Far from Ravenstone, the Aegean Sea stretched endlessly and blue, the waves glittering like shards of glass beneath the noon sun. The ships of the Thalassarchates cut across its surface—sleek triremes bristling with oars, their sails bearing the sigil of the sea kings. The air was sharp with salt and the cries of gulls circling above, the steady drumbeat of rowers echoing across the water.
But beneath that rhythm, unease stirred.
The first ship had vanished three nights ago, swallowed whole without a distress fire or drifting wreckage. The second disappeared the following dawn, leaving behind only splintered timbers bobbing in crimson-streaked foam. And now, as the fleet pressed deeper into contested waters, whispers moved among the sailors like fever.
"Something's hunting us."
"Not raiders. Not storms."
"A curse."
The admiral barked them back to their benches, but even his voice rang hollow. Men crossed themselves before the oars, murmuring prayers to Poseidon, to the nameless gods of the deep, to anyone who might hear.
Then, on the horizon, the sea stirred.
The waves began to heave unnaturally, though no wind had shifted. The water darkened, the sunlight swallowed as if a shadow were rising from below. One sailor pointed, his voice breaking. "There!"
Something vast moved beneath the surface—a shape impossible to track, darting like a predator through the depths. Then came the sound: a low groan, ancient and guttural, rolling up from the abyss. The nearest trireme shuddered, its timbers creaking as though under unseen hands.
Before the admiral could shout a command, the sea erupted.
A column of water surged upward, and from it emerged tendrils of something blacker than night—like chains, like roots, lashing across the deck. Sailors screamed as they were dragged into the sea, their cries cut short beneath the waves. Spears and arrows flew, but the shafts shattered against the thing's hide, splintering like straw.
The admiral's ship pitched violently, waves crashing across its deck. For a heartbeat, through the spray and chaos, the sailors swore they saw it: a figure cloaked in brine and shadow, standing upon the swell as if the sea itself bore him aloft. His eyes glowed faintly, pale as moonlight through storm clouds.
Then he vanished, swallowed back into the depths with the shrieks of drowning men. The sea stilled as if nothing had stirred it, save for the red foam that spread wider across the waves.
Another ship of the Thalassarchates was gone.
And still the fleet pressed on, knowing the sea itself had turned against them, and that a mysterious entity—neither man, nor beast, nor god they knew—was hunting them, one vessel at a time.
****
The harbor of Pelagia shimmered in the morning light, its white-stone piers stretching into waters as clear as glass. Fishing boats bobbed lazily near the shallows, their nets heavy with the silver harvest of the sea. But farther out, on a broad-decked warship flying the trident standard of the Thalassarchates, the air rang with the sound of clashing steel.
Theseus, prince of Pelagia, moved like the tide—smooth, relentless, and unpredictable. His bronze blade swept in a gleaming arc, forcing his lieutenant back with a grunt. Another came at him from the side, spear jabbing toward his ribs, but Theseus twisted, catching the shaft on his bracer and driving his shoulder into the man's chest. The lieutenant stumbled, winded, and the prince pressed forward with a grin sharp as salt spray.
"Too slow," he said, his voice carrying across the deck. "A Dionian would've gutted you before you drew breath."
The man wheezed, bowing his head in acknowledgment, while the others circled warily.
Theseus flicked sweat-damp hair from his brow, his sea-gray eyes alive with the thrill of the spar. He wore no armor, only a short tunic clinging to his broad frame, his skin bronzed from sun and salt. Around his neck hung a charm of coral and bone—the token of his line, said to be blessed by Poseidon himself.
"Again!" he barked.
The lieutenants charged together this time, spear and sword flashing. The deck thundered beneath their boots, the gulls shrieking overhead. Theseus laughed as he parried one blow, ducked another, then rolled his blade across the haft of a spear and twisted. With a crack, the weapon snapped in two. Before the man could recover, the prince swept his leg and dropped him to the planks.
Cheers rose from the sailors who had paused their work to watch. They beat their fists on shields and chanted the prince's name, their voices echoing against the cliffs of Pelagia.
But the joy broke when the lookout cried from the mast, his voice strained:
"Ships! The fleet returns!"
All heads turned to the horizon. Black sails limped across the glittering water—triremes broken, hulls scarred, oars missing. The cheers died into silence as the sailors on deck recognized that what should have been a proud return was instead a grave procession.
Theseus lowered his blade slowly, his grin fading. His lieutenants stepped back, their faces hardening as the reality settled over them.
The prince's eyes narrowed. "So few…" he murmured.
The survivors of the Thalassarchates were coming home, but half their strength had been swallowed by something none of them yet named.
The triremes dragged themselves into port like wounded beasts. Hulls scraped against the docks, their prows scarred and splintered, sails in tatters, oars missing in jagged gaps. The air was heavy with brine, blood, and pitch stench.
One by one, the survivors stumbled down the gangplanks. They did not march in formation, nor sing the songs of safe return. They came like shades, hollow-eyed, their bodies gaunt from sleepless nights at sea. Some leaned on shattered spears as walking sticks, others bore bandages crusted brown with dried blood. A few still wore their armor, dented and salt-stained, but most had stripped down to bare tunics, their steps dragging across the planks as if the sea had tried to claim them and only reluctantly let go.
Theseus watched from the prow of his own ship, his jaw set, eyes sharp. He scanned every face, searching for the familiar helm of the admiral, the man who had commanded the fleet with the pride of Poseidon's own priests. But there was no sign of him. Not his banner. Not even his corpse.
Gone, Theseus thought grimly. Swallowed by the deep along with his ship.
The silence of the harbor gnawed at him. Fishermen and townsfolk who had gathered to watch stood frozen on the pier, whispering prayers as though these survivors were ghosts. Even the gulls wheeling above seemed subdued, their cries distant and harsh.
"These men look broken," murmured one of the lieutenants at his side.
"These men are broken," Theseus replied. His sea-gray eyes did not waver. He turned to the tallest of his captains, a scarred veteran named Caspian, whose shoulders were as broad as a mast.
"Caspian," Theseus said, his voice firm enough to cut through the hush, "get me whoever's in command of what's left. I want to hear what happened—directly from his mouth."
Caspian slammed a fist to his chest in acknowledgment and strode down the gangplank, his boots heavy against the planks. The crowd of survivors parted at his approach, their hollow eyes flicking to him, then away. He moved among them with the authority of steel, scanning for the one who still carried himself like a commander—if such a man remained at all.
Theseus stayed where he was, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword, his mind already racing ahead. The fleet had been mighty, bristling with ships, their oars beating the sea like drums of war. And yet here they were, stripped down to fragments. Something had risen against them, and it had not been mortal raiders or storms.
The prince's gaze lingered on the horizon where the waves rolled calmly now, mocking. His knuckles tightened on the hilt.
The sea hides its secrets, he thought, but not forever. I will drag the truth from its depths, or drown trying.
It didn't take long for Caspian to return. His heavy steps echoed through the narrow passage of the flagship until he pushed open the doors to the prince's quarters, guiding a battered man before him.
The chamber was dim, the lanternlight swaying with the rocking of the hull. At the far end stood Prince Theseus, his back to the door, one hand resting on a great oak desk spread with a map of the Thalassarchates. His other hand cradled a cup of wine, which he swirled absently, the crimson liquid catching the glow of the flame.
The map itself was a masterwork of ink and vellum, its edges weighed down with polished stones to keep it from curling in the sea-damp air. It depicted the vast Aegean Sea, the lifeblood of Erytheia, with its scattered islands and seven great kingdoms spread like a crown upon the waters. Bold lines marked the boundaries of each dominion, and sharp ink strokes highlighted contested waters. At the center, gleaming under the lantern, was Pelagia—Theseus's home, the jewel of the Thalassarchates, its trident sigil etched deeper than the rest.
"Theseus," Caspian said gruffly, giving the survivor a shove forward.
The man stumbled to his knees on the woven rug. He was gaunt, his skin sunken, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. His tunic was torn, stained with salt and blood, and a scar along his temple suggested where a blade—or something worse—had grazed him. He smelled of the sea, but not in the way of sailors. It was the heavy, choking scent of someone who had nearly drowned.
"Theseus, Prince of Pelagia," Caspian said, his voice hard as iron, "I bring the highest-ranking survivor I could find. The admiral's ship is gone, the man himself swallowed by the sea. This one held the line long enough to steer what was left into harbor."
Theseus finally turned, the cup of wine still in his hand. His sea-gray eyes studied the kneeling man, not with pity but with the weight of command. He took a long sip, letting the silence stretch, then set the goblet aside.
His fingers trailed over the map, brushing the coastline of Pelagia before moving outward—past Kymara, Thalora, Okeanos, all the way to the jagged ink strokes marking the deeper waters where the fleet had sailed. His nail tapped once against the vellum, sharp in the silence.
"That is where we lost them, isn't it?" Theseus said at last, his voice steady but low, carrying the tide's pull. "The ships. The admiral. Everything."
The survivor raised his head, lips trembling, but could not yet bring himself to answer. His eyes darted to Caspian, then back to the prince, haunted.
Theseus leaned forward over the desk, bracing his hands on the map. The lanternlight caught the coral charm at his throat, glowing faintly like something pulled from the deep. "Speak. Tell me what hunted my fleet."
The survivor's throat bobbed as he swallowed. His hands twitched against his knees, and when he spoke, his voice was raw, trembling—but loud enough to fill the prince's quarters.
"At first, we thought it was a storm, my lord. The sea went black, though the skies were clear. The water moved against the wind, as though some hand below was stirring it. Then… we heard it."
He faltered, eyes going distant. "Not thunder. Not whalesong. A groan… like the earth itself crying out. It rattled our bones, made the timbers of the ship shiver."
Theseus said nothing, only poured another cup of wine and pushed it across the desk toward him. The survivor clutched it with both hands, spilling some on the rug as he gulped. When he lowered the cup, his eyes shone wild.
"It came from below," he whispered. "We saw the shape through the water. Too large to be a leviathan. Too fast to be a shoal. It moved like a shadow, darting between our ships, knocking them off course. Then it rose."
His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "Tendrils—black as night, slick with brine. They lashed across the decks, pulled men screaming into the sea. Arrows passed through them as though they were smoke. We hacked with steel, but each cut only made it grow. It wasn't just the tendrils either—there was something else. A figure. I swear it, by the gods."
Caspian shifted uneasily at his side.
The survivor's breath came ragged now. "A man—or something shaped like one. Cloaked in the sea itself. Stood on the waves as though they were stone. His eyes… they glowed pale, like moonlight through storm clouds. He raised his hand, and the sea obeyed. Walls of water rose and struck us down. Ships snapped like twigs."
He shuddered, staring down at his trembling hands. "The admiral tried to ram him. Ordered the oars driven hard. But the sea split beneath his ship. It… swallowed them. Whole. Not a plank left."
Silence pressed down on the room. The only sound was the survivor's ragged breathing and the faint lapping of water against the hull outside.
"Theseus…" The man's eyes lifted, wet with fear. "It wasn't man, or god, or beast. It was all three. A curse walking the waves. We call the Aegean ours, but I swear to you, my lord… it belongs to him now."
The survivor broke then, sobbing into his cup.
Theseus stood motionless at the desk, his fingers tracing slowly over the map, past the ruined waters where the fleet had vanished. His jaw was set, but his eyes—sea-gray and storm-bright—burned with something between fury and fascination.
The survivor's sobs ebbed into the silence, the sound brittle as cracked wood. Caspian shifted uneasily, his scarred hand brushing the haft of the axe at his hip. The weight of the tale hung over the room like storm clouds before a gale.
Then Theseus straightened. He drained the last of his wine and set the cup down with a hard clack against the desk. His fingers pressed into the map, tracing the jagged lines of the Aegean Sea, then curling into a fist over the waters where the fleet had vanished.
"Enough." His voice cut sharply through the survivor's ragged breaths. "We are not children to cower at ghost stories. Whatever hunts in those depths is no god. No curse. It bleeds the same as anything else."
He turned, the sea-gray fire in his eyes fixed on Caspian. "Prepare the crew. I want the oars ready, the sails mended, and the hull stocked for long waters. We embark before the next moonrise."
Caspian blinked, then bowed his head with the respect only hardened men gave their prince. "To hunt it?" he asked.
"To hunt it," Theseus replied, his tone ironclad. "The Aegean belongs to the Thalassarchates. To Pelagia. I will not see our dominion stolen by some phantom of the deep." He leaned closer across the map, his voice low but fierce. "We will find this thing, drag it from its waters, and break it. Let the other kingdoms know—Pelagia does not yield its sea."
The survivor looked up, pale, horror dawning. "My lord… You don't understand. You cannot hunt what cannot be—"
"Silence," Theseus snapped, his hand slicing the air. "You saw it strike. You saw it stand upon the waves. Then it can die upon them."
Caspian's lips curved into a grim smile, half pride, half challenge. "So be it, my prince. I'll ready the men. And may the gods grant us favor, if indeed they still watch the Aegean."
As Caspian strode from the chamber, Theseus lingered a moment longer at the map. His fingers brushed the inked coastlines of Pelagia, then spread outward into the deep blue where no mortal chart could truly capture the abyss.
His voice was a whisper now, but sharp as a spearpoint: "You think the sea belongs to you, shadow? Then let's see how you fare when Pelagia hunts back."
****
The Black Trident cut through the dark waters, its oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm, each stroke groaning against the current. The sea wind swelled in the sails, carrying the ship eastward, away from the safe harbors of Pelagia and into the open expanse of the Aegean. Spray kissed the air, stinging with salt, and the crew moved like clockwork—men tightening ropes, sharpening blades, whispering half-voiced prayers as gulls wheeled overhead.
Enzo stood beside the helm, one hand gripping the rail, the other resting on the hilt of his curved sword. His dark hair clung damp to his brow, the sea mist catching in it. His jaw was set tight, but his eyes betrayed the unease roiling beneath his hardened exterior. He turned, his voice pitched low but sharp enough to cut through the wind.
"The King will not be happy about this, Theseus," Enzo said, the words laced with both warning and loyalty. "He gave his order clearly. No ships beyond the harbor until the Thalassarchates have spoken as one. Yet here we are, his heir, sailing into the maw of a curse."
The prince didn't look at him at first. He stood at the helm, hands firm on the polished wood, eyes fixed ahead where the horizon blurred into a line of molten gold. His sea-gray gaze was sharp, focused, like a predator locked on unseen prey. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying over the deck with the calm of a man who had already chosen his fate.
"His command," Theseus said evenly, "was not to leave the Aegean Sea's territory. Technically." He let the word hang, half a jest, half a blade's edge.
Enzo's brow furrowed. "Technically?"
"These waters are ours," Theseus said, his tone firming. "Ours to fish, ours to fight for, ours to die upon if need be. Whatever stalks them has not crossed borders—it has claimed our sea. And so long as I draw breath, no phantom, no god-forgotten wraith, will stake dominion over Pelagia's waves."
His grip on the helm tightened. He shifted the ship with practiced ease, turning the prow toward deeper waters, where the swell grew heavier and the color of the sea darkened like bruised steel.
"I am not leaving the Aegean, Enzo," he said, his lips curling into something between a smile and a snarl. "I am only stamping out what festers within it."
The crew, listening despite themselves, exchanged nervous glances. Some murmured their agreement, pride in their prince warming their blood. Others crossed themselves, whispering the names of sea gods in hopes their bold captain would not draw doom upon them all.
Enzo exhaled, long and slow, shaking his head. "You're your father's son, for better or worse. He'd call this madness." His eyes flicked toward the horizon, where the light was already beginning to dim unnaturally, the sea heaving with a strange, sluggish rhythm. "And madness, Theseus, has a way of swallowing men whole."
Theseus leaned into the helm, the wind tossing his hair back from his face. His eyes glimmered with a dangerous certainty.
"Then let it try," he said. "For once, the sea will learn what it means to hunt the hunters."
The Black Trident sailed deeper into the restless waters. The wind had shifted—no longer the playful breeze of the coast, but a heavier breath that carried the taste of iron and storm. The sailors felt it, the strange weight pressing on their shoulders, and they began their rituals.
On the lower deck, men knelt with knives, carving small tokens from driftwood: charms of fish, gulls, tridents—symbols of luck and protection. Each carving was rubbed with salt and tied to the rigging, fluttering in the wind like prayer flags. Others dipped their hands into the sea, muttering oaths to Poseidon, Aegaeon of the Aegean sea, or Triton, the sea god, who calmed the sea—any god who might listen and keep their souls from sinking.
The whispers spread quickly and feverishly.
"Did you hear it? The last fleet spoke of a groan, like the earth itself was breaking."
"They say it was no beast. They say a man walked the waves…"
"Curse, god, or titan, it'll taste our steel before it takes us."
Above them, Caspian strode the deck like a war-drum given flesh. His voice rolled like thunder, steady and unshakable.
"Hold your tongues of fear," he barked, pacing among them, his axe gleaming in the lantern-light. "You sail under Pelagia's banner, beneath the command of Prince Theseus himself! Do you think shadows frighten him? Do you think curses bind him? No!"
The men raised their voices, clashing spears against shields.
"He is the tide's heir!" Caspian roared. "He is the sea's son, the serpent who strikes from the deep! Who among you fears the dark when the Serpent Prince leads us?"
The chant began low, then swelled until the ship seemed to tremble with it:
"Serpent Prince! Serpent Prince! Serpent Prince!"
Theseus, still at the helm, allowed himself the faintest smile, though his eyes never left the horizon where the sea swelled unnaturally. He could feel it—the watching, the hunger—but he welcomed it. The crew's fear had become fire, and that fire was his to wield.