The Eryndor cut through gray waters beneath a heavy sky. The storm had passed, but it had left its mark. The ship bore scars on her timbers, her sails patched with hurried stitches, her crew walking the deck like men burdened by chains. Salt crusted their clothes, exhaustion hollowed their eyes, and still they looked often to the boy who stood alone at the bow.
Ardyn knew their stares. He felt them like daggers pressed between his shoulders. When he moved, the whispers in their voices hushed. When he turned, their eyes flicked away. They no longer saw him as one of their own. He was marked.
He gripped the railing, staring at the restless water. The hum in his chest had become a steady throb, like the heartbeat of the sea itself. It never left him. Even in sleep it followed, whispering of a crown waiting in the deep. The images came unbidden: coral halls, golden fire, beasts bowing before him. He tried to shut them out, but the harder he resisted, the stronger they pressed upon him.
The morning passed in silence. Captain Dorn gave orders, Brannick drove the men, and the crew obeyed with weary precision. They patched lines, scrubbed the deck, trimmed sails. Yet every task was performed under the weight of glances toward Ardyn. Superstition clung to sailors like barnacles to a hull, and already stories spread.
They said he had called the beasts. They said his eyes had burned with golden light. They said the storm had risen for him and bent to his will.
At midday, when the sun broke briefly through the clouds, a group of sailors gathered near the foremast. Their voices were low but urgent. Ardyn heard his name among them, sharp and bitter. He turned away, but the words followed him like a tide.
Brannick approached, his face grim. The quartermaster leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the sea. You hear them, he said quietly.
Ardyn nodded.
They will not stop, Brannick continued. Men need someone to blame. Better you than the sea.
Ardyn's voice was hoarse. I never asked for this.
None of us ask for what the sea gives, Brannick said. But we bear it, or we drown.
The boy clenched his fists. The hum within him surged, as if mocking the words. I cannot stop it.
Then master it, Brannick growled. Or it will master you.
He left before Ardyn could answer.
The afternoon stretched long. The ship drifted on a steady wind, but no man sang to keep rhythm. The silence of the crew pressed harder than the storm had. Even the gulls avoided the mast, their cries absent from the sky.
When dusk fell, Captain Dorn summoned the crew to the deck. Lanterns swung on their hooks, casting long shadows across the men's faces. Dorn stood tall, his coat soaked with spray, his eyes sharp. We have weathered storm and beast alike, he said, but fear now gnaws at us from within. I will have no whispers of curses, no talk of doom. We are sailors of the Eryndor, and we will sail as one.
The men shifted uneasily. Some lowered their eyes, others muttered. None dared speak against the captain, but their gazes slid once more to Ardyn.
Dorn's eyes followed theirs. The captain paused, his jaw tightening. Then he said, Let none forget that fear divides faster than any blade. We will not turn upon our own. Not while I command this ship.
The meeting ended, but the words brought little comfort. Fear was a fire, and no command could smother it once kindled.
That night Ardyn lay awake, the whispers louder than ever. The crown blazed in his mind, golden light flooding his thoughts until he could scarcely breathe. He pressed his hands to his temples, but the voice seeped through bone and flesh alike.
You are chosen. You are mine. Take the crown.
He rose, his body trembling. He climbed to the deck, drawn as if by invisible chains. The sea stretched before him, black and endless, its surface rippling with faint light. His reflection stared up, crowned in gold, eyes burning with power.
A step behind him. He turned. It was Brannick again, lantern in hand.
You hear it still, the quartermaster said.
Ardyn nodded, unable to speak.
Brannick's eyes narrowed. Then you must choose. Either you silence it, or you let it rule you. If the men see you falter, they will strike first.
Ardyn's breath caught. Would they truly kill me?
Brannick's voice was low, certain. Better one boy overboard than a crew lost to madness.
The lantern light flickered, painting Brannick's scarred face in shadow. Ardyn swallowed hard. He wanted to argue, to deny, but the truth was heavy as stone.
The quartermaster turned away, leaving Ardyn alone with the sea.
Days passed, and the tension deepened. The crew avoided him openly now. Meals were taken in silence, men sitting apart from him. He worked alone, hauling rope, scrubbing deck, climbing rigging with no one at his side. He could feel their eyes always on him, waiting for him to falter.
The whispers filled the gaps. They told him he was not theirs, that he belonged to the sea. They told him the men would never accept him. They told him only the crown could give him purpose.
One evening, as the sun bled red into the horizon, Ardyn collapsed by the rail. His strength failed him, his hands shaking, his vision blurred. The hum roared in his chest, louder than the waves themselves.
He closed his eyes and saw it again: the hall of coral, the throne of bone, the golden crown pulsing with life. The beasts bowed before him, their eyes alight with fire. He reached for it, fingers trembling, and the sea sang his name.
Ardyn.
He gasped awake, the name echoing in his ears. No one stood near him. No man had spoken. Only the sea.
He stared into the depths, heart racing. Somewhere below, something vast stirred. He felt it as surely as breath in his lungs. It waited for him.
The Eryndor sailed on into night, her lanterns glowing faint across the waves. The crew whispered in their hammocks, Brannick sharpened his blade, Captain Dorn paced the deck in silence. And at the bow, Ardyn listened to the hum of the deep, the crown burning brighter with every breath.
He was chosen.
And the sea would not let him go.