The Eryndor sailed as if pursued by silence itself. Every creak of timber, every flap of canvas seemed louder against the stillness that had settled over the sea. The attack of the night before clung to the crew like a shadow. The water had swallowed Calren whole, and though his body had been retrieved, no man could shake the memory of the golden-eyed beasts that had dragged him into the depths.
Captain Dorn ordered a burial at once. The sailors wrapped Calren's broken form in canvas, binding the cloth with rope. They worked in silence, their faces pale, their hands unsteady. Sailors were no strangers to death, but this was not the death of storm or blade. This was something older, something unnatural.
At the bow the men gathered. Dorn's voice carried over the deck, steady and solemn.
We commit him to the sea. May the waters bear him to rest. May his spirit find the shores we cannot sail.
The canvas slid into the water with a hollow splash. Ripples spread, swallowed quickly by the vastness of the ocean. The men bowed their heads. Some murmured prayers, others crossed themselves, others stared with hollow eyes as if hoping for a sign that the sea would be merciful.
Ardyn stood apart. As the body sank, the hum in his chest grew fierce. It pulsed with the rhythm of the waves, swelling until he thought it might burst his ribs. The sea accepted its offering, and the crown within the deep seemed to rejoice. He turned away, heart hammering. If the others could feel what he felt, they would have cast him overboard alongside the corpse.
When the ceremony ended, the crew returned to their duties with the silence of men marching to the gallows. No one sang. No one spoke beyond what was needed to keep the ship steady. Every glance at the water carried suspicion, as if the waves themselves hid teeth.
Ardyn tried to bury himself in work. He scrubbed the deck until his hands blistered, hauled rope until his back ached, climbed the rigging until the wind stung his face. But nothing dulled the hum. It throbbed stronger each hour, filling him with a pressure he could neither expel nor obey.
Brannick watched him. The quartermaster's eyes were sharp as a hawk's, following Ardyn wherever he moved. The men noticed, and they too began to mutter. When Ardyn passed, their voices fell low. Some made signs of warding, some spat to the side. Sailors were quick to see omens, and quicker to blame.
By dusk the horizon burned crimson, the sun sinking into the restless water. Ardyn stood at the rail, staring at the waves. He thought he saw movement beneath the surface, vast shadows circling like wolves in the dark. His hands clenched tight. He wanted to look away, but his eyes refused.
You are mine.
The voice whispered inside him, soft and certain.
He stumbled back, breath ragged. No one else heard it. The men worked about the deck, their faces tired, their bodies bent with labor. To them the sea was silent. To him it was alive.
That night sleep did not come. He lay in his hammock, staring at the beams above, the whispers thrumming through his mind. When at last exhaustion dragged him under, his dreams were filled with visions. He saw a throne carved of coral and bone, vast as any palace, resting in a hall where no air reached. Golden fire burned in the depths, lighting a crown that pulsed like a living heart. Dark shapes swam around it, their eyes gleaming with the same fire. When he reached out, they bowed before him, and the sea itself bent low.
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat. The whispers clung to him, stronger than ever. He could not tell where dream ended and waking began.
Unable to rest, he crept to the deck. The night was still, the stars faint above, the water black and endless. He gripped the railing, staring down. His reflection wavered on the surface, but it was not his own. A crown glimmered upon his brow, and golden light burned in his eyes.
A hand clamped his shoulder. He spun, heart racing. Brannick stood behind him, lantern in hand, his expression grim.
You would have jumped, Brannick said. His voice was low, steady. Do not deny it. I know the look of a man the sea has called.
Ardyn shook his head. I was only
Do not lie to me. Brannick's grip tightened. I have seen this before. A man listens too close, stares too long, and then he is gone. The sea takes him, and nothing remains.
Ardyn swallowed hard. His throat was dry. I cannot silence it.
Then fight it, Brannick growled. Or it will claim you, and perhaps us all with you.
They stared at one another in the lantern's glow, the ship creaking beneath them. At last Brannick released him. Go below. And pray the sea finds someone else to haunt.
Ardyn obeyed, but the hum followed him into the hold. He lay awake until dawn, the crown burning in his thoughts, the whispers filling every corner of his mind.
The next day the crew worked with unease. Men glanced often at the waves, as though expecting the golden-eyed beasts to rise again. They whispered of curses, of omens, of doom that followed close behind. Ardyn heard his own name carried on their tongues. Some avoided him, stepping aside when he passed. Others touched charms when their eyes met his.
Captain Dorn watched too. His face gave little away, but his gaze lingered on Ardyn longer than before. The captain was a man of reason, not given to superstition, yet even reason bent beneath what they had seen.
By midday the wind shifted. Clouds gathered, heavy and dark. The sea swelled with uneasy motion. The men labored to secure sails, their hands swift but their faces pale. Storms they understood. Storms could be fought. But none spoke of the greater fear, the fear of what lay beneath.
That night the storm broke. Rain lashed the deck, waves struck hard against the hull, lightning split the sky. The crew fought to keep the ship upright, their cries drowned by thunder. Ardyn hauled rope with the others, salt stinging his eyes, the hum in his chest now a roar. Each flash of lightning lit the waves in gold, and in each crest he thought he saw shapes vast and terrible.
The sea wants you, the voice whispered.
He stumbled, nearly letting go of the rope. Brannick seized it beside him, shouting over the wind. Hold fast, boy. Do not give her what she asks.
They fought until their bodies burned, until their hands bled, until at last the storm eased. Rain fell softer, thunder rolled distant, the waves calmed. Exhausted, the men slumped where they stood.
Ardyn sank to his knees, chest heaving. The hum inside him did not fade. It throbbed stronger, triumphant, as though the storm itself had been its herald.
When dawn came, the crew looked upon him with hollow eyes. Some muttered that the storm had come for him. Others whispered that he had called it.
The Eryndor sailed on, but the distance between Ardyn and the rest of the crew grew wider with every passing hour. He stood alone at the bow, the whispers filling him, the crown blazing brighter in his mind.
The sea had tested them. It had taken one man already.
And Ardyn knew it was not finished.