Vorrugal's jagged grin twisted into a snarl. He raised his axe skyward, flames from the surrounding torches licking its blackened blade, casting demonic shadows across his patchwork armor of bones, rusted chainmail, and pelts that still bled ice. His crew fell into tense silence.
"This is your last breath, you barnacle-tickin' gnats," he growled, voice slow and venomous. "Speak your name... or choke on the sea."
The cannons on the surrounding ships shifted, all aimed directly at The Leviathan. The pressure of a hundred fates weighed on the deck. One twitch of Vorrugal's finger and they'd be blown into oblivion.
But before Ahab could speak, Pecks—the loud-mouthed, overconfident parrot perched on the captain's shoulder—flapped once, puffed his chest, and let out a shrill cackle. "Ohhh, mighty frosted lard-bag! We ain't nobodies, we're the bloody cure chasers! Hunting the cure for yer frosty little soul-sucking curse!"
Time froze. Vorrugal's eyes—red as bleeding embers—widened. His grip on the axe loosened ever so slightly. A murmur swept through the decks of his fleet like wind over grave-marked snow.
Then, like a storm turning its course, Vorrugal let out a sudden barking laugh—not mocking this time, but hollow... unnerving. He raised his hand high. "Stand down," he roared to his captains. "All of you. Pull the cannons back. Let them pass."
A wave of confusion cracked through the monstrous fleet. Sails shifted. Cannons retracted. The ships, one by one, began to retreat into the mist. "Why spare 'em?!" someone shouted.
But Vorrugal did not explain. He simply stared—eyes burning into Ahab's—then turned away, his voice a low echo over the howling wind. "Cure chasers... heh. May the cold gods feast on your bones before the curse does."
Among the creaking planks and echoing sails of Vorrugal's flagship, silence lingered like a fog thicker than the sea's breath. His crew stood dumbfounded, many still clutching ropes or manning cannons, frozen in disbelief.
A lanky corsair with a blackened jaw and one frostbitten eye finally dared to speak, voice barely above a mutter. "Cap'n... why we lettin' 'em go? We could've blasted that heap of driftwood to splinters and taken whatever cure they claim t' chase..."
Vorrugal didn't turn. He stood at the helm, hands gripping it as though the wood was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. Then came his voice—low, grave, and heavy with a dread far colder than the wind. "You really forgot?" he growled. "Forgot what that curse does?"
Murmurs stirred. No one replied. Vorrugal turned his head slowly, one glowing eye catching the firelight like molten steel in snow. "If we sank 'em... the water'd take it. The wind'd carry it. Frost Curse don't stay where it dies... it spreads."
A collective shudder rippled through the deck. One grizzled veteran dropped his pipe. "It don't just kill," Vorrugal continued, voice laced with bitterness. "It clings. To wood. To metal. To breath. We blast 'em into the sea, we don't end 'em—we unleash it. Let it ride the waves straight into our hull."
He spat overboard and crossed his arms. "Let 'em sail, curse and all. If they find a cure... maybe it's worth not dying like frozen pigs in a ghost storm."
Aboard The Leviathan, the air was thick with confusion and unease, heavier than the black clouds gathering at the edge of the horizon. The ship creaked as it rocked gently in the now still waters—an eerie calm after the storm of anticipation.
In the captain's quarters, a circle of disbelief had formed. Ahab stood by the cracked window, staring out at the vanishing armada of Vorrugal and his nightmarish fleet fading into the mist.
Kalindra leaned against the table, arms crossed tightly beneath her chest, lips twisted in suspicion. Pecks, the parrot, was perched on the chandelier, still preening his feathers with a smug flair. Jonas, Briggs, Squib, Dregor, and old Harsk formed a loose half-circle, each with different shades of confusion and distrust etched across their faces.
"They could've blasted us to the depths," Jonas muttered, running a hand through his frost-laced hair. "Why'd they let us go?"
Briggs grunted, sharpening dagger with short, angry strokes. "That ain't mercy. That's fear. And I don't like when bastards stronger than us get scared."
"Maybe our charm won them over," Squib joked, but his chuckle died in the silence that followed.
Kalindra narrowed her eyes. "Or maybe that parrot of yours said something dumb enough to shake a pirate king."
Pecks squawked indignantly. "Dumb? I saved us, you ungrateful chest-jockey!"
"Saved us?" Dregor huffed. "You told a deranged pirate king we were carrying a cursed soul! You invited doom aboard like it was Sunday dinner!"
Pecks flapped, puffing out. "Well it worked, didn't it?"
Old Harsk finally broke his silence, voice like crushed gravel. "The Frost Curse. He must feared it."
The room turned to him. Ahab slowly turned from the window, expression dark. "If even the Pirate King fears it," he said, voice low, "then what the hell are we dragging across the sea?"
Faerin, who had been silent this whole time, finally stepped forward from the shadows near the stairs. His aged eyes glimmered under the lanternlight, face carved with decades of cold truths and silent dread. His voice was calm, but it carried a heavy weight—like snow before an avalanche. "Vorrugal," he began, "is a butcher, a mad dog, a storm in human flesh… but he ain't stupid."
Everyone turned to him as he walked closer to the table, map still clutched in his hand like a sacred relic. "He's been ruling these waters for decades. Sunk more ships than the gods have stars. But even he knows better than to cross a soul cursed by the Frost."
Kalindra frowned. "You saying he's scared of Helga?"
Faerin nodded slowly. "Not scared of her… scared of what's inside her. The Frost Curse is no ordinary blight. It doesn't just kill flesh—it freezes hope. Towns fall silent. Ships vanish without a splash. Entire crews found locked in ice, eyes wide open, faces still screaming. You don't fight it. You don't burn it. You avoid it."
Old Harsk grunted in agreement. "Aye… the kind of thing that makes even the worst monsters step aside."
Jonas swallowed hard. "So what now? We got a ghost of winter locked in Helga's chest?"
Faerin placed the map down gently. "We've got a ticking blizzard, lad. And the longer we sail, the colder it gets."
Ahab broke the silence with a crooked smirk, arms crossed, eyes twinkling with that usual reckless gleam. "Well, look at that… even the Pirate King with his fleet and his big-ass bird tucked tail and ran." He side-eyed Pecks, who ruffled his feathers indignantly on the beam above.
"Big bird? Excuse me, Captain," Pecks squawked, flapping dramatically, "Size don't mean brains! Least I ain't leading a crew into an icy grave!"
The crew chuckled, tension breaking like frost under fire. Ahab raised a brow, smirking. "Yet you're still here, perched on my ship, screaming in my ear since sunrise. You sure you ain't the curse?"
"Touché," Pecks mumbled, hopping to Kalindra's shoulder instead.
Ahab turned back to Faerin. "Alright, snow prophet. Where's the nearest port that doesn't piss itself when we dock?"
Faerin laid the map open once more, tracing a long, winding route with his finger. "Port Rhimegard," he said. "It's nestled between the fjords, behind cliffs so high, even the cold wind forgets how to howl there."
He tapped the edge. "Takes about three days' sail if weather's kind. Longer if the sea throws a tantrum."
Ahab cracked his knuckles. "Three days then. Set course, crew!."
Rhimegard rose from the icy horizon like the jagged crown of a frozen king—its stone walls half-buried beneath centuries of snow, yet towering with pride and defiance against the eternal winter. Frost clung to every edge of the black iron gate, which creaked open with a groan as The Leviathan docked at the harbor's edge—its timbers crackling from the sudden calm after the stormy voyage.
The port itself bustled with a quiet urgency. Unlike the rowdy chaos of southern harbors, Rhimegard moved with the discipline of those who knew that in this land, one careless breath might be your last. Snow-masked figures in layered wool and furs scurried between tall stacks of crates—trading bundles of dried meats, rare herbs, whale oil, and thick pelts under the watchful gaze of armored wardens bearing the sigil of a silver wolf with icy blue eyes.
The harbor smelled of salt, smoked blubber, and ever-burning tallow torches, which lined the docks like spectral sentinels. Seagulls didn't cry here—ravens did. And their calls echoed eerily across the fjord, piercing the overcast sky that refused to yield even a hint of sun.
Faerin, now transformed from scholar to guide, walked ahead of the crew, hood pulled over his white-blonde hair, staff tapping the cobbled stone as he moved with reverent familiarity. "Rhimegard," he said as if reciting sacred scripture, "the last breath of civilization before the Wild North claims all. No Kingdom lays true claim here… only the Frostborn Clans who bow to no one but the mountain and the wind."
He led them past the market square, where traders whispered beneath fur-lined hoods and a massive ice-carved totem of a serpent coiled around a tree stood at the center—its eyes lit by enchanted blue fire. Children ran barefoot through the snow like it were warm sand, their cheeks red, laughter carried on the wind as a violinist played a haunting melody from a wooden stall.
Smoke curled from chimneys shaped like crooked horns. Taverns and halls clung to the edges of the cliffs, some dug directly into the rock. Faerin pointed to one halfway up the slope, nestled between two giant ice-stained boulders. "There," he said. "The Crystal Hearth. The inn that never closes, even when the storm gods scream. We rest there... Then talk to Frost Seer."