The muster bell rang harshly, echoing through the decks of the White Oak. Footsteps thundered chaotically as sailors scrambled to assemble. Meanwhile, Captain Lawrence Creed remained in the wheelhouse, accompanied only by his second mate and the ship's exhausted priest.
Lawrence gazed grimly out the window. The White Oak was still submerged in the spirit realm, drifting through dark, ink-stained waters blanketed in swirling mist. The storm had ceased abruptly, vanishing along with the terrifying ghost ship—the Forsaken. The calm was almost unnatural, as if the phantom vessel had been the very source of the tempest.
His mind drifted back to stories he'd heard long ago—tales of Captain Duncan Abnomar and the ghostly Forsaken, a ship infamous for devouring entire fleets at the boundary of reality. What he'd dismissed as mere superstition now felt disturbingly plausible. Whatever truth lay behind those tales, one thing was certain: they had encountered the Forsaken and somehow survived.
Lawrence's thoughts snapped back into focus. The ship might have vanished, but the danger hadn't necessarily departed with it. He urgently needed to know what had been taken or left behind. Until he was certain, he dared not ascend back to the material world. Lingering too long in the spirit realm was equally perilous, but the risk of bringing unknown contamination back into reality was greater.
The captain turned to the priest, who sat coughing softly near the prayer altar. "Father Ron, how stable is our current position?"
Father Ron produced an intricate compass from his robes, etched with maritime symbols and religious insignia. As he flicked open its brass cover, the needle spun wildly before finally stabilizing.
"We're holding steady near the shallow layers of the spirit realm, close to reality," the priest murmured, confusion evident on his pale face. "Remarkably stable, considering the sacred wards are inactive... there's almost no drift toward the abyss."
Lawrence laughed weakly, attempting to lighten the oppressive mood. "Perhaps the Forsaken's little collision knocked us onto a safe current. I've heard of points of equilibrium here, protecting vessels from deeper pulls—"
"Captain, forgive me," the priest interjected dryly, suppressing another cough, "but that's the worst joke I've ever heard. This encounter must be reported immediately upon our return. The Forsaken's presence is unprecedented. In past decades, sightings were always dismissed as sailor superstition or hallucination, but this... we witnessed it plainly. Prepare yourself—it's unlikely you'll be allowed back at sea anytime soon."
Lawrence sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "I understand. Church authorities, city officials, the Explorer's Association... even worse, my wife—all will want detailed explanations." He waved the priest toward the door. "Rest now. We'll need divine favor until we reach port."
As the priest withdrew, the first mate returned swiftly, eyes wide with urgency.
"No one missing, Captain. And no unexpected newcomers either," the mate reported immediately. "All crew accounted for, including engineers below deck. Each recited their patron deity clearly."
"No one at all?" Lawrence asked sharply, disbelieving what should have been reassuring news. "And the sacred wards?"
"Intact," replied the first mate confidently. "The navigator is already preparing incense and oils, awaiting your command to reactivate them."
Lawrence stared blankly, disbelief turning slowly into suspicion. He muttered softly, "He really let us go?"
"Maybe luck favored us," the mate offered, shrugging slightly. "Perhaps the ghost ship merely passed through by accident."
Lawrence shot him a glare. "If luck had truly favored us, we'd never have met—"
His words were cut short by pounding footsteps. The door flew open, and the boatswain burst into the wheelhouse, his broad frame trembling, face ashen with dread.
"Captain! Anomaly 099 is gone!"
An uneasy silence filled the room. Oddly, Lawrence felt a wave of relief amidst his shock—it was unsettlingly reassuring that something was finally wrong after their encounter with the Forsaken.
Controlling his expression, he stepped quickly toward the door. "Mate, take the helm. Boatswain, show me immediately."
Their footsteps echoed urgently through the ship's narrow corridors, descending swiftly into its lowest, most secure chamber. There, a massive black-iron door loomed, etched heavily with arcane runes designed to seal whatever lay within. The symbols continued outward onto walls and floor, reinforcing a supernatural cage around the chamber.
Lawrence inspected the seals carefully—undamaged, untouched. Above, the sacred ward-chamber stood silent yet intact, its holy power a crucial backup. Yet somehow, despite dual layers of perfect protection, Anomaly 099—the Doll Coffin—had vanished.
Drawing a deep breath, Lawrence unlocked and swung open the heavy door. Bright lanterns illuminated every corner, revealing only tangled chains and scattered gray ashes. The anomalous artifact was nowhere to be seen.
The boatswain swallowed nervously. "According to protocol, lights are maintained continuously, and every two hours a sailor tightens the chains and spreads fresh bone ash. During the chaos with the Forsaken, the sailor scheduled to enter was delayed seven minutes. By the time he entered, the anomaly had vanished."
Lawrence shook his head slowly, skeptical. "Seven minutes late shouldn't have breached containment—at worst, it would have rattled its chains. These protections aren't decorative. No, the artifact leaving this ship is unrelated to that sailor's delay."
The boatswain's voice trembled slightly. "You mean…?"
"It had to be the Forsaken," Lawrence said firmly. "Captain Duncan took Anomaly 099."
He paused, exhaling a weary sigh. "Perhaps we're fortunate. The Forsaken only claims what it desires. The captain wanted the artifact—not our lives."
The boatswain stared anxiously at Lawrence, then at the empty chamber. "Captain, losing such a crucial cargo… how will we explain this to the city authorities?"
Lawrence clapped him firmly on the shoulder, forcing a reassuring smile. "The Forsaken qualifies as a natural disaster. We have maritime insurance."
"Insurance covers ghost ships?"
"If they don't, we'll have the Explorer's Association issue a bounty on the Forsaken."
"Captain, you're unusually relaxed—"
"Quiet."
A tense silence followed. Lawrence turned away, staring blankly into the empty chamber. His crew's survival was miraculous, but now he'd have to face another storm: the political backlash awaiting him in Prand City. The church, the authorities, even his wife—all would demand answers he didn't have.
Yet, as daunting as that was, Lawrence couldn't deny a deep, troubling curiosity growing inside him. The Forsaken had chosen to spare his crew, taking only Anomaly 099—an object even he knew little about, beyond its lethal supernatural properties. Why had Captain Duncan Abnomar desired it so fiercely?
He pondered the ghost captain's unreadable face, the curiosity in those spectral eyes, the silent words lost to the storm's winds. Duncan's actions suggested a mind behind the ghostly visage, motivations far beyond mere spectral hunger.
Lawrence shivered, recalling vividly the sensations he'd felt during their brush with the Forsaken—the cold flames, the vision of desolate corridors, that unsettling wooden goat head, and the profound, empty loneliness radiating from the phantom captain himself.
He shook his head slowly. The answers were beyond him now. The Forsaken had left a mark upon them all, a dark enigma seared forever into their memories. For now, his only duty was to bring his crew safely home.
With one last glance at the empty containment chamber, Captain Lawrence Creed turned resolutely away, closing the heavy door behind him.