Black Hollow Port reeked of salt, sweat, and secrets.
Caelan stepped off the muddy road and onto the weather-worn planks of the dockfront with Brann and Alric flanking him. His eyes darted to every creaking sail and cloaked figure, to the rusted fishhooks hanging from beams, to the seagulls screaming overhead like they were warning the dead not to come back.
The harbor stretched wide like a hungry mouth — dozens of ships swaying with the tide, some flying no flags, others bearing the broken banners of merchant clans long gone under. Sailors barked in half a dozen dialects. Knives glinted openly on belts. A beggar with no legs shuffled past on hands, muttering prayers to a god with too many teeth.
Alric opened his arms wide like a preacher before a den of thieves. "Ah, home!"
"You call this place home?" Caelan asked, frowning.
"Only the kind worth having," Alric replied, grin sharp.
Brann's eyes scanned the port. "You sure your smuggler friend's still alive?"
"She was last week." Alric turned to them. "We'll find her at The Drowned Antler — tavern near the east pier. Try not to look like fugitives. Or rich. Or soft."
Caelan looked down at his patched cloak and stained boots. "Think I'm safe."
They made their way through the cluttered port streets, stepping over crates, ducking past hawkers selling sea-snakes and dried krill, until the sign of The Drowned Antler swung into view — a twisted plank of wood with two cracked antlers nailed crookedly to it.
Inside, the tavern was dark, humid, and roaring with noise.
Barrels were used as tables, lanterns swung from chains, and sailors drank like they were trying to forget which sea they'd just crossed. In the corner sat a woman with a long coat, boots soaked in saltwater, and eyes like cut stone — sharp, calm, and unbothered.
Velra.
She watched them approach with the patience of a serpent sunbathing on stone.
"Alric," she said. "Didn't think I'd see your smiling corpse again."
"Still breathing," Alric replied, bowing slightly. "And I've brought company."
Her eyes moved to Brann. A flicker of recognition passed between them, though neither acknowledged it aloud.
Then to Caelan. "You don't look like trouble."
Caelan shrugged. "Looks deceive."
She smirked. "Good. I've got a space in my hold that doesn't ask questions, and it's safer that way."
Brann leaned in. "When do you leave?"
Velra reached behind her, tossed a ring of keys on the table. "Tide's high in the morning. If you're not on board by then, I won't wait."
"You trust her?" Caelan asked once they stepped out of earshot.
Brann said nothing for a long moment, then: "I trust her to get us there. And I trust her to sell us out the moment we stop being useful."
Caelan tightened the grip on his cloak. "Comforting."
That night, they slept in a loft above the tavern. The sea whispered outside like an old ghost. Caelan sat awake for some time, watching the necklace Tammer had given him sway gently against the rafters.
Far off, beneath the waves and quiet stars, ships waited.
And so did whatever waited beyond the sea.
The tide rolled in at dawn, cloaking Black Hollow Port in a mist that tasted of iron and brine.
Velra's ship — The Hollow Maiden — groaned as it rocked against the ropes, its blackened sails like old wings stretched in slumber. Crew members moved like shadows, loading barrels and crates with quiet efficiency. No names were called, no orders barked. Everything was done in near silence, as if the ship itself demanded respect.
Brann, Caelan, and Alric arrived just as the last of the sun broke through the fog. Velra stood at the gangplank, chewing on a root and glaring at the horizon.
"Board," she said simply, not even looking at them.
Caelan stepped onto the deck and felt the wood flex beneath his boots. A strange dread filled him, like he'd crossed some unseen threshold — not into danger, but into something far older and deeper.
Below deck, the crew offered little in way of welcome. They were rough, tattooed men and women with eyes like cloudy mirrors. Velra led them to a small storage cabin converted into a crude sleeping space — straw mats, a barrel for water, a single lamp swinging from the beam.
"You don't leave this deck unless I say so," she warned. "Stay out of sight. We'll be passing ships that ask too many questions."
Brann nodded. "Understood."
As the ship pulled away from the docks, Caelan leaned over the railing to watch the port fade. The sea swallowed the coastline with steady hunger. Alric, nearby, lit a pipe and muttered, "Farewell to the last solid ground. Hope you didn't forget how to swim."
The first day passed quietly. Too quietly.
That night, as Caelan tried to sleep, the waves began to roar louder. Not crashing — whispering. He awoke suddenly, drenched in sweat, with the smell of rotting corpses in his nose and seawater in his mouth.
He sat up. The necklace Tammer had given him was warm against his chest.
He could still hear it… faint voices, echoing from below. Dead voices.
Then — silence.
The next morning, as the sun clawed its way through bruised clouds, a crewman climbed into the lookout's perch and immediately shouted, "Sails ahead!"
Velra was on deck in seconds. "Merchant or teeth?"
The man squinted. "Not flying colors… but fast."
Brann moved beside her. "Pirates?"
Velra scowled. "Or worse."
She turned to the helmsman. "Cut south into the fogbank. If it's what I think, we'll lose them in the mist."
The ship veered sharply. The fog was thick, too thick. Caelan couldn't see ten paces ahead.
Then something scraped against the hull.
A low, wet screech — like claws on bone.
Everyone froze.
Velra whispered, "Gods below…"
Caelan turned just in time to see a shape vanish into the mist — too large, too smooth, too wrong.
Not a ship.
Something watching.
And just like that… it was gone.
No pursuit. No sound. Nothing but the sea.
Later, as the crew worked in tense silence, Brann muttered to Caelan, "The ocean doesn't like secrets. And we've got too many between us."
Caelan stared out into the gray mist. "Then it's going to hate us."
Three days at sea.
The waves were calmer now, but the crew was not. Silence had worn thin. Too many shared meals, too few places to be alone. Suspicion had begun to creep through the ship's bones like rot.
Brann leaned over the railing, sharpening his knife with slow, methodical strokes. The sea wind tugged at his coat, and he looked tired — more than tired. Hollowed.
Behind him, a voice spat: "Coward's got nothing better to polish but steel he never uses."
The voice belonged to a lanky sailor with one eye and a mouth full of bad teeth. His name was Jorrik, and he'd been watching Brann since they left port.
Brann didn't move at first. Then he sheathed the blade, turned slowly. "Say that again."
Jorrik smirked. "You heard me. Crew saw the bounty. Big gold for you and the boy. Word is, you ran from something big. Left others to take the fall."
Brann stepped forward. "You looking to collect?"
"Just looking to clean this ship of cowards."
The punch came fast. Brann's fist cracked across Jorrik's jaw and sent him stumbling into the mast.
The crew roared — not with alarm, but with excitement. A brawl at sea was a break from monotony.
Jorrik tackled Brann, and the two men crashed into the railing. Wood creaked under their weight. Fists flew, blood splattered.
Caelan rushed in. "Stop! This is madness!"
He grabbed Brann's arm just as Jorrik swung wide — a fist meant for Brann smashed into Caelan's temple.
The world twisted sideways.
Caelan saw a light which then turned into a scene.
It was raining.
He was small — a boy no older than ten, hiding beneath a stone bridge. His hands were scraped. His tunic torn. In the distance, a group of older boys laughed and shouted.
"You're not one of us," one had said earlier. "You don't even know who your father is."
He remembered swinging back. He remembered falling. And most of all, he remembered a tall man pulling him up from the mud, cloaked in a deep green mantle. The man's face was hidden, but his voice was calm.
"You've got fire, boy. That's dangerous if you don't learn to control it."
The man knelt. Placed something in his hand — a token, smooth and cold. A crest carved into it.
A lion.
"You'll know when it's time."
"Caelan!"
He jolted awake, gasping. Brann crouched over him, lip split, knuckles raw. The brawl had ended — Jorrik was bleeding but breathing, being dragged below by two grumbling crewmates.
"You alright?" Brann asked.
Caelan touched his head. "I… think I remembered something."
Brann's brow lifted.
"I was a child. There was a man… gave me something. A crest." Caelan frowned. "I think he knew me."
Brann helped him sit up. "That's more than you had yesterday."
Velra stood nearby, arms crossed. "Next one who throws a punch gets tossed to the deep." She glared at Brann. "That includes you."
Brann didn't argue.
As the crew dispersed and the sea returned to its endless rhythm, Caelan looked down at his hand.
He could still feel the shape of that crest in his palm.
And somehow, he knew it mattered.
The wind shifted on the fifth night.
It wasn't stronger — just wrong. It carried a stink that no one could name. Salt, yes… but also something else. Foul. Ancient. Like blood left to rot in old stone.
Caelan stood at the bow alone, watching the dark waves churn beneath the moonlight. The stars were gone, swallowed behind a low ceiling of clouds. Behind him, the ship creaked like a beast in pain.
He heard it first — a low groan.
Then a scream.
Caelan ran to the source, feet thudding across wet wood.
Down below, lanterns flickered and shouted voices bounced off the hull. Brann was already there, forcing open the cargo hatch. Velra was with him, blade drawn.
They descended into the hold, where the scent was strongest — like something had died and never stopped dying.
The first body was hanging from the rafters, face blue, eyes wide. No rope, no wounds. Just... dead.
Another crewman was on the ground, convulsing, his lips moving but no sound escaping. Blood leaked from his nose and ears. He stopped moving before Caelan could take another step.
"What is this?" Caelan breathed.
Velra knelt, touched the dead man's chest. "No wounds. But fear… he died of fear."
Something scraped against the hull.
Not outside. From within.
They turned.
A third crewman — a young woman named Sari — stood trembling, back to a supply barrel. "It's still down here," she whispered. "It took Borrik. Pulled him into the dark."
Brann held up his lantern, casting light over the narrow passage between the stacked crates. Shadows twisted unnaturally.
Then something moved.
Fast. Low to the ground.
Claws, long and bone-white, clicked over the boards.
Velra swore. "Up. All of you — up!"
They scrambled back up the stairs. Something brushed Caelan's ankle as he climbed, and a cold shot ran through his whole body. Brann grabbed his arm and hauled him out as the hatch slammed shut.
Velra dropped a rusted iron bar across it.
The crew gathered on deck, breathless, weapons drawn. Velra stared down into the hold, eyes unblinking.
"What was that?" Caelan asked.
Brann didn't answer. But Velra did.
"There are things in the deep," she muttered. "Some stow aboard like rats. Others… come through with the mist. And some... were already inside the wood when the ship was built."
They posted guards for the night. No one slept.
The next morning, they opened the hatch.
Nothing.
No blood. No bodies. Just empty space and the smell of old salt.
The corpses were gone.
Brann looked at Caelan as the sun broke over the sea. "Whatever you are, boy… whatever followed you out of that pit… We need to get rid of it."
The ship creaked into harbor beneath a blood-red dawn.
Tall stone cliffs framed the bay like crooked teeth, and beyond them stretched the old port city of Viremont — a place of narrow alleys, high spires, and bells that never rang for the dead. Salt hung heavy in the streets, and every building leaned as if trying to whisper secrets into the next.
As The Hollow Maiden was moored and the crew scattered into the waking city, Brann didn't linger on the dock. His eyes scanned the skyline for something old. Something sacred.
"We're finding a priest," he said firmly.
Caelan blinked. "A priest?"
Brann gave a grim nod. "Whatever crawled aboard that ship wasn't meant to be seen by men. I dragged you out of that pit half-dead. I thought maybe something just took a bite out of you, but now I'm not so sure if something stayed with you. Or me."
Caelan looked away. He hadn't told Brann about the dreams getting worse again. The necklace helped… but lately, the voices had grown bolder, colder.
Alric approached, brushing dust from his coat. "While you chase ghosts, I've business to tend. Meet me tonight at The Sable Tankard. Quiet place near the edge of the South Quarter. Tell no one."
Brann frowned. "You trust the owner?"
"Trust is expensive," Alric said. "But I've bought enough of it for one night."
They parted ways. Alric disappeared into the crowded streets, and Brann led Caelan uphill, past shrines and incense stalls. At the crest of the hill stood a stone chapel, blackened by age but still standing. A crooked iron symbol hung above the door — The Warded Sun, the sign of old faith.
Brann exhaled. "Let's hope someone still listens in there."
They entered to the scent of myrrh and mold.
The priest was already watching them from the shadows — a pale, hunched man with fingers like twigs and eyes too sharp for his years. His robes were moth-eaten, but his voice was clear.
"You bring darkness with you," he said.
Brann stepped forward. "We want a cleansing. Him, maybe me. We're not sure what's followed us."
The priest stared at Caelan, then whispered something under his breath — not a prayer, but a warning. "Not everything can be driven out. Some shadows nest in the soul like vines. They drink your memory. Your breath. Your face. Sometimes they are what remain."
Caelan shivered.
The priest moved to a side room. "I will prepare the rite. But if what clings to you is older than words… it may not go quietly."
Brann nodded. "Nothing in our lives ever has."
As the priest disappeared behind a curtain, Caelan sat on a stone bench near the wall. Stained glass flickered with light — scenes of saints and beasts. He looked at his hanQads and realized they were shaking.
Was something in him?
Or was something missing?
He wasn't sure which scared him more.