"Vaelith?"
"Vaelith!"
The prince's voice was laced with growing panic as he tried to break through the elf's catatonic state. She stood frozen, eyes wide and unfocused, lost in some private, terrifying vision.
"Have to... get out of here"
she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper.
"Vaelith!"
he bellowed again, his anxiety spiking. What happened? Why was she suddenly like this? A broken mage was a liability he couldn't afford. She was much too crucial to his plans.
Just then, her eyes snapped back into focus–but the clarity they held was terrifying. She looked at him as if he were a ghost, then—
"Turn this ship around, right now!"
"What?!"
"We have to get out of here. Now!" Her voice was shrill, bordering on hysterical—a stark contrast to her usual calm demeanor. The prince was shaken to his core, but they couldn't turn back. Not now. Not after coming so far. Too much was riding on this.
Suddenly, without warning, the sea erupted in a lurid, bioluminescent red, its eerie glow painting the fleet with grotesque, monstrous shadows.
The air grew thick—heavy with a sense of something vast, something ancient, something watching.
Don't look up!
...
"Grab on, kid."
Lugh looked up and saw Captain Veyland. Suppressing the rising tide of questions and the gnawing unease, he stretched out his hands and allowed himself to be hauled up.
A rope snaked around his waist, and they began a slow, perilous ascent.
Below them, the sea pulsed with an unnatural crimson light, staining the ship in hues of hellish red.
To the left, the distorted sky churned with malevolent energy, threatening to swallow them whole. They couldn't see it, they could feel it.
Lugh's wrist throbbed with a dull, persistent ache and he felt the rough rope bite into his flesh as Captain Veyland hauled him upwards.
Every inch gained was a desperate victory against gravity—against the encroaching horrors rising beneath them.
The wind shrieked like a banshee, tugging at them, tearing at their clothes, threatening to rip them from their precarious foothold.
Below, the horde of transformed soldiers surged forward, their movements disturbingly fluid and coordinated, like a tide of the damned.
The silent pursuit was more terrifying than any scream, their blank, dead eyes fixed on Lugh.
Veyland's muscles strained with effort, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He focused solely on the next handhold, the next agonizing pull.
Lugh watched him, knowing that if the captain faltered—if the rope snapped—they would both be plunged into the crimson abyss below.
The climb felt endless.
Then Lugh saw it—a human hand reaching down from above, seizing the captain's wrist and hauling him into the ship's interior.
The rope jerked, and moments later, Lugh found himself clambering onto the corridor.
Waiting there was a man with scuffed brown hair and an uneven goatee.
His posture exuded a relaxed elegance that clashed strangely with his roguish appearance.
"Mister Lugh, I believe we've met before? Unofficially, of course."
Lugh's mind raced, trying to place him.
"You're the second spy?"
"Bingo! What a brilliant kid."
Lugh felt a surge of irritation.
Behind him, the Captain had just poured a canister of fuel over the silent pursuers. A flick of a match—and the deck erupted into flames.
The horde didn't stop.
They crawled through the inferno until their fingers burned off, until they could no longer hold on. The repulsive smell of charred human flesh filled the air.
Bang, bang, bang. A few clips were emptied into the relentless swarm.
Lugh spoke. "Why are you here, and…" His gaze flicked to the captain. "…what do you want from me?"
Silence hung heavy in the air before the brown-haired man finally answered.
"Why are we here? To sabotage the fleet of course! Are you daft or something?"
He launched into a rambling explanation.
"I'm sure you overheard our conversation, you sneaky little thing. At first, we planned to use explosives—disrupt their formation during a crucial battle, maybe even direct cannon fire if necessary…"
He paused.
"But—" he continued,
"—we found a better option. 'Better' in this case meaning more efficient and—"
"Get to the point," Lugh snapped.
"Right."
The world lurched violently again, the shattered laws of physics suddenly snapping back into place.
The three of them—who had been standing on the corridor wall—crashed to the floor.
"Son of a—" someone cursed.
They quickly scrambled to their feet. The brown-haired man straightened his coat.
"Basically, our goal now is to protect you long enough for this thing—whatever it might be—to wipe out the entire fleet."
Lugh's blood ran cold. "What does protecting me have to do with any of that?!"
The man gave him a knowing look.
"Come on now. You're smarter than this. Do you really think you taste better than the other soldiers?"
Lugh's mind flashed back to Marcus. Then further back, to the battle with the sirens.
"Why are they after me?"
His voice was low, fear partially surpressed.
"You should know the answer better than I do."
"I don't know!"
Lugh snapped, frustration bleeding into panic.
"I swear to the gods, I don't know!"
The two men exchanged a long, assessing look.
"Well," the brown-haired man finally said,
"this is unexpected."
Veyland let out a long breath.
"Doesn't change what we have to do. Gear up."
He tossed Lugh a rifle and several magazines of ammunition.
Lugh hesitated. He knew their plan—but he was paralyzed by indecision. What was he supposed to do? Offer himself up to the horrors so the fleet could escape? Who was to say they wouldn't encounter something worse later?
He wasn't a martyr.
If he wanted to die, he wouldn't have stowed away to the front lines. He would have simply remained at home.
The two men cocked their rifles and stepped outside. Lugh followed, taking up a position in the shattered doorway.
Under the eerie glow of the blood-red sea, the silhouettes of the expressionless, dull-eyed legion gradually emerged onto the ravaged deck.
They stood perfectly still—heads held high, backs straight, blank eyes fixed ahead.
Watching.
Waiting.
The air crackled with tension. Neither side moved.
Then—
BANG!