The hold felt heavier after the failed rebellion. The air was thick with despair, the captives too weak and battered to even whisper to one another. The boy sat in his usual corner, watching as the fisherman coughed quietly, his thin frame shaking with the effort. The old man had grown quieter over the past days, his strength dwindling, but his presence still anchored the boy in some small way.
Sigvard had not returned since his outburst, but his absence only added to the tension. Every creak of the ship, every muffled shout from above sent waves of anxiety through the hold. They all knew he would come back.
The boy stared at the faint beams of light filtering through the slits in the ship's hull. His eyes were mirrors, reflecting the dim glow, unyielding, cold. He felt no fear, only a gnawing anticipation.
When he finally returned, his presence was as suffocating as the stench in the hold. He descended the steps with his usual swagger, his whip coiled at his side, and a cruel smile playing on his lips.
Sigvard surveyed the captives with a sneer, his gaze sweeping over their slumped forms. "Well," he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. "Still breathing, are we? What a resilient little lot."
The boy didn't flinch as the guard's boots thudded closer, though he tracked every movement with sharp, unblinking eyes. He stopped near a man who had been beaten unconscious during the rebellion. The man's gaunt frame was sprawled awkwardly against the wall, his breath shallow and uneven.
Sigvard crouched beside him, gripping his chin roughly and turning his head from side to side. "Still clinging on, I see," he muttered. Then, with sudden violence, he released the man's head, letting it thud against the wall.
The captives winced at the sound, but no one moved. The air felt frozen, every breath shallow and stifled.
"Pathetic," he spat. He turned his attention to the fisherman, his smile twisting into something crueler. "And what about you, old man? Still wasting my air?"
The fisherman didn't look up, his trembling hands resting in his lap. His thin shoulders sagged, and his cough rattled faintly in his chest. Sigvard sneered and swung the coiled whip lazily, letting it graze the floorboards with a low hiss.
"You'll die soon enough," he said, his tone light and mocking. "Save me the trouble."
The boy's knuckles tightened against his knees, the chain between his wrists rattling faintly. The guard's gaze snapped to him, his cruel grin widening.
"And you," he said, stepping closer. "The quiet one. Still planning to play statue, are we?"
The boy's icy blue eyes met his, steady and unyielding. Sigvard's grin faltered for the briefest moment, but he masked it quickly with a sneer. "Keep staring like that," he said. "It won't save you when the whip finds you."
He took a step back, his presence leaving a void in its wake. He glanced over the hold one last time, his sneer deepening. "You should all pray the storm drowns you," he said, chuckling darkly. "It'll be kinder than I'll be."
With that, he ascended the stairs, his heavy boots thudding against the wood. The sound echoed long after he was gone.
The storm began that evening, its first whispers low and rumbling like a distant drum. By nightfall, it had grown into a roar. The ship groaned under the weight of the rising waves, its timbers shuddering with every impact. Wind howled through the cracks in the hull, carrying bursts of freezing rain that dripped onto the captives below.
Water pooled at their ankles, dark and cold. The captives shifted uneasily, the growing tension in the hold as palpable as the storm outside. The boy sat apart, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up loosely. He tilted his head, listening to the chaos above—the frantic shouts of the crew, the snap of ropes torn loose by the gale. Every sound painted a picture of the storm's power. Every moment confirmed what he already knew: chaos was coming.
"It's a bad one," the fisherman rasped, his voice thin and strained. He leaned against the wall, shivering uncontrollably. His frail body seemed to fold into itself, the fight in him fading with every breath. "This kind… it doesn't just pass. It takes what it wants."
The boy didn't reply. He didn't need to. His sharp gaze flicked to the top of the stairs, where faint light leaked through the hatch. The storm was a gift. In its chaos, order would break, leaving cracks in the walls of their prison.
"Could capsize us," the fisherman added, coughing into his hand. His voice was a fragile thing, barely audible over the wind. "Storm like this doesn't care who it takes."
The boy nodded slightly, his eyes distant. The fisherman coughed again, a wet, rattling sound that seemed to take more from him than it gave. "You've got a plan, don't you?" he murmured.
The boy said nothing, but the flicker of acknowledgment in his expression made the fisherman chuckle softly—a sound more air than mirth. "Figured as much. Just… don't let them see you coming."
The next day, the guard's routine changed. Sigvard brought down a second overseer with him—a younger leaner man, his face a patchwork of sun-darkened skin and deep lines etched by wind and salt. His teeth, stained the color of old ivory, betrayed years of chewing barkroot and harder fare. It was the first sign that the rebellion, though crushed, had left its mark. The captives had shown defiance, and even if they had failed, the memory lingered like a wound that refused to close.
Sigvard had gone above to gather reinforcements after the rebellion. Though he mocked the captives as weak and broken, he couldn't ignore the spark he had seen in their eyes during the uprising. Fear, yes—but also fury. These were men and women with nothing to lose, and that made them dangerous. A second guard would ensure that no spark could turn into a flame.
The younger man had been chosen for his ruthlessness; he and Sigvard were cut from the same cloth. His presence was meant to restore the balance of power, to remind the captives of their place. Together, the two of them moved through the hold, distributing food and water with calculated malice. They spilled water onto the floor, forcing captives to lap it up like animals. They laughed as their boots smeared gruel into the filthy planks, turning every meager offering into a humiliation.
The boy observed in silence. The addition of a second guard complicated things. It meant more eyes watching, more hands ready to strike. But it also meant the guards were beginning to feel pressure. Perhaps the rebellion, though crushed, had unsettled them.
The guards didn't see him as a threat. Not yet.
The boy knew that would change.
As they left the hold, Sigvard glanced back, his eyes locking onto the boy's for a brief moment. The unsettling intensity of those icy blue eyes still lingered, their unyielding stare cutting through him with a sharpness that made his skin crawl, though he would never admit it aloud.
He scoffed and climbed the stairs, but the image stayed with him."
A towering wave struck the ship with relentless force, causing it to lurch violently to one side. The sudden tilt sent the captives sprawling, colliding with one another as the hull groaned under the strain of the impact. Cries of terror filled the air, mixing with the frantic creak of the hull and the relentless roar of the wind. Rain poured through the cracks above, the cold slithered through the ship's bones, curling into every crevice and knot, a silent predator that left frostbitten whispers on the edges of breath and thought.
The boy remained still, his gaze fixed on the rising water. The storm was a force of nature, indifferent to suffering and chaos. But to him, it was an opportunity.
Some captives began to pray, their voices trembling and desperate. Others clung to each other, their whispers turning to cries as the water rose past their shins. A scuffle broke out near the back of the hold as two men fought over a piece of broken wood, their panic spilling over into violence. The boy ignored it all. His mind was elsewhere, his focus sharp and unyielding.
The boy was focused on the lightning, his gaze fixed on the flashes that split the darkness, each one more brilliant than the last. He could feel it—not fully, not the way he felt the fire—but it was there, humming at the edges of his awareness. Its energy was wild, volatile, and furious, a storm that mirrored the anger simmering in his chest. With every strike, he felt a pull, a thread connecting him to the chaos above, and he reached for it, testing the edges of its wrath. Suddenly, a deafening crack shattered the air, the sound so sharp it made the hull tremble. The boy's eyes widened as the next bolt struck dangerously close, bathing the hold in white-hot light. His breath hitched. Did he just pull it closer? The thought sent a thrill through him, and he couldn't help but smirk, his fingers twitching as if daring the storm to answer him again.
Another thunderous crack came from above, followed by a splintering sound. A mast, perhaps, or rigging torn free. The shouts of the crew grew louder, more frantic, their voices drowned by the storm.
A devilish smile curled up across the boys face.
From across the hold, a voice hissed through the shadows. "We can't just sit here."
The boy turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. The voice belonged to one of the younger captives, a man whose suffering had kindled a dangerous resolve. He leaned forward, chains rattling softly.
"There's more of us than there are of them," the man said, his voice urgent. "If we time it right, we could overpower the guard when he comes down. Take his knife. Use it to fight our way out."
A faint murmur rippled through the hold, laced with desperation.
"And then what?" another captive countered, bitterness heavy in his tone. "Even if we kill the guard, we're still stuck here. They'll hunt us down before we even reach the deck."
The younger man's jaw tightened. "We have to try," he snapped. "What's the alternative? Sit here and drown?"
The boy stayed silent, his sharp blue eyes flicking between the men. He understood their desperation, but he also saw the flaws in their thinking. The captives were weak, malnourished, unarmed. The guards were armed and experienced in violence. The odds weren't just against them—they were insurmountable.
Yet the young man's words lingered in his mind. This ship was a cage, but it was also a battlefield.
A resounding crash reverberated through the ship, the force rippling down the beams as another massive wave heaved the vessel sideways. A groan of straining wood echoed through the hold, followed by the sharp snap of iron as the chains securing the prisoners to the beams gave way under the pressure. Water rushed in, rising quickly around their legs. The boy's muscles coiled, his mind racing as he analyzed every sound, every movement. The guards would return soon—he could feel it. And when they did, they wouldn't find a broken, defeated prisoner.
They would find a predator.
The ship groaned one final time, its timbers straining under the storm's relentless assault. The boy rose to his feet, his icy gaze fixed on the rising water.
The storm had delivered. Now, it was his turn."