With the storm howling around them, the crew readied the longboat. Cilian and Arthur joined Halgrave at the gangway. Thunder rolled, and in its echo Cilian heard a distant chorus—lamentations rising from the deep.
As they rowed toward the white shape, the sea flattened into glass between waves, reflections of lightning dancing beneath the hull. Cilian's muscles burned with each stroke, but he steeled himself—this was the moment he'd enlisted for, the climax of legend.
They drew alongside the leviathan's flank. Halgrave knelt and jammed a harpoon into its side. The impact rang through Cilian's bones like a funeral bell.
The creature shuddered. In that instant, a face formed in the rippling flesh—eyes of ice and sorrow gazing at them. The boat lifted as though caught in a giant hand, tilting to throw them into the sea.
But Cilian held fast. He saw Halgrave plunge another harpoon, Arthur chant words from some old sailor's prayer. The tide stilled. The storm paused. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then, with a roar that wasn't heard, the leviathan unleashed a wave of energy—a pulse that rattled minds and bent reality. Cilian felt his memories unravel and reweave: childhood laughter, first heartbreak, acts of kindness, moments of cowardice.
And in that maelstrom, he saw Halgrave's face warp into his own. The captain's mouth opened, forming words that were Cilian's voice:
"We've hunted ourselves."