The sea does not forget.
That was the first thing Darion noticed as the tide swallowed Skullshore behind them. It lingered in the air—salt, memories, regret. Every wave that slapped against the hull of the Wraithwind seemed to whisper. Not in words, but in something older.
He stood at the bow, staring into the fog that had begun to curl in like claws. Behind him, the ship creaked and moaned under the weight of a cursed journey.
They were heading for Gravesend.
And every sailor aboard knew they might never come back.
The Wraithwind was no ordinary vessel.
Once a pirate raider, it now sat between the realm of the living and the lost. Its hull was painted with faded glyphs. The sails, stitched with runes of protection older than any church's scripture. It had been pulled from the sea floor two decades ago, the sole remnant of a fleet that vanished near Gravesend.
Crow had called it a "guiding corpse." A vessel bound by spirits, but still seaworthy enough to pass the reef's edge.
Seraphina was at the helm, her hands steady on the wheel. "She handles like a ghost. Like she wants to go faster."
"She probably does," Darion muttered. "She's just been waiting."
Below deck, the rest of the crew busied themselves—five of them, hired through whispers and paid in gold that Crow promised would spend just fine... if they returned.
Darion had met each already:
First Mate Kellen: a grizzled veteran missing one eye and most of his teeth. Quiet, but observant.
Bria "Redjaw" Fen: a gunslinger with twin flintlocks and a dangerous laugh. She liked to drink and stare into the sea too long.
Old Helm: the ancient helmsman with shaky hands but an uncanny sense of direction.
Leech: the ship's 'healer,' who more resembled a vulture than a doctor, always sharpening his tools.
And Marek, a muscular deckhand with prison tattoos who claimed he'd sailed through hell. Something about his stare unsettled Darion.
Each one of them had secrets.
And one of them—Darion was sure—wasn't what they seemed.
Three days into the voyage, the fog never lifted. The sun was a pale smear above, and the water glowed faintly at night as if lit from below.
It was on the fourth day that they found the wreck.
Old Helm saw it first. "There," he croaked, pointing off the starboard side.
A massive, rotting carcass of a ship drifted in the current. Torn sails fluttered. The mast was broken in half. But something about the wood—it shimmered, not with wetness, but with a strange, oily glow.
Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "That's not natural rot."
Darion nodded. "I want to check it out."
Redjaw whistled. "And I'll stay right here in one piece, thank you."
Darion and Seraphina rowed to the wreck in a dinghy, swords strapped tight. As they neared, Darion's mark began to burn.
"You feel that?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. Like something's watching."
They climbed the broken hull and dropped onto the soaked deck. Rusted blades and bones lay scattered. There were no signs of a struggle. Just… abandonment.
Darion moved toward the helm where the wheel still turned slowly in the breeze. At its base sat a small metal object—a compass, unlike any he'd seen.
The outer ring was cracked coral. The needle spun lazily despite the lack of motion. And at its center, a symbol shimmered.
His mark.
Exactly.
He reached down. The moment his fingers touched the compass, the spinning stopped.
And then he heard it.
A voice—not spoken aloud, but inside him.
"Find the Deep Seal. Only then will the Abyss open."
Darion staggered back, clutching his chest. Seraphina rushed to his side.
"What happened?"
He held up the compass. "It… spoke."
The water beside the wreck splashed.
They turned.
A pale hand gripped the deck's edge.
Then another.
Three figures emerged from the sea, eyes glowing with sickly green light.
The Tidemarked again.
One of them—its jaw dislocated, seaweed wrapped around its neck—opened its mouth and shrieked.
Darion drew his sword. "Let's end this fast."
The first one lunged, and Seraphina ducked beneath its swing, driving her dagger straight into its temple. It staggered, gurgling, before falling.
The second leapt at Darion, clawed fingers reaching for his throat. He slashed wide, but it dodged unnaturally, its body jerking mid-motion. Darion stepped back, focused, and called on the fire.
His mark ignited. Flames licked down his arm and through his sword. The weapon became an arc of burning steel.
He sliced—and the creature howled, dissolving in a burst of ash.
The third Tidemarked growled something in a language long dead and hurled a black spike from its hand.
Darion raised his arm too late.
Seraphina tackled him out of the way. The spike buried itself in the deck where he'd been standing. The wood hissed and sizzled.
"What the hell was that?"
"Abyss magic," she said. "I've seen it before."
Darion charged forward, slashing with his flaming blade. The Tidemarked parried, growling. But the fire was too much. It caught, its body bursting into flame.
The fight was over.
But the message was clear.
Gravesend was protecting something.
And it was willing to send its dead to make sure he never reached it.
Back aboard the Wraithwind, Kellen studied the compass. "Haven't seen anything like this in my years."
"Neither have I," Crow's voice rasped from the shadows.
Darion spun. "You're on board now?"
The old man leaned on a cane near the stairwell. "Couldn't let you kids have all the fun."
He reached out, tapping the compass lightly. "This is an old relic. Carved during the Era of the Leviathans. It's not pointing north—it's pointing toward a sealed prison."
Darion frowned. "You mean Gravesend?"
Crow shook his head. "No. Beneath Gravesend."
Seraphina sighed. "Of course it's deeper."
Crow looked at Darion. "That voice you heard? It's a warning. But also an invitation. That seal... it might be tied to your orb. Or maybe the mark."
Darion clutched his chest. "Then that's where we go."
That night, Darion stood on deck alone again.
The compass pulsed in his hand. His mind reeled from everything—the voice, the mark, the fire, the creatures.
He looked toward the horizon. The fog was darker now. Somewhere beyond, the edge of Gravesend waited.
He could feel it.
And so could the dead.