The sea fire burned for three nights and three days before it faded, leaving the waters around the Eryndor dark once more. Yet the silence that followed was worse than the glow. For when the fire vanished, it felt to the crew as though the sea had drawn breath and was waiting to exhale.
The sailors moved like shadows across the deck. Every word they spoke was hushed, as though sound itself might summon something from the depths. The air grew thick with mistrust. Men glanced at one another with suspicion, but more than any other their eyes lingered on Ardyn.
He felt their gazes pierce him. When he climbed the rigging to trim the sails, he heard whispers at his back. When he bent to coil rope, the men moved away as if his shadow carried sickness. At meals no one sat beside him. When he lay in his hammock, he felt the weight of their silence pressing down, thick as the sea above a drowned man.
Only Brannick came near. The quartermaster never smiled, but his watchful presence was the closest thing to protection Ardyn had. Yet even Brannick's patience was fraying.
One evening, as the sun sank into a horizon painted with blood, Brannick approached him on the deck. His hands were calloused, his face lined with years of salt and wind, his eyes hard.
They do not trust you, he said. Each day it grows worse.
Ardyn did not answer. He was staring at the water, the hum in his chest louder now than ever. The sea was no longer silent to him. Every wave carried whispers. Every ripple was a voice.
Brannick followed his gaze. You cannot keep feeding it, boy. The more you listen, the more it owns you.
I do not listen, Ardyn said quietly. I cannot help it.
Then you are already lost. Brannick's voice was rough, but there was no cruelty in it. Only weariness.
He left without another word.
That night the crew gathered at the stern, huddled in a circle of lanternlight. They spoke in low voices, but the sea carried sound, and Ardyn, lying in his hammock, caught fragments of their words. Cursed. Marked. Dangerous.
One voice louder than the others. Jorven, a broad-shouldered sailor with scars across his jaw. We cannot let him stay. He will bring us all to ruin.
A murmur of agreement followed.
Brannick's voice cut through. You will do nothing without the captain's word.
And if the captain is blind, Jorven shot back.
There was silence then, broken only by the creak of the ship. Ardyn lay still, his heart hammering. The whispers inside him swelled, almost gleeful. They spoke not in warning but in promise.
Take the crown. Let them fear. Let them bow.
He pressed his hands to his ears, but it made no difference. The voice was within, not without.
The next day brought no respite. The wind was sharp, the sea restless, and the crew worked with a tension that turned every order into a challenge. Ropes tangled, tempers flared, curses flew. Twice men nearly came to blows, and both times Brannick's presence was the only thing that kept blood from being spilled.
Captain Dorn remained stern and silent. He gave his commands with precision, his eyes keen, his jaw set. But even he could not hide the weight pressing on his shoulders. He saw his crew unraveling, and he knew its cause. More than once his gaze fell upon Ardyn, not with anger but with calculation, as if measuring the risk against the boy's life.
That night Ardyn dreamed again of the coral hall. The crown gleamed brighter than ever, so bright he could not look at it directly. He reached for it, trembling, and this time his fingers closed around the golden metal. It burned, but he did not let go. When he lifted it, the beasts bowed deeper, and the sea roared with his name.
He woke with a gasp, the hum inside him thunderous. He staggered to the deck, chest heaving. The night was black, the sea still, the stars distant. But beneath the water something glowed faintly, like embers hidden in ash. He stared, trembling. The crown pulsed in his mind, alive.
Behind him, a sound of footsteps. He turned. Jorven stood there, his scarred face twisted with hate.
You should not be here, boy.
Ardyn swallowed. I mean no harm.
You are harm, Jorven spat. The sea burns for you, beasts bow to you, storms rise at your breath. How many more must die before the captain sees it?
Other men stepped from the shadows, half a dozen, their faces hard. Each carried a knife or a length of rope.
Jorven pointed. He goes overboard tonight.
Ardyn backed against the railing, heart hammering. The whispers rose to a scream. Take the crown. Rule or be drowned.
Before Jorven could step closer, a voice thundered. Enough.
Brannick strode from the shadows, blade in hand. His eyes burned with fury. You touch him, you answer to me.
The men hesitated. Even Jorven did not move at once. Brannick was not a man to cross lightly.
The captain's voice followed, sharp as a whip. And to me.
Captain Dorn emerged from the gloom, his coat thrown over his shoulders, his eyes fierce. Any man who raises hand against another without my command will find the sea his only master. Do you hear me?
The mutineers lowered their eyes, muttering. Jorven's jaw clenched, but he sheathed his knife.
Dorn's gaze swept them. Return to your hammocks. Now.
Slowly, grudgingly, the men obeyed.
When they were gone, Dorn turned to Brannick and Ardyn. His voice was quiet now, but heavy. This cannot continue.
Ardyn whispered, I never wanted this.
The captain's eyes lingered on him, searching, weighing. Perhaps not. But the sea does not care what you want.
He left then, his footsteps heavy on the deck. Brannick sheathed his blade, but his hand lingered on the hilt. He looked at Ardyn long, then shook his head. You must find your strength soon, boy. For their fear will not wait much longer.
Ardyn nodded, though the whispers thundered so loud he could scarcely hear.
The night stretched long, the sea still as glass. Ardyn stood at the rail, staring into the depths. He saw his reflection crowned, golden eyes blazing. The crown was waiting. The weight of water pressed against him from every side.
He knew now that there would be no escape.
The sea had chosen.
And soon, the men would choose as well.