72

  The port of Paragua was still half-asleep when the ship began to move.

  The sun had barely risen, only a faint band of orange brushing the edge of the sea as ropes were pulled free and the sails of the St. Editha unfurled with a slow, tired sigh.

  She was not a graceful ship, but a stubborn one.

  Two masts—fore and main—rose like spears into the pale sky. Her hull was painted a weary green, scarred with old journeys. At the front, an extended bowsprit cut into the mist, an eagle’s head carved into the timber, its blue wooden eyes staring into the horizon. The sails bore the sigil of talons outstretched, as if clutching the wind itself.

  Below deck, the air was colder—and heavier.

  In the captain’s chamber, Barang lay wrapped in blackened cloths. His condition had worsened. The skin of his feet had turned completely black, the flesh looking as though something was eating him from the inside. Cracks glowed faintly through his gray, hardened skin. His breath was shallow. Wet.

  No one lingered there longer than needed.

  Not because of smell.

  Not because of fear.

  But because of the memories tied to him.

  Below that, in the orlop deck, Baldirion had hidden Kael’s body among the food supplies.

  Kael remained as he had been found—fully intact, pale, cold, untouched by rot. His face looked like someone paused in breath, frozen between moments. His blood had not blackened. His body had not cracked.

  He looked… asleep.

  Then there were the crews’ roles.

  Therson stood as Captain.

  Baldirion served as Vice-Captain.

  Lucille and Lyra worked as cooks.

  Hop and Jinn took turns at the mast.

  Lionel and Terry adjusted the sails.

  Barry remained at navigation.

  The Guardian moved like a shadow—both overseer and curse-ward, never far from Barang’s door.

  The ship turned westward.

  Toward the Dark Cloud Passage.

  No one said the name aloud.

  The first half-day passed quietly.

  Too quietly.

  The sea flowed in gentle rolls, currents calm, waves barely cresting three feet. The wind was cold, but steady, sliding along the sails like careful fingers. The wooden deck creaked softly. The ropes answered with tired groans. Salt hung heavy in the air.

  Lunch passed above deck.

  Metal bowls.

  Dry meat.

  Warm broth.

  Everyone ate.

  Except Therson.

  Except Jinn.

  Jinn stood at the mast, his eye pressed to the telescope. From time to time, Therson’s voice carried upward:

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  “Check the rear.”

  Hop was not there.

  Jinn adjusted the lens.

  He saw three shadows far to the northeast.

  “Birds…” he muttered.

  He adjusted again.

  They grew bigger.

  The shape felt wrong.

  His skin crawled.

  He pulled back—then looked again.

  “They’re not birds,” he whispered.

  And then he saw three more shapes to the northwest.

  His hands trembled.

  He rang the bell.

  The sound tore through the sky.

  CLANG—CLANG—CLANG!

  “BEASTS!” Jinn shouted. “Beasts incoming!”

  The crew spilled onto the main deck.

  Terry came last, still chewing a chicken leg.

  The Guardian stepped out of the captain’s room, closed the door behind him, and stood before it like a living gate.

  The first beast descended onto the mast where Jinn stood.

  Jinn threw himself from the rails.

  He slid down the rope, hands burning, boots scraping, and landed hard against the railing.

  The creature unfolded itself.

  It had the skeleton of a humanoid—but longer legs, bent backward unnaturally. Its feet ended in two-fingered claws. Its arms were wings. Its head had a ridge of spines flowing backward, skin a pale, gray-white.

  Its teeth were jagged.

  Its saliva fell in threads.

  Its tail was longer than its body.

  Two more descended onto the forecastle deck.

  The beasts tilted their heads, watching.

  Judging.

  The one from the mast dived.

  Everyone scattered.

  Terry panicked and threw the chicken leg straight into its face.

  For a second, the beast froze.

  Head tilted.

  Then it lunged for Terry.

  The world narrowed.

  Claws scraping wood.

  Rot in its breath.

  Its jaws opening, so close he could see pieces of old flesh caught between its teeth.

  Terry grabbed it by the shoulder with both hands, boots sliding.

  His back hit the railing.

  Cold sea behind him.

  Its mouth came closer.

  Closer.

  “Not… today…” he growled.

  Another beast moved.

  It found Lucille and Lyra near the middle stairs.

  They backed into the berth.

  Lucille raised her owl-headed staff.

  She whispered.

  A circle of light formed in the air.

  A crack split through the deck.

  Something rose.

  A summoned beast.

  It had the head of a bull with massive curved horns, a muscular black body traced with glowing markings. Hands ended in elongated nails. Hooves struck the wood with weight.

  The flying beast hovered inches from Lucille.

  The summoned beast punched upward.

  The flying beast slammed through the main deck, breaking wood as it vanished above.

  The summoned beast leapt up through the hole, seized the creature by the neck, and crushed.

  Silence. A snap.

  It threw the body into the sea.

  Another beast grabbed Lionel by the shoulder.

  Claws pierced deep.

  Blood spilled.

  It lifted him off the deck.

  Barry aimed.

  Lightning arrows flew.

  Three shots.

  The beast evaded them all.

  It began to flee.

  Then stopped.

  Above the waves, Baldirion floated.

  His eyes glowed.

  He spoke one word.

  Two spiraling walls of water rose from the sea and crushed the beast midair.

  Lionel fell into the water.

  Without hesitation, Baldirion dropped from the sky and caught him.

  Hop had already joined Terry.

  She cut the beast’s back with her daggers.

  The creature turned.

  She ran to the forecastle.

  But Terry grabbed its tail.

  Dragged it.

  Smashed it against the deck.

  The ground broke.

  The beast fell to the lower deck.

  It tried to rise.

  Terry launched himself midair and smashed it again.

  It went still.

  Then—

  Three more beasts descended.

  One at the edge.

  One at the mast.

  One near Hop.

  Lucille’s summoned beast charged.

  It grabbed the flying beast’s feet.

  The creature kicked wildly, slashing open the summoned beast’s face.

  It flew backward.

  Regained air.

  Aimed to bite.

  But Hop cut its wings.

  The summoned beast pierced its heart.

  The last two attempted escape.

  But something rose from the sea.

  Vast.

  Unknown.

  Teeth.

  And swallowed them whole.

  “FLANK LEFT!” Therson shouted.

  The ship turned.

  Massive waves slammed the hull.

  The deck creaked like it would snap.

  The wind howled.

  The salt burned their eyes.

  Cold bit their skin.

  The ship smelled of wet wood, blood, and salt.

  Baldirion descended back onto the deck with Lionel in his arms.

  Above them, the sky had darkened.

  Not by storm.

  Not yet.

  But enough to remind everyone what waited ahead.

  No one spoke.

  But every eye drifted, for a breath too long, toward the captain’s door.

  Where their Lord lay.

  And whatever he was becoming.