The fog thickened as the Wraithwind crawled through the waters like a ghost reluctant to reach the land of the dead. Even the creaking of her hull had grown softer, like the ship feared drawing attention.
Gravesend lay just beyond the haze—a forgotten island rumored to be cursed, swallowed by storm and time. Its jagged silhouette teased the edge of visibility like the bones of a sleeping leviathan.
But long before they could glimpse its shores, something else found them.
It began with a scream.
Darion jolted awake in his cabin, heart pounding, hand on the hilt of his sword. The scream hadn't been distant. It was on the ship.
He burst into the corridor, the wood damp with morning dew—or perhaps sweat. Seraphina was already there, twin daggers drawn.
"Which direction?" she hissed.
"The lower hold," said Kellen, storming past them with a lantern. "Sounded like Redjaw."
Darion and Seraphina followed, boots thudding against the boards as the ship moaned beneath them. The rest of the crew trickled out—Marek with his war axe, Old Helm mumbling prayers, Leech clutching a bloody rag.
They reached the hatch to the lower hold.
The door was ajar.
And there was blood.
Not just a smear or a splash—a trail, winding down the steps like a crimson snake, soaking into the grain.
"Light it," Darion whispered.
Kellen tossed his lantern down the steps.
Flames flickered, casting sickly shadows.
Then the smell hit them.
Rot. Copper. Salt. And something else—wrongness. The scent of something dead pretending to be alive.
Darion descended first, fire trailing down his arm as his mark lit with a subtle pulse. The others followed cautiously.
The hold was chaos.
Barrels had been smashed. Crates torn open. The chains to the anchor pulsed as though recently disturbed.
And at the far end, they found Redjaw's coat—torn, soaked in blood, lying beside a wall scratched with strange markings.
Darion picked up the coat and stared at the wall. The symbols were old. Not painted—etched. Deeply.
Crow arrived, dragging his cane behind him. His eyes narrowed when he saw the wall.
"These weren't here before," he said.
"You're sure?" Darion asked.
Crow touched the wall. "Positive. These are runes from the Abyssal tongue. Ancient. A kind of summoning. A beacon."
"A beacon for what?" Seraphina whispered.
The air shifted.
From behind a pile of crates came the sound of something wet breathing.
They turned.
From the shadows, something moved. Crawled.
It was Redjaw.
Or… what had been her.
Her body twitched unnaturally. Her eyes were empty pools of black, her jaw hung loose, and her arms bent the wrong way. From her back, thin black veins pulsed like roots, snaking into the floorboards.
She stood—or rather, was lifted by unseen strings.
And then she spoke.
But the voice wasn't hers.
"The Abyss remembers, Fire-Bearer."
Darion's blood ran cold.
"Who are you?"
"One who waits. One who sees. The chain is breaking."
Seraphina stepped forward. "She's gone. Whatever's inside her… it's not her."
Redjaw convulsed, and lunged.
Darion moved in a blur, his blade igniting. He clashed against her twisted limbs as she screamed—not in her voice, but in a chorus of whispers.
The crew stood frozen. Kellen finally stepped in, dragging Marek back, shouting for the others to retreat.
Seraphina flanked Darion, slashing at the creature's sides. But the blows barely slowed it.
Darion felt the heat inside him surge.
He called it forth, roaring as the fire burst from his blade in a sweeping arc. It slammed into Redjaw's body, igniting her unnatural veins. She screamed—this time in agony—and then collapsed, smoking and still.
Silence returned.
Only the ship groaned.
Darion knelt beside what remained.
Just bones now. Charred. Ash.
"She was turned," he whispered.
Crow approached the runes. "It's a message. Or maybe a warning. The closer we get to Gravesend, the thinner the veil becomes. These old places—places soaked in Abyss magic—they don't follow our rules."
"What does it mean," Seraphina asked, "that it spoke through her?"
Crow's face darkened. "It means something below Gravesend is awake."
That night, no one slept.
Darion stood on the deck, wind cutting cold across his face. He turned the compass in his hand. It pulsed steadily now, pointing straight ahead into the mist.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Seraphina.
"Can't sleep?"
He shook his head. "It's like… I can hear the sea thinking. Like it's watching."
She stood beside him, arms crossed. "We've both seen things people wouldn't believe. But this? This is something else."
Darion looked at her. "When this is over—if we survive—what'll you do?"
She smiled faintly. "I might buy a little tavern in a quiet port. One with no cursed compasses, no dead girls, no flaming swords."
"Sounds peaceful."
She looked at him. "What about you?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've spent so long running. From the Crimson Guard, from my past, from myself. Maybe… I want to stop running."
She didn't reply.
Instead, she stepped closer. Their shoulders touched.
It was quiet for a moment. Then—
"Ship to starboard!" Marek bellowed from the crow's nest.
They snapped around.
Through the mist came the shape of another vessel.
Silent.
Larger.
Its sails were torn and fluttered in wind that shouldn't be there. Its deck was unmanned. No lanterns. No flags.
But it was sailing toward them.
And on its bow, painted in black oil, was a symbol Darion had seen only once before.
The mark from the wreck. From the voice.
And it was glowing.