmured, entranced. Sailors leaned over the rails, drawn toward the song.
Elira's sharp eyes caught the glint of shapes beneath the waves—sleek, humanoid forms circling the ships. She slammed her hand on the deck. "It's a trap! Sirens!" she shouted, voice cutting through the melodic haze. "Do not look at them directly! Cover your ears! Focus on patterns, not the song!"
Ronan's grin was tight but his eyes were calculating. He barked orders to his crew. "Block your ears! Tie yourselves to the masts! These things aren't natural—they use your fear and desire against you!"
Edric quickly issued precise commands to his knights, using what he had learned about strategy and observation on Driftport. "Ignore the sound! Trust the angles! Focus on our formation!"
Elira guided the Sea Whisper's sailors to plug their ears with cloth, force their gaze downward, and focus on the ship's movement instead of the hypnotic melody. She had read the siren warnings in old books purchased at Driftport and realized that survival required attention to reality over desire.
Ronan, relying on instinct honed from countless ambushes, lashed himself to the mast and ordered his crew to do the same. "Don't fight it mentally. Fight it physically. Keep moving! Keep holding on!"
The creatures—sleek, almost translucent, with eyes that shimmered like liquid silver—slid alongside the ships, tugging at ropes, attempting to lure sailors into the water. One by one, sailors succumbed, drawn by the song into the waves, their screams swallowed by the cold sea.
But Edric, Elira, and Ronan moved with coordination and awareness, applying what they had learned: patterns, observation, and focus on survival.
Hours later, as the sirens faded beneath the waves, the trio stood exhausted but alive. The decks of their ships were strewn with the fallen, the water around dotted with bodies and the eerie glow of the vanished creatures.
Edric breathed heavily, gripping his sword. "We… we survived. Not because of strength alone… but because we thought. We adapted."
Elira slumped against the railing, exhausted but determined, flipping through her journal. "Observation, patterns, knowledge… Driftport prepared us for this more than I realized."
Ronan wiped blood and seawater from his face, smirking despite his exhaustion. "Luck favors the prepared," he said simply. "We live. Others… not so much."
The lesson was bitter but clear: the Shrouded Continent was still beyond the horizon, but the Sea of Trials would test them at every step. Only their combined knowledge, adaptability, and will to survive could carry them forward.
As the last light of day faded into mist, Edric, Elira, and Ronan watched the horizon, each silently vowing: they would survive, and they would see the Continent.