The night swallowed the Vigil's Wake whole. No moon, no stars—only an ink-black sky pressing down. Even the sea, ever restless, lay unnaturally still, as though holding its breath.
Cilian shivered, though the air felt suffocatingly warm. Lanterns swung from rigging, casting half-light that trembled with each soft creak of the ship. Below decks, the crew huddled in whispers, haunted by nightmares they'd only half-remembered upon waking.
At the helm, Old Arthur sat in perfect stillness, one good eye closed, the white orb unblinking. Cilian approached quietly.
"What do you hear?" he asked.
Wren's lips curved into a ghost of a smile. "A lullaby," he murmured. "Low, like stones tumbling in a deep well. It hums of things long buried."
Cilian gripped the rail. "Is… is it guiding us?"
Arthur shrugged. "Or warning us. Hard to tell when the sea sings the same tune for both."
They entered a stretch of water as black as obsidian. The ship's keel scraped something—an old reef or perhaps the bones of some forgotten leviathan. Captain Halgrave stood on the quarterdeck, peering into the abyss.
"Sound the lead," he ordered. The depth line fell silently. No splash, no measured clink—just a soft, distant echo that seemed to come from the very center of the world.
Below, Cilian felt the deck shudder, as though something vast slid beneath them. He nearly dropped his lamp. The lantern's light wavered, then died, plunging him into darkness.
A hush fell. Hearts pulsed loudly in chests.
Then a distant rumble, like thunder muted by miles of water.
The deck lurched upward. A wall of water, gleaming white in the lanterns' glow, rose silently on their starboard side, ten, twenty, thirty feet tall—and then it paused. Frozen.
Captain Halgrave barked, "Stand fast!"
The water held—no crash, no roar. Like an unseen hand had stilled it. Cilian stared, mesmerized, as the surface rippled inward, forming an oval window into the depths. He saw them then: dozens of pale, ridged backs, trailing away into abyssal darkness.
No eyes. No flukes. Just endless, glacial curves.
A voice behind him whispered, "They circle us."
Cilian turned to see Reyes's empty hammock swaying. He swallowed hard.
Wren's calm voice broke the silence: "We've crossed the Leviathan's threshold. There is no turning back."
After what felt like hours, the water released them. The wall collapsed, flowing back into nothingness. Lantern light returned. The ship groaned as if waking from a dream.
On deck, the crew was pale, trembling. Cilian's knees felt weak. Captain Halgrave's face was grim.
"We press on," he said. "At dawn, we'll surface for course. Until then, rest… if sleep still dares visit you."
Arthur guided Cilian back to his hammock. "Remember," he said quietly, "the sea does not forgive curiosity. But sometimes, it rewards the brave."
Cilian lay awake, listening to the soft thump of the hull against gentle swells. In the darkness, he thought he heard a distant hum—stones tumbling in the deep.
And beneath him, the ocean churned with secrets.