Chapter 3 – The First Morning
The scent of fresh bread and coffee drifted through the small dining hall of their hotel, warm
enough to chase away the last chill of night. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, catching
on brass cutlery and white plates.
Ren was already halfway through a plate of eggs and smoked fish when Liza slid into the seat across
from him.
"You eat like we've got a race to run," she said.
"We do," Ren replied, mouth half-full. "It's called vacation."
John raised his glass of orange juice. "To our first full day in Mare Rosso."
They clinked their cups and mugs together, the sound small but bright. The table was alive with the
comfort of good food: flaky bread still steaming, sweet preserves in little glass jars, butter soft
enough to melt on contact.
When the clock struck eight, they were out in the sunlight, the morning air cool but already touched
by the salt of the Red Sea breeze. The waterfront was waking up. Vendors set up their stalls, fishing
boats drifted in with nets heavy from the dawn's catch. Laundry lines stretched between balconies,
snapping gently in the wind. The water shimmered a deep, endless blue, streaked with the first
glints of sun.
Liza drifted behind the group, sketchbook in hand. Her gaze wandered along the seawall until it
caught on a boy sitting cross-legged on the edge. He wore a white shirt and short pants, his black
hair curling slightly at the ears. His smile was mischievous, but his posture was still. Before him, a
small easel held a painting of the Red Sea — rich crimson along the horizon, soft gold near the
shore, shadowed blues fading into black.
Curious, Liza slowed her steps and approached.
"That's beautiful," she murmured.
The boy glanced at her, the corner of his mouth lifting. When he spoke, there was a lilt to his words
— the faint, rounded vowels of a Northern accent, softened as if he'd grown up far from that
snowbound land.
"It's only beautiful for a little while," he said. "Then the colors fade."
She crouched beside him, watching his brush trace the curve of the horizon.
"You paint the Red Sea often?"
"Every day," he said. "Mare Rosso changes with the light. You'll never see the same sea twice."
They spoke for a while — about the harbor at dawn, the music in the market at night, the quiet
alleyways lined with flowering vines. Then, without warning, the boy's tone grew low and sing
song. His brush dipped into black paint, darkening the horizon, and he began to recite, his voice soft
but haunting:"Little bird, flee the fading flame,
(The last light that guards the day)
Before the blood bleeds the sky's wide frame,
(When daylight dies, darkness claims its prey)
When shadows clutch at whispered breath,
(Silent harbingers that bind the soul)
No wings can flee the grasp of death,
(Once caught, no flight can make you whole)
Silent winds wail a mournful cry,
(Echoes of those lost to the deep)
Beneath the sea's unyielding sigh,
(Where restless spirits never sleep)
The crimson tide devours the light,
(The bleeding sea, a veil of doom)
Swallowing hope in endless night,
(Where hope is swallowed in the gloom)
Fly beyond the haunted foam,
(Escape the cursed shores and their thrall)
Where no wings bear a soul back home,
(Cross not the line, lest you fall)
Little bird, escape the raven's song,
(Heed the warning in the raven's cry)
Before the dusk drags you along,
(Or become a shadow in the sky)
For once the final shadows roam,
(When darkness walks with silent tread)
No wings can carry you home.
(And all who stray are lost and dead)"
The words sank deep, echoing through the salty air like a warning carved into the wind. Liza's heart
quickened, a cold shiver crawling down her spine. What had seemed a simple painting, a boy's quiet
pastime, now felt like a summons — a riddle wrapped in crimson tides and shadowed wings.
The words rooted in her mind, cold and unshakable.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
The boy turned to her slowly, his smile widening — but for a fleeting moment, his face was no
longer the clean, innocent visage of a child. Instead, it was smeared with streaks of dark, glistening
blood, as if the very life had been drained and painted across his skin. His eyes burned with a cold fire, shining not with sunlight, but with something ancient and terrible — a light from the depths
where shadows coil and whisper.
Liza stumbled backward, breath hitching as the salty breeze seemed to still, leaving the air thick
and heavy. She blinked once — and he was gone. The seawall stretched empty and silent,
unnervingly still, as if the world itself held its breath.
Only the easel remained. The canvas stood there, propped with unnatural precision, waiting for her
gaze.
The painting was no longer the gentle Red Sea she had seen earlier. Instead, the sky bled into the
water like a wound torn open, a furious crimson so deep it swallowed light, bleeding outward until
it turned black at the edges — a darkness creeping like ink through water.
Above that cursed horizon, a lone bird soared, but not as any bird should. Its wings were elongated
and twisted, thin as broken bones, casting a shadow that stretched impossibly far, like a claw
reaching from the blood-drenched sea toward her very soul.
The bird's gaze seemed fixed on her, not as a creature of flesh and feather, but as a symbol — a
harbinger of doom, a watcher waiting beyond the veil of light.
A chill ran through Liza's spine, cold as the touch of death itself. The painting pulsed with a silent
warning — a crimson song of loss and darkness, whispered not in words but in the deep, bleeding
hues of the sea and sky.
She took a step back, heart pounding, and turned to call the others. But when she glanced again, the
canvas was gone, vanished as if swallowed by the very shadows it had summoned.