The sea was indifferent to the sins of men.

  It swallowed all things the same—ships, bones, prayers. If it had a memory, it did not share it.

  Delacroix sat alone in his quarters, listening to the groaning of the hull as the freighter pushed into deeper waters. A slow, rhythmic creaking that pulsed beneath his feet like a heartbeat. The room they had given him was small, sparse—just a cot, a desk, and a single porthole that looked out into the abyss. He had moved the blanket and pillow to the floor out of habit. The mattress was too soft.

  The air smelled of salt, rust, and damp wood—the scent of a ship that had spent too many years breathing in the sea. The metal bulkheads groaned against the cold, expanding and contracting as night settled over the waters.

  The voices of the crew drifted through the thin walls. They weren’t loud, but they weren’t whispering either. They wanted him to hear.

  "A darkie on board… bad omen, if you ask me."

  "At least we’ve got a Rōnin with us. That’ll keep the shadows away."

  "Yeah? That ice-eyed bastard can try his luck. I don’t trust any of ‘em."

  Delacroix exhaled slowly.

  Superstition ran deep among sailors. The idea of a Shadeborn on their vessel—especially on a route that would take them through unlit waters—was enough to make men whisper. Some of them, he knew, would be watching his door. Waiting for something to go wrong.

  The knock at the door was soft.

  Delacroix rose, his boots scuffing against the worn metal floor as he opened it.

  A girl stood outside, no older than nineteen. She was Natureborn, her eyes the colour of wet earth, her sleeves rolled up from kitchen duty. In her hands, she carried a tray—a bowl of tomato soup and a few pieces of bread.

  She hesitated slightly, her gaze flicking over his blindfold. He could hear her shift her weight, could feel her hesitation. But she didn’t step back.

  He took the tray from her, nodding slightly. “Thank you.”

  She peered past him for just a second—long enough to notice the blanket and pillow on the floor instead of the cot. Then, just as quickly, she looked away.

  The silence stretched a beat too long.

  Then—the door clicked shut.

  Back in the mess hall, the crew eats in tense silence. A few of them throw glances at the door Delacroix disappeared behind.

  The Frostborn Rōnin, Locke Thomas, sits alone, sharpening his black blade with slow, methodical strokes. He watches the girl return, watches the way she keeps glancing at the door.

  Something feels off.

  Locke exhales, pulling out a small metal totem from his pocket—a token of warding, blessed by an old monk in Fengjian. He turns it over in his fingers. The edges are warm. It shouldn’t be.

  The unease settles in his gut.

  He stands, slipping the totem back into his coat.

  He needs to check the deck.

  Because something is watching them from the dark.

  The mess hall smelled like salt and boiled potatoes, the kind of bland, forgettable meals that kept a crew alive but didn’t inspire much else. Meilin set the tray down with a quiet exhale, stretching her fingers after carrying it up the narrow stairwell.

  Locke Thomas sat at the end of the long bench, his black blade resting across his lap, sharpening stone in one hand, a bottle in the other.

  He tilted his head slightly as she entered. "Still not in a chatting mood, huh?"

  Meilin pulled a chair out, smoothing her apron. "He said thank you."

  Locke let out a short chuckle, the blade glinting as he ran the stone along its edge. "Well, that’s progress. Some shadeborn I’ve met would sooner spit on your boots."

  Meilin hesitated. "Is it normal?"

  Locke glanced up. "What?"

  "Sleeping on the floor." She fidgeted slightly, toying with the edge of her sleeve. "Is that normal for shadeborn?"

  Locke leaned back, stretching one arm along the bench. "Not really. The ones I’ve seen don’t mind street corners, but they also don’t turn down a warm bed when it’s offered."

  Meilin frowned. "Then why would he…?"

  Locke exhaled, tapping the sharpening stone lightly against the blade. "It’s a sign."

  Meilin tilted her head. "Of what?"

  Locke smirked. "A man who’s been through hell." He turned the blade in his palm, inspecting the edge. "So much so that hell has become his status quo."

  A flicker of something passed across Meilin’s expression. "That’s…" she hesitated, searching for the word, "sad."

  Locke scoffed lightly. "Sad’s just what people call it when they still believe things get better."

  Meilin frowned at him, her lips parting as if to argue—

  Then Locke froze.

  The air changed.

  The usual creaks and groans of the ship—the ever-present sound of wood flexing, waves lapping, the distant hum of the engines—stopped.

  For a fraction of a second, it was too quiet.

  His hand moved instinctively to his pocket, fingers brushing the cold surface of the metal totem.

  Wrong.

  Something was wrong.

  A dull glow flickered in his palm. Not gold. Not blue.

  Blood red.

  Pulsing.

  The pattern was irregular, stuttering—like a heartbeat that had forgotten how to be human.

  The totem was getting warmer. Slowly at first. Then hotter.

  Meilin furrowed her brows. "What is it?"

  Locke didn’t answer. His fingers tightened around the totem.

  He knew what was coming.

  Locke sheathed his blade with a practiced flick, slinging it over his shoulder as he pushed off the bench. The totem was still pulsing—too fast, too hot. He knew what that meant.

  Bollocks.

  He moved with purpose, cutting through the dimly lit corridor, boots heavy against the floor. The ship rocked slightly, the deep groan of the hull settling into the waves, but something felt off.

  By the time he reached the deck, the air had changed.

  The fog wasn’t normal.

  It didn’t roll in like mist off the sea. It clung. Stuck to the ship like damp fingers, curling around the edges of the hull, moving too thick, too slow. The ocean beyond was gone—swallowed.

  Locke narrowed his eyes.

  Too fast. It shouldn’t have gotten this thick this fast.

  Captain Moreau stood near the helm, a solid, broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and the air of someone who’d spent too many years telling younger men to fuck off.

  Locke exhaled sharply. "Go around."

  The captain barely turned his head. "What?"

  Locke jerked his chin toward the fog. "Take a detour. Now."

  Moreau let out a short, humourless chuckle. "You want me to reroute the entire fucking course?"

  Locke’s jaw tightened. "I want you to not sail us into something that’ll have our bones scraping the ocean floor by morning."

  Moreau glanced at the empty horizon, then back at Locke.

  "We don’t know how much this fog covers," he said flatly. "We can’t afford delays."

  Locke stared at him. "Is the delay worth your life?"

  Moreau sighed, finally turning fully toward him. He took Locke in—the broad frame, the black blade, the hardened gaze of a man who had seen far too much shit.

  Then—he smirked slightly. "Isn’t that why we hired a professional?"

  Locke exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "In my professional opinion?" He turned, already walking away. "You’re a stubborn old cunt."

  Moreau chuckled, turning back to the helm. "Not the first time I’ve heard that."

  Locke ignored him. He made his way to the starboard side, rolling his shoulders as he knelt. He pulled a piece of chalk from his coat, the tip already worn down from use.

  With quick, practiced movements, he drew the pentagram, his strokes efficient, almost lazy, like he’d done it a thousand times. He lit the candles, setting them at each point, the flickering flames throwing long shadows against the deck.

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  The totem in his pocket was still pulsing.

  Locke exhaled slowly, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Alright, you ugly fucks, let’s see what you’re up to."

  The ship rocked slightly.

  The fog pressed closer.

  The candles flickered.

  Then—all at once—they blew out.

  Locke’s stomach dropped.

  Bollocks.

  The freighter moved blind through the fog.

  The sea was silent. Too silent. The kind of silence that felt unnatural, like something had pulled the waves back, like the world was holding its breath.

  Meilin felt it first.

  The unnatural stillness. The way the air pressed against her skin, heavy and damp. It wasn’t just the cold—it was something else. Something that made her bones feel tight and small.

  She swallowed hard.

  The lanterns flickered.

  Somewhere beyond the mist, a voice began to sing.

  “Sleep, little one, sleep tight…”

  A lullaby. Soft, broken, floating over the water like it had no source. Like it had been waiting for someone to hear it.

  Meilin’s breath caught.

  Then she heard it again—closer this time.

  “Drift where the waves take flight…”

  The words slithered over the deck, curling into the crevices of the ship. The air felt thicker. Wetter.

  The lanterns flickered again.

  Meilin turned her head.

  And there, just beyond the veil of mist—she saw her.

  A woman in white, standing barefoot on the deck.

  Dripping.

  Her dress clung to her body, soaked through, the fabric sticking to the outline of something too thin, too sharp.

  Her hair hung in heavy black strands over her face. Water dripped from her fingertips, pooling on the wooden planks.

  The lullaby did not stop.

  It hummed from her throat, vibrating through the air like a song only the dead knew.

  Meilin tried to scream.

  But nothing came out.

  Her throat locked. Her lungs burned.

  Then she felt it—water. Cold and thick, seeping into her mouth, her nose, her chest.

  She choked.

  The sea was inside her.

  Meilin’s body convulsed, gagging, but nothing came up—because there was nothing there. Just the phantom pressure of drowning on dry land.

  The woman stepped forward.

  Not walking. Drifting.

  Her feet hovered just slightly above the planks.

  Meilin’s knees buckled.

  The woman tilted her head.

  The song faltered.

  A slow, ghastly breath escaped her lips—a sigh soaked in saltwater and decay.

  Then—she reached out.

  Long, blackened fingers, pruned and rotted from endless years in the deep.

  Meilin tried to move.

  She couldn’t.

  Her body wouldn’t listen.

  She wanted to scream—tried to scream—but the ocean was in her throat.

  The woman’s fingers hovered inches from Meilin’s cheek.

  And then—

  A gunshot shattered the night.

  The gunshot should have done nothing.

  Bullets weren’t meant to hurt spirits.

  And yet, the muzzle flash flared like a second sun in the fog-choked dark. The specter recoiled violently, her song breaking into a piercing wail. The force of it rattled through Delacroix’s ribs, something deeper than sound—something ancient, something wrong.

  The moment stretched thin.

  Then—chains of light snapped taut around the spirit, yanking her backward, wrenching her away from Meilin. She shrieked, arms clawing through empty air as she was dragged across the deck—bound, writhing, until she slammed against the starboard railing.

  There, Locke Thomas stood, blade drawn, palm outstretched, ink-black runes coiled around his fingers like living things. The binding had worked—but not for long.

  "Would’ve been easier if you lot just listened," Locke muttered under his breath.

  Then, the thing in the chains turned on him.

  Her body jerked unnaturally, as if something else was inside her, wearing the human form like an ill-fitting cloak. Her head twisted too far, the sea-slick strands of her hair clinging to her face.

  And she laughed.

  It wasn’t the haunting melody from before. This was ragged, broken, thick with something old and rotting.

  Locke adjusted his grip on his blade. His totem burned red-hot.

  "That’s usually my cue to get started," he muttered.

  The fight began.

  Locke moved first.

  He lunged, his black blade cutting a crescent arc through the fog. The spectre twisted, the chains around her rattling, her body moving too quickly, too fluidly. It wasn’t human, the way she bent—too many joints, too many wrong angles.

  She dodged the first strike. But Locke was fast. His second cut bit deep.

  The moment the black blade tore through the spectre’s form, the entire ship lurched. The chains trembled. The runes around Locke’s fingers flared—a reaction to the sheer amount of hatred bleeding from the wound.

  The spectre screeched, twisting back. Her nails raked across Locke’s arm, tearing through fabric, drawing blood.

  Locke hissed. The wound burned.

  Not like a normal cut. Not even like a curse. Like drowning.

  He barely had time to process it before she came at him again.

  Too fast.

  The second strike sent him reeling. His back hit the mast. His grip slipped.

  His sword—**the only thing that could kill her—**flew from his hand.

  It clattered across the deck.

  And suddenly—Locke was unarmed.

  Delacroix didn’t think.

  His body moved before his mind caught up.

  His left hand drew steel, his right drew iron. His own sword in one grip, the MAG52 in the other.

  Locke had said blades wouldn’t work. But guns?

  The under-barrel shotgun clicked into place.

  Delacroix fired.

  The blast roared through the fog. The muzzle flash exploded like a beacon. Not enough to hurt the demon, but enough to make her hesitate.

  Enough to buy him a second.

  He moved.

  His boots thundered across the deck. His own sword flashed—not to kill, but to keep her off balance. He cut where he could, slashed through the flowing mass of shadow, forced her attention onto him.

  Locke was already reaching for his blade.

  Delacroix saw the weapon out of the corner of his eye. Kicked it up with his boot, caught it mid-air.

  Turned—and threw it.

  Locke’s fingers closed around the hilt.

  "About time," Locke muttered.

  Now they had a chance.

  The spectre screeched. But it wasn’t the eerie, human sound from before. It was something monstrous.

  She rushed them both, her arms stretching unnaturally long, her nails blackening like obsidian blades.

  Delacroix met her first.

  His sword arced up—a shallow but clean cut across her side. He twisted, dodging a counterstrike, but not fast enough. Her claws raked across his ribs.

  A sharp pain. Not deep, but enough to sting.

  He gritted his teeth, pushed forward.

  "She’s yours!" Delacroix called.

  Locke was already moving.

  His blade sliced through the air—fast, precise, relentless. He fought like a man who had done this a hundred times before. Like a man who knew demons were not things to be battled, but things to be put down.

  Every time the black blade struck, the spectre howled.

  Until finally—she faltered.

  She staggered backward, chains rattling violently. Her form shifted, flickering between the decayed thing she had become and the woman she once was.

  Weak. Vulnerable.

  Delacroix moved to finish it.

  But Locke stopped him.

  A firm grip on his wrist.

  "Wait," Locke muttered.

  Delacroix shot him a look. "Wait?"

  Locke took a slow breath. His face was still and unreadable, but his knuckles were white around his sword.

  "She doesn’t deserve this," he said quietly. "She didn’t deserve any of this."

  Then—to the spectre.

  "Did you?"

  The creature shuddered.

  For the first time—she looked at him.

  Not as prey. Not as an enemy. Just as a man.

  And for the first time—she spoke.

  Her voice was fractured, as if torn between centuries.

  "Save your pity," she rasped. "They did not."

  Delacroix frowned. "They?"

  Her head tilted, a sorrowful, distant thing.

  "The men of the sea," she whispered. "They took what they wanted. Called me beautiful. Made me theirs."

  Her form flickered—for a split second, she looked whole. A woman. Drenched. Terrified. Clutching her stomach.

  "And when I carried his child…"

  Her voice broke.

  "They called me ruined. And threw me into the dark."

  The wind howled. The ship groaned beneath them.

  Delacroix felt something in his stomach turn.

  He had seen evil men before. Had fought them, killed them. But what was this? What kind of cruelty was this?

  Locke exhaled sharply.

  He knelt in front of the spectre, blade resting across his knee.

  "I can help you move on," he said, voice softer. "To stop the pain."

  She laughed bitterly.

  "Pain is all I have left."

  Locke shook his head.

  "You can let go."

  A pause.

  Then—for the first time in centuries—she hesitated.

  Locke reached into his pocket. Pulled out a single, folded paper talisman.

  "Your name," he said. "And the date of your birth."

  The spectre was still.

  Then—she whispered it.

  "Isolde Valren."

  A faint breath.

  “The 18th night of Tethis, 1472."

  Locke’s fingers moved fast. He wrote it down, the ink stark against the yellow paper.

  Then—he lit it.

  The flames swallowed it whole.

  For a brief second—the wind stilled. The fog thinned. The ship stopped creaking.

  The spectre looked at her hands.

  She was fading.

  Slowly. Softly.

  The anger, the grief, the unrelenting sorrow that had kept her here for centuries—it loosened.

  She turned to Locke.

  And whispered—"Thank you."

  Then—she was gone.

  The ship exhaled.

  The ocean was calm again.

  Locke let out a slow breath.

  Then, he wiped the single tear from his eye before standing, dusting himself off.

  He sheathed his sword, stretched his neck, then sighed.

  "I need a fucking drink.”

  The mess hall was dim, the low-hanging oil lamps swaying gently with the ship’s motion. The air still carried the lingering scent of brine and candle smoke, mingling with the sharp tang of steel and blood that clung to Delacroix’s clothes.

  Locke pushed the door open first, stepping inside with his usual, loose swagger—like nothing had happened.

  Meilin sat at the far end of the room, clutching a cup of cooling tea, her hands trembling slightly against the ceramic. She was pale, her breath shallow, her mind still caught in the haze of what she had seen. What had touched her.

  Locke clapped a hand against the wooden beam beside her, leaning down slightly.

  "Oi, you alright?"

  Meilin barely blinked.

  She nodded, stiffly, her face still taut with shock.

  Locke studied her for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. He pulled open one of the cabinets and grabbed a bottle—cheap, unbranded whiskey, the kind that bit like a rusted knife. He glanced at her, nodding toward the bottle.

  "There’s a cure for what you’re feeling, y’know."

  Meilin just stared.

  Locke grinned, shook the bottle slightly, then poured a generous measure into a tin cup. But the joke fell flat. She wasn’t in the mood for humour.

  He let it go.

  He crossed the room and sat down across from Delacroix, setting the bottle down between them with a solid thunk. Two cups followed.

  "Apologies in advance," Locke muttered as he poured, "probably not what a prince is used to."

  Delacroix tilted his head slightly.

  "You know who I am."

  Locke smirked. "A prince who spent three years in the cell next to my boss? 'Course I do."

  Delacroix exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

  "And you’re the rōnin."

  Locke raised his glass in an informal toast. "That’s me."

  Delacroix hesitated for a fraction of a second before lifting his own. He wasn’t the type for toasts. He had never been the type for toasts.

  The cups clinked together, and they downed the whiskey.

  It burned. Cheap. Harsh. Ugly.

  Locke grinned as he set his cup down, letting the alcohol settle into his bones like an old companion. Delacroix said nothing. He just let the heat unfurl in his chest, his blindfolded gaze distant.

  Then—the door swung open.

  Captain Moreau stepped in, followed by the remaining crew. Their faces were pale, their movements cautious, like men stepping through a graveyard after midnight.

  Moreau’s eyes swept the room, landing on Locke first.

  "Is it over?"

  Locke didn’t look up as he poured himself another drink.

  "Yeah, it’s over."

  Moreau exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "Goddess preserve us..."

  Locke snorted. "She didn’t."

  Moreau's gaze flicked toward the blood still drying on Locke's sleeve, the shallow cuts along his arm. Then—toward Delacroix, the black blade still resting at his hip.

  The tension lingered.

  Moreau straightened. "We need to give the dead a proper burial."

  Locke’s hand stilled.

  Slowly, he set his cup down.

  He looked at Moreau. Really looked at him.

  Then—he slammed his palm against the table so hard that Meilin jumped.

  "Are you a fucking idiot?"

  The room went silent.

  Moreau stiffened. "Watch yourself, rōnin."

  Locke rose from his seat, grabbing the whiskey bottle by the neck as he did. He leaned forward, eyes dark, voice slow and deliberate.

  "Listen to me, you stubborn old cunt. By the next moon, those bodies will turn. And I, for one, am not spending the rest of this godsdamned voyage fighting more of your fuck-ups."

  Moreau’s jaw tightened. "They deserve to be buried."

  Locke’s lips curled.

  "Yeah?" he growled. "And I deserve a ship that isn’t run by a fuckwit, but here we are."

  Moreau glared at him, fists clenched, his face blotched red with anger.

  Locke didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

  Delacroix watched.

  The crew watched.

  The tension stretched so thin, it was a wonder it didn’t snap.

  Then—Moreau turned.

  He exhaled sharply and stormed out, barking orders at the remaining crew.

  The bodies would be thrown overboard before sunrise.

  Locke exhaled, shaking his head as he poured another drink.

  "Fucking idiot."

  Delacroix finally spoke.

  "You’re not exactly subtle."

  Locke grinned, raising his cup.

  "That’s why you’ll love me."

  They drank.

  And the ship sailed on.