The journey to the harbor had been a kind of slow unraveling. After an exhausting eleven-hour train ride, we stepped out into the morning air of the international harbor, where sea fog curled around distant cranes like pale fingers and gulls circled the sky, crying hungrily.
The harbor smelled of salt, fuel, and old rust. Cargo ships lined the docks like slumbering beasts, containers stacked on their backs. Among them, gleaming like an immaculate lie, was the vessel that waited for us.
To my surprise, Donald Reed, the owner of Anthem Tours himself, was there to welcome us at the embarkation point. He stood flanked by uniformed staff and a banner printed with the company logo. He was a large man with a booming laugh, a belly that strained optimistically against his expensive shirt, and eyes that crinkled in a way that made him look perpetually amused.
He shook my hand with both of his, patting my shoulder like we were old friends.
"Atlas Orion!" he exclaimed. "The famous Kotrich in the flesh! What an honor to have you here!"
"It's just Atlas," I replied.
He laughed again, unbothered. His voice carried over the din of the harbor, rich and unrestrained.
He ushered us onto his private vessel like a proud father showing off his favorite child. The gangway trembled slightly under our feet, the sea lapping against the hull below like something breathing.
The ship was massive—easily capable of carrying two thousand passengers, though this voyage, I'd been told, was a "selective, curated experience."
"Welcome to the Velaris," Donald beamed, spreading his arms wide.
The Velaris was a pristine white behemoth with two towering smokestacks and a swimming pool on the forward deck that glittered an unnatural turquoise. The vessel's name was painted in deep black letters along the side, an old Norse reference to the squirrel that ran along the world tree. A messenger between realms. A creature that carried words up and down an endless trunk, passing gossip between gods and dragons.
The metaphor wasn't lost on me.
The ship had five levels in total. The first was the engine room, hidden deep beneath the waterline, where men in blue overalls tended to metal monsters that never slept. The second was the entertainment hub—gym, library, internet café, and passenger cabins lined in carpet that swallowed footsteps. The third was strictly cabins, housing nearly a thousand rooms, their doors identical and anonymous. The fourth was the upper deck, open to wind and sky. The fifth was the bridge, where authority and illusion met in polished instruments and steady hands.
Everything smelled faintly of disinfectant and perfume, as if the ship was constantly trying to scrub away the fact that it was, at heart, a sealed metal coffin drifting over black water.Celeste and I were assigned a suite in Room 216 on the second floor.
"We're... sharing a room?" Celeste asked, a flush creeping up her neck.
"Don't worry," I said, checking the layout displayed on the keycard brochure. "Room 216 is a suite. It has a living room, three separate bedrooms, and private baths. We aren't really sharing."
We entered the suite, and the door closed behind us with a soft click that sounded more final than it should have. Warm lighting bathed the room in a cozy glow. A small chandelier hung above a glass coffee table. A bowl of complimentary fruit sat untouched, glistening under the light.
I took the bedroom closest to the entrance; Celeste took the one next to it. My room was standard—a desk, a lamp, a porthole, and a single bed dressed in white sheets that were just a bit too crisp.
The porthole showed a slice of gray sea and gray sky. The horizon line wavered slightly as the ship gently swayed. Nothing else. Only emptiness.
I dropped my bag beside the bed and collapsed onto the mattress, letting the fatigue sink into my bones. The distant rumble of the engines vibrated through the frame, a constant reminder that I was no longer on solid ground.
As sleep pulled at my eyelids, I thought I heard something. A faint, rhythmic tapping in the walls, like nails against metal. Too steady to be random. Too deliberate to be ignored.
By the time I sat up and listened, it had stopped.
I told myself it was just the ship adjusting to the waves.
It was easier than considering the alternative.