---
The ship cleaved through storm-lashed waves. Salty wind cut across faces like a dull blade, and the sails groaned as if they might tear free from their frame. At the helm, Arthur stood without a coat, his body rigid—as though the storm itself was beneath his notice.
"I've heard," he said without turning, "that the port city in the west still keeps old prophecies. Prophecies that remember how to kill something that should already be dead."
A crumpled map fluttered through the air before landing against Sean's chest. The paper was wet, its edges torn, and an X was etched upon it—the pale blue ink glimmering faintly whenever sea spray struck it.
Sean lowered his gaze to the map. His heart sank when his eyes caught the faintly printed names.
North Sea.
Kraken Sea Area.
"Hey," Sean called, tossing the map back. "You're not planning to get us all killed, are you?"
Arthur caught the map without looking.
"No."
Sean clicked his tongue. "The North Sea isn't a playground. Shipwrecks, shallow waters gone mad, iron carcasses everywhere. And after that—the Kraken Sea."
Arthur folded the map slowly, neatly.
"If Opia could be killed somewhere safe, it would have died long ago."
He stepped closer. The wind stretched his shadow across the deck.
"Safe places don't keep answers, Captain Sean."
"And you?" Sean challenged. "Not afraid?"
Arthur stared straight ahead, at the sea—black and pulsing like the chest of a living creature.
"I am not a sailor who fears danger."
The ship pressed on.
The days that followed were not a journey—but a trial.
In the North Sea, the ocean bared its teeth. Shipwrecks appeared and vanished in the fog, ancient metal scraping against the hull with long, screaming shrieks. The crew worked without sleep, patching leaks, cutting away iron, driving fear back with routine.
Sean stood on deck, watching Arthur, who never left the helm. No sleep. No hesitation.
Since when did I stop asking whether any of this was worth it?
Or—since when did I begin to believe that if Arthur walked into the dark, I had to follow?
---
Two days later, the sea changed.
No wind.
No waves.
The water ahead lay still—too still.
Arthur finally spoke again.
"We've entered its territory."
Some of the crew swallowed hard. Others tightened their grip on their weapons.
Sean exhaled, then spoke—more to himself than anyone else.
"This ship—"
Arthur cut him off without turning.
"No one has ever come out of here whole."
He added, his voice nearly swallowed by the waiting sea,
"We'll be the first. Or the last."
The ship continued forward, into waters that seemed to open like a jaw. And Sean, without fully realizing when it happened, stopped searching for a way home.
"All hands, prepare!" Sean shouted.
"We enter the Kraken Sea Area in two days. Ready iron nets, cannons, harpoons—anything that can keep this ship afloat!"
Arthur added, his voice low and firm,
"Listen carefully. No one moves alone."
The next two days were filled with tension that never truly slept.
Day One — suspicious calm.
The crew reinforced the hull with iron and old timber. Hammers rang without rhythm. Arthur never took his eyes off the water—waiting for the first sign.
Night fell. Lanterns flickered unnaturally. In shallow pools of saltwater along the deck, symbols formed that no one recognized. No one dared touch them.
Day Two — the sea stopped breathing.
The horizon shifted. The water turned dark and motionless.
It waited.
Sean grasped Arthur's shoulder, pointing at water that spiraled too neatly to be called a current.
"Kraken isn't just a story," he said quietly. "This is a grave that forgot how to bury."
One of the crew hurled a harpoon. It shot toward the sea—then shattered midair, crushed by something vast and pale. Black ink erupted. Screams split the air. Ropes were seized.
Arthur drew his dagger. Sean unsheathed his sword.
Tentacles emerged—large enough to embrace the deck. Every swing threatened to split the ship. Steel met sea-flesh. Severed tentacles fell, but the monster did not retreat.
Amid the chaos, Sean heard a voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"Sean…"
The world seemed to shrink. He turned, searching for the source—until his gaze fixed on a single point.
A woman stood between shadow and fog.
A face that had never truly left.
"Mother…?" Sean's breath trembled. "No… that's not possible…"
"I'm here," the figure whispered. Her hands opened. "Come here, my son."
The sword in Sean's hand slackened.
"SEAN!"
Arthur ran, seizing his wrist. His dagger flew—piercing the figure like smoke.
"Listen to me," Arthur hissed in his ear. "That isn't your mother."
A tentacle struck. They were torn apart.
Sean remained standing. The figure's smile widened—too wide.
"Come… Mother is waiting."
Sean took a step—not because he wanted to, but because his body remembered something lost. The world narrowed to that voice alone.
"Mother…"
A massive wave crashed. One of the Kraken's tentacles slammed into Sean's body. Sean was thrown into the sea. Suddenly, the Kraken withdrew, as though its task were complete.
Sean was dragged toward the open water, slowly sinking.
Above, Arthur screamed his name—his voice drowned by the water.
Below, the whisper drew closer.
Cold enveloped him. Pressure wrapped around him tightly.
Strangely—it felt like being held again.
"Sleep, my child," the voice whispered.
The ship's light faded. The sea sealed everything away.
And in the darkness, Opia smiled.