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Chapter 3 - The First Madness

The dawn broke in bruised purples and sickly golds, as if the sky itself were wounded. Below deck, Cilian bolted upright in his hammock, sweat plastering his shirt to his back. The scent of salt and damp wood was overlaid with something sharper—fear.

He stumbled to the companionway and climbed onto the deck. The Vigil's Wake pitched and rolled under an angry swell, though the horizon remained an unbroken wall of black mist. A mad hush had fallen over the crew.

Corporal Reyes, a broad-shouldered sailor with a scar across his cheek, knelt at the rail, staring into the depths. Every few seconds he'd mutter, "It's calling… it's calling…" as though in a trance.

"Reyes?" Cilian whispered, stepping closer. The man's eyes were wild, unfocused. When he turned to Cilian, he looked sixty years older. "Boy," he rasped, "the sea shows your sins in the wakes… and then laughs."

Cilian's stomach roiled. He backed away, nearly tripping over a coil of rope. At that moment, Old Arthur padded up behind him, hand on his shoulder. "First touch of the madness," Wren said. "Don't fight it. Let it hum through you."

"But—"

Arthur cut him off. "It's how the Leviathan finds you. If you cling, it claws your mind apart."

Cilian swallowed, knuckles white. He looked over the rail into the glassy blue and saw—not the hull's reflection—but his own face staring back at him. Only it wasn't his face. It was older, unkempt, eyes red-rimmed, lips twisted in a grin. The apparition faded, and he realized his heart was hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears.

A chill wind roared down the deck, ripping away the mist and revealing the calm sea. In the distance, a swell rose impossibly tall, as if the ocean itself were breathing. Then he saw it: a dozen spouts of white mist, like geysers, arching into the sky in perfect unison.

Crewmen screamed, clutching ropes and each other. Halgrave appeared at the rail, face ashen. He raised his hand, and the deck fell silent.

"It's no longer enough to flee," the captain said, voice low. "Whatever abyss we chase, it chases us back."

He turned to Cilian. "You've read my journal, boy. Now you know. Bear that knowledge lightly, or it will shatter you."

Before Cilian could answer, Reyes howled and threw himself overboard. He landed with a single splash—and then the sea surged, as though a hand reached up from below to pull him under.

A tether of foam coiled around the fallen man's ankle. He kicked and thrashed, but the foam tightened like a noose—and then, just as suddenly, slackened. His scream cut off as he disappeared beneath the waves. The sea stilled again, smooth as glass.

Cilian stared at the spot. No bubble. No ripple. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Old Arthur placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "Welcome to the edge, lad. Now you see why the crew fears the night waters."

Cilian nodded, voice shaky. "What do we do now?"

Wren closed his eyes and listened to the waves. "We steer forward. Always forward. And pray our souls hold together long enough to see the dawn."

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