The morning broke under a sky the color of iron. Clouds massed low over the sea, heavy and swollen, but no rain fell. The air carried the sharp scent of storms not yet born. The horizon was a dark line blurred by mist, and the sea rolled slow and heavy, as if waiting.
The crew of the Eryndor worked without speaking. Their hands pulled ropes, scrubbed deck, trimmed sails, yet their eyes were restless, darting toward the boy at the bow. Their silence was thicker than the clouds above, their suspicion heavy as stone.
Ardyn felt it. Each glance pierced him like a blade. He kept to his duties, coiling rope, hauling canvas, polishing brass, but wherever he went the men drew away. Whispers followed him like shadows. Cursed. Marked. Chosen of the sea.
The hum in his chest had grown stronger with every passing day. It was no longer a murmur but a steady throb that matched the beat of his heart. He could not silence it. Even when he pressed his hands to his ears, the voice echoed inside him. It promised him power, promised him belonging, promised him the crown that burned in every dream.
By noon the clouds darkened further, the sea rising in restless swells. The men muttered as they worked, their nerves fraying with each snap of sail and crash of wave. Jorven's voice was the loudest among them, harsh and bitter. He had not forgotten the night when Dorn and Brannick stopped him from casting Ardyn overboard, and his anger had only grown.
When the ship's bell rang for the midday meal, the crew gathered near the galley. They sat in a circle, hunched over bowls of salted stew, their faces grim. Ardyn sat apart, alone on the edge of the lanternlight. No man joined him. No man spoke to him. Even the clatter of spoons seemed quieter for his presence.
Jorven's voice carried over the silence. We sail blind, he said, his scarred jaw set hard. The sea fire followed us, the beasts circle us, storms rise at our mast. And still we carry him.
The men shifted uneasily. Some nodded, some muttered agreement, some kept their eyes on their bowls.
Jorven slammed his fist on the table. How many signs do you need? He is the mark. He is the weight dragging us down. Cast him off, and maybe the sea will let us go.
Ardyn kept his head bowed, but inside the whispers thundered. They would cast him off. They would drown him. Unless he took what was his.
Brannick rose slowly. His voice was low, but it carried like iron. Sit down, Jorven.
The scarred sailor sneered. You would protect him still? You are blind, Brannick. The sea has claimed him. You know it. We all see it.
Brannick's hand hovered near his knife. Say it again, he warned.
The two men stared at one another, the tension sharp as drawn steel. The crew watched, waiting.
Then Captain Dorn's voice cut through. Enough.
The captain stood at the edge of the lanternlight, his coat hanging heavy from his shoulders, his face hard. We are sailors, not wolves. We will not tear each other apart on my deck.
Jorven turned toward him, fury burning in his eyes. Then open yours, captain. How many omens will you ignore? How many men must die before you see what stands before us?
Dorn's gaze shifted to Ardyn. The boy met his eyes for a heartbeat, then looked away. The silence stretched, thick as storm clouds.
At last Dorn spoke. We sail on. The sea will decide.
The words did nothing to ease the crew. They finished their meal in silence, their eyes dark with doubt.
That night the storm came.
It rose with the suddenness of a beast from the deep, the clouds bursting open, rain lashing the deck, wind howling through the rigging. The sea roared, waves slamming against the hull with bone-shaking force. The Eryndor heaved and groaned, her timbers straining.
The crew fought desperately, hauling lines, securing sails, bailing water as it poured across the deck. Lightning split the sky, white fire illuminating faces twisted with fear.
And through it all, Ardyn felt the hum inside him roar to life. The storm was not against him. It was with him. Each crack of thunder echoed in his chest. Each wave that struck the hull pulsed with the crown's power. He felt it in his blood, in his bones.
The sea is yours, the voice whispered. Command it.
He staggered, gripping the railing, his vision swimming with golden light. The waves rose higher, the wind screamed louder, and he felt the storm bow to him.
The men saw him. In the lightning's flash, his eyes gleamed gold, his face lit with a fire not of the lanterns. Fear spread across the deck like flame on oil.
It is him, Jorven cried. He calls the storm. He brings our doom.
The words carried through the wind, and the crew's fear turned to fury. Several men dropped their ropes, advancing toward Ardyn even as the storm raged.
Captain Dorn shouted orders, but his voice was swallowed by thunder. Brannick fought to hold the men back, his blade flashing in the stormlight.
Ardyn clung to the railing, torn between terror and awe. The sea roared with him. The storm bowed to him. He could feel the crown in the depths, blazing with power, calling him to claim it.
The deck tilted as a massive wave struck, sending men sprawling. Ardyn nearly lost his grip, his body thrown against the rail. For a moment he thought he would fall into the sea, into the crown's waiting embrace.
Brannick's hand seized him, dragging him back. Hold fast, boy, he roared. Do not give her what she wants.
But the whispers were deafening now. Take it. Take the crown. Rule or drown.
The storm raged until dawn, tearing sails, cracking masts, flooding the deck. When at last the sun rose, weak and pale, the Eryndor was battered but afloat. The crew lay scattered in exhaustion, their bodies bruised, their hands raw.
And their eyes turned to Ardyn.
They had seen his golden gaze in the stormlight. They had felt the sea answer his presence. And they knew now with certainty what they had only whispered before.
He was marked.
And one way or another, the sea would have him.