The sea was quieter the next day, though not peaceful. Swells still lifted the Eryndor with a steady, rolling rhythm, and the ship creaked as if each board remembered the storm of two nights before. The crew worked without complaint, but their voices were subdued, their laughter muted. A silence had settled over the vessel, the kind that weighed on men more heavily than ropes or anchors.
Ardyn woke before the others and climbed to the deck. Dawn spread pale across the horizon, streaks of silver light touching the restless water. He leaned against the railing and breathed deep. The salt air cleared his head, yet did not silence the hum that lingered in his chest. It had followed him into sleep, thrumming like a heartbeat in the back of his mind. He had woken more than once in the night, certain that someone whispered his name.
Now, as the wind caught the sails and pushed the Eryndor forward, the hum returned. It came not from the air nor the timbers but from the sea itself. Ardyn pressed his palm against the railing and felt it vibrate faintly, as if the ship's very bones carried the sound. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. The crown is waiting. The thought was not his own, yet it filled him all the same.
He opened his eyes to find Brannick standing a few paces away, watching him. The quartermaster's beard was wet with dew, his eyes narrowed against the wind.
"You spend too much time listening to the water," Brannick said. "It is not a voice you want to hear."
Ardyn said nothing.
Brannick stepped closer. "A sailor who listens too close starts to imagine things. That is how men go mad. They say the sea has tongues, and she whispers to test us. Fail that test, and she takes you for her own."
"I only hear the waves," Ardyn replied. His voice was calm, but his hands clenched tighter on the railing.
Brannick studied him a moment longer, then grunted. "Keep it that way." With that, he turned and strode across the deck, bellowing orders to the men below.
The crew moved quickly under his command. Some climbed the rigging to check lines, others hauled barrels from the hold, and a pair of men scrubbed the deck with seawater until the planks shone. The rhythm of labor steadied the ship as much as the sails did. Every man knew his place, every man knew his task. To falter was to endanger them all.
Ardyn joined in, hauling rope until his shoulders burned. He welcomed the ache. Work was the only thing that dulled the hum. Yet even as he labored, he caught fragments of unease from the men around him. They whispered when they thought no one listened.
"Lights in the water," one murmured. "Saw them myself last night."
"Nothing but the stars," another replied quickly, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Stars do not move beneath the waves," the first shot back.
The words spread like frost across the crew. Men worked, but their eyes flicked often to the sea. The storm had shaken them, and sailors were quick to see omens where none existed. Yet Ardyn knew the truth. The light was real. He had seen it with his own eyes.
By midday the sun broke through the clouds. Its warmth cast new life on the deck, and for a while the men's spirits lifted. They sang as they worked, voices rough but strong, a song of old ports and taverns long behind them. The rhythm of the shanty carried through the rigging, and for a time the Eryndor felt alive again.
Ardyn ate with them at the noon meal, though he remained quiet as ever. The stew was thin and the bread hard, but hunger made it welcome. He listened as the men spoke of home, of the places they would go when this voyage ended. Some dreamed of gold, others of women, others of nothing more than dry land. Ardyn had no such dreams. The sea was his only home, for all its cruelty. He had no shore waiting, no family, no harbor to claim him.
After the meal, Captain Dorn appeared on deck. The men fell silent at once, rising to their feet. Dorn was not a man who demanded respect with threats. He simply carried it with him, in the way he stood, in the way his eyes took in every detail of ship and crew. His hair was white, his face carved with lines of age and weather, but his back was straight and his voice strong.
"We sail true," he said. "The storm has passed, and the Eryndor holds steady. But do not grow careless. The sea does not forgive the lazy. Work with care, and she will carry us where we must go."
The men nodded, murmuring assent. Ardyn watched the captain closely. Dorn's eyes lingered on the horizon, as if he saw more than water and sky. Some said he had sailed every sea in the known world, that he had maps no other man possessed. If any man could guide them through these waters, it was Dorn.
The day stretched long. Ardyn worked beside the others, patching sails, coiling rope, fetching water from the barrels. Sweat soaked his shirt, the sun burned his skin, but he pressed on. Anything to silence the whispers. Yet they returned each time he glanced at the sea. The light flickered beneath the waves, faint but steady, as if waiting.
That night, the air grew colder. Clouds drifted back across the sky, blotting out the stars. Lanterns swayed on their hooks, their glow casting long shadows across the deck. The crew spoke little as they prepared for night watch. Superstition kept them quiet, for too many voices at night were said to stir the sea.
Ardyn remained on deck after his shift ended. Sleep would not come easily, and he could not bear the thought of lying awake in the stifling dark of the hold. He stood at the bow, staring into the black water. The hum was stronger now, pulsing in his bones, a rhythm that matched the beat of his heart.
"Ardyn."
The whisper slid through the air. He flinched, gripping the railing. The voice was clearer than before, deeper, as though it rose from the very depths of the ocean.
He leaned forward, peering into the dark. For a moment he saw it again a shimmer of gold, far below, like a star drowned in black water. It glowed faintly, pulsing with the same rhythm that throbbed in his chest.
He staggered back, breath ragged. His mind screamed to look away, yet his eyes clung to the light. It was beautiful, terrible, irresistible.
The crown is waiting.
The words filled his mind, though no mouth had spoken them. He pressed his hands to his head, shaking it hard. He wanted to scream, to deny it, but his throat was dry.
Behind him, footsteps sounded. He spun to see Brannick watching, lantern in hand. The quartermaster's face was grim.
"You saw it, did you not?" Brannick asked quietly.
Ardyn froze.
Brannick stepped closer. "Do not lie. I have seen it too. Not tonight, not last night, but long ago. Once, when I was young and foolish. I thought it was treasure. I thought it was glory. I nearly leapt overboard chasing it." His eyes narrowed. "But it is no gift. It is a snare. Whatever waits down there, it is not meant for us."
Ardyn swallowed hard. "Then why does it call to me?"
Brannick shook his head. "That I cannot say. But listen to me, boy. Do not answer it. Do not let it take root in you. Many have heard the sea's whispers. Few live long after."
With that, Brannick turned away, leaving Ardyn alone with the water.
The golden light still shimmered below, faint but steady. Ardyn clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. He wanted to believe Brannick, wanted to believe he could turn away. Yet the hum in his bones told him otherwise.
The crown was waiting. And sooner or later, he would have to face it.