The first days aboard the Vigil's Wake were both thrilling and harrowing for Arthur.
He scrubbed decks slick with salt and fish guts, learned the names of sails and knots, and caught the sour moods of sailors like colds. Most ignored him. A few tolerated him. Only Old Arthur, the helmsman, spoke to him more than once a day.
Arthur sat at the helm even when the ship was still, hand resting gently on the wheel, like he was listening for a whisper in the grain of the wood.
"Ever hear the sea cry, boy?" he asked one morning, clouds darkening the sky.
"Cry?" Cilian echoed, pausing in his coil of rope.
"Aye. Not a wave, not a storm. A sob. Low, like the belly of the world hurtin'. You'll know it when you hear it. Or maybe you won't. Not if it don't want you to."
Cilian didn't ask further. With Arthur, sometimes questions only pulled you deeper.
On the fifth night, the ship entered waters not found on any map.
The stars vanished behind a veil of rolling black mist. Even the moon refused to shine.
Cilian woke with a jolt. No sound. Not even the creak of wood. The ocean—silent.
He staggered up to the deck. The entire crew was gathered at the bow, staring out over a sea as still as glass. Not a ripple. No wind.
Then Cilian saw it.
Beneath the surface, a vast white shadow glided below them. It was colossal, dwarfing the ship tenfold, moving with a glacial slowness. It didn't breach. It didn't surface.
It just passed.
No eyes.
No sound.
No bubbles.
"Whale," someone muttered.
Old Arthur dropped to his knees, head bowed low. "She's stirred… the Leviathan dreams again."
Captain Halgrave stood motionless, his face unreadable.
The creature vanished into the dark, and suddenly—waves returned, air rushed back into lungs, and the ship rocked violently as if breaking from a spell.
The helmsman whispered: "We've entered the maw."
Later that night, Cilian crept below deck, heart still hammering.
He found a door half-open—a room filled with charts, bones, and a worn leather log. He hesitated, then opened it. The entries were in Halgrave's hand, scrawled and furious.
"Saw it again today. Not a whale. Not a beast. A wound. It bleeds cold into the sea. It calls. I told them it's a monster. But I think now… it's a mirror."
"Arthur heard the crying again. Told me we're on borrowed tides."
"It's not a question of if we find it. The question is: how many times have we already?"
Cilian slammed the book shut, breath shaking.
Back on deck, Arthur was laughing softly, eyes closed.
"Funny thing, boy," he said without turning, "you're already part of it. You stepped into the story the moment you touched the wood."
Cilian didn't ask what that meant.
But he knew.
Somewhere below them, the white thing waited—not hunted, but haunting. And the sea, it seemed, was on its side.