The port stirred beneath a bruised sky, humming with the hush of wind and whispering waves. But when I saw it—her—all else fell silent.

  She was born of myth and mourning. A colossus cloaked in obsidian, her hull sculpted from Godsmarrow, darker than eclipse, deeper than grief. Not carved—forged. Every inch of her body shimmered with ghostlight when the sea breathed too loud. Above, her single mast rose like the spine of a dying titan, tall and unyielding. And stretching from its crown, tethered by chain and wind, was a sail dyed crimson as fresh blood—a gash of red against the colorless sky. It thrashed like a wounded banner, both warning and promise. The ship wasn’t just a vessel.

  She was a requiem. She was a prayer made of bone. She was alive.

  When I touched the rope ladder, it shivered beneath my hand like it remembered the grip of ghostly hands. One by one, we climbed—Chara silent with awe, the bore excited. And when my sandals met the deck, I unsheathed my sword in a fluid breath, raising it to meet the horizon.

  “I am the captain,” I declared, voice low but sure. The ocean blinked back, patient, unbothered. “I will lead the ship.”

  Behind me, I heard the gentle exhale of a smile. Chara brushed past, her eyes gleaming with half-mirth as she descended into the lower decks to inspect the cabins. And then—

  Laughter.

  A full-bodied, soul-shaking cackle that could tear the sails if sound held weight. The bore doubled over, clutching his ribs. “Lead us? With your sense of direction? Where, Zilar? To our ruin?” His laughter bounced against the bonewood rails, and when he wiped the tears from his eyes, I swear the deck glowed a little warmer beneath him.

  My face, however, glowed for other reasons. Heat crept up my nape like ink in silk. So much for my captaincy. But maybe leadership isn’t about shouting at the sea.

  “Only ruin would follow you, bore.” I said while I sheathed my sword with as much dignity as I could salvage and descended into my quarters.

  He did not speak.

  He looked at me. Not in mockery. Not in jest.

  Just… looked.

  He then leaned against the railing, arms crossed, a smirk half-formed on his face.

  “You know,” he said casually, “I’ve been pondering.”

  I paused, suspicious. “What?”

  “When,” he murmured, gaze flicking toward me, “are you going to call me by my name?”

  The wind tugged at my cloak. He still expects me to say his name. Why? “I am not sure. Bore sounds more like your name to me.”

  His smirk twitched, not faltering—just… shifting. Like he expected the answer but still hoped for something else.

  “Cold,” he muttered. “Even for you.”

  I shrugged.

  He tilted his head. “One day, you’ll say it. And when you do…”

  His voice trailed, something unreadable passing through it.

  “…it’ll mean something.”

  A beat of silence passed between us—long enough for the wind to change direction, for the ship to creak as if listening.

  I looked away first.

  “Stop being cryptic. That’s supposed to be my thing.”

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  He laughed softly, the kind of laugh you feel more than hear. Then he pushed off the railing.

  “Get some rest, Captain.”

  He turned before I could shoot back a retort. Left me there, cloak whipping in the wind, jaw locked.

  Below deck, the ship breathed differently—heavier, quieter, as if time moved slower between these walls. I set down my pack and listened as Chara’s voice floated through the corridor. She was speaking with one of the women who had built the ship—a sun-browned figure with sea-stiff fingers.

  A soft knock on the doorframe broke the silence.

  The bore stood there, not quite stepping in.

  “You don’t have to keep the cloak on anymore.” he said, voice low.

  I blinked. My fingers brushed the edge of the hood. It was a habit now—shield, armor, second skin.

  He didn’t say more. Just waited.

  I hesitated.

  Then I lowered it. The fabric slid off my shoulders, and the cold air kissed my neck like a forgotten lullaby.

  His eyes didn’t linger. He just nodded proudly.

  Later, as dusk braided itself into the sky, we gathered on the deck.

  “Let’s discuss our roles,” Chara said, her tone crisp and kind. “This ship listens to the wind, and I’ve spent my life learning its secrets. I know the wind patterns, sail types, knots, and basic navigation. I’m sorry, Zilar, but I’ll be taking the lead.”

  She reached over, patting my head gently, like I was some wild beast being coaxed into calm. I’d said I’d lead. But in this moment, I was glad to follow.

  “Then I’ll take care of lifting the anchor and all other manual labor,” I replied, with a smirk of resignation.

  “That leaves scavenging and cooking,” the bore chimed in, shrugging. “I’ll take it”

  I hate to admit it—but he’s the perfect fit. He can cook like the world’s ending tomorrow.

  “Then let’s hoist the sails,” he said, louder now, wind teasing his voice. “Let’s begin our voyage.”

  The sails fluttered like a heartbeat. The anchor was up. The wind was perfect.

  And yet—

  The ship did not move.

  A silence stretched across the deck. Not the holy kind. The awkward kind.

  “…Is it broken?” I asked, cautiously.

  Fane frowned. “It’s made of Godsmarrow, Zilar. It’s not a glass container.”

  Chara adjusted the ropes. “Wind’s right. Anchor’s lifted. There’s no drag.”

  The ship bobbed. Gently. Like it was laughing.

  “It’s mocking us,” the bore muttered.

  “I think it wants something,” Chara said slowly.

  “Like what?” the bore asked, tossing a paximadia to the deck. “Tribute? Sacrifice?”

  As if in reply, a long, low groan rose from the hull—no, from beneath the hull. A sound like a beast sighing in its sleep.

  “Oh great,” the bore said, arms folded. “Now it’s haunted and moody.”

  We tried everything—adjusting sails, shouting at the wind, even singing an old sailor’s chant Chara half-remembered.

  Nothing.

  An hour passed.

  We tried everything. For a while, silence stretched. Then boredom crept in, as it always does.

  “Maybe, it wants to be acknowledged? A name. She must want a name!” I said, clapping my head once. “That might be it.” said Chara.

  “Soggy Wraith!” yelled the bore.

  “No, it should be the Wet Spine!” I yelled back.

  “Nothing screams legendary voyage like Dribblefang..”

  “Obsidian Blister sounds better.”

  “How about The left piloi?”

  “Bore, have you lost your mind? What of the right piloi?”

  “Is that what you are worried about, Zillar? Ah, nothing like dragging a myth through the mud before we’ve even set sail.” cried Chara. Her lips curled after hearing the words that left our mouth. She looked like she wanted to jump off the deck. “What about Zaratharos?” she sighed. “It is the name of the first human that slayed God. You two can name the anchor Dribblefang for all I care.”

  “Sounds cool.” I said immediately, with a thumbs up.

  “We’re really naming a ship like this? Our legacy shall drown in shame, but–I will yield.” said the bore.

  The sails snapped. The deck tilted. The ship surged.

  We all stumbled, wind catching our breath. I grabbed a rope. The ship groaned like an old god stretching awake.

  “Well,” I muttered. “Nice of you to join us, Zaratharos.”