We were a week from Krakos, the jewel of the ocean—home to the primary monastery devoted to the Wave-Keeper, and the place Venessa had begged to escape to. Along the journey, her curiosity never fully faded, though her skill at navigating left her little time to wonder. Her background and devotion made her the perfect guide, keeping us on a direct course to our destination.
Suddenly, the steady rhythm of the journey shattered as the hull groaned against an unseen force. The sky remained clear, and the winds held steady, yet the ocean beneath us began to churn with a violent, unnatural hunger. Huge, glass-like swells rose up without warning, tossing the ship as if the Wave-Keeper herself had suddenly turned in her sleep. Natasha lunged for the wheel, her eyes darting across the horizon for a reef or a sea-beast that shouldn't be there. There was no foam, no spray—just a deep, rhythmic thrumming vibrating through the deck planks that suggested the source of the chaos wasn't the weather, but something waking up far beneath the keel.
Venessa, perched in the crow's nest, nearly lost her balance, her terrified shriek slicing through the air. It didn't faze me. I was already searching, scanning for the reason behind these bizarre disturbances. In all my years at sea, I had never felt the ocean move like this. It wasn't natural. It felt… engineered.
The water began to bubble all around the ship, rising in frantic, frothing coils. It was as if the ocean itself were boiling, a slow, deliberate churn that made the air taste of ozone and salt. The deck trembled beneath our feet, and every instinct screamed that this was no storm, no whim of nature—but something alive, deliberate, and far below.
If you want, I can stitch this
One by one, shapes began to rise from the depths, ships—or something like them—surfacing from the boiling waters. Venessa's exclamation cut through the chaos, sharp and trembling: "The Mer"
My eyes widened as the first of the vessels broke fully into view. Sleek, glimmering, and impossibly alien, they moved with a precision no natural current could grant. And then I saw it: they were firing on each other.
The realization hit like ice in my veins—we were in the middle of a territory dispute.
Every pulse of the ocean seemed to echo with the clash of those alien vessels, and I knew one misstep could drag us into the crossfire.
The ocean erupted around us. One of the Mer vessels fired a beam of crackling light, slicing through a swath of water just ahead. The blast churned the waves like a hammer against steel, sending our ship careening sideways.
"Brace yourselves!" Natasha shouted, gripping the wheel with force as the deck lurched beneath us.
My eyes flared a terrifying shade of stormy blue. Rage coursed through me—someone dared strike at my ship without provocation. The fury wasn't mine alone. The Deadwood and the crew responded in kind, their forms igniting with the same unnatural glow, readying themselves for the fight to come.
I could feel the ship tremble beneath us, the pulse of the ocean echoing our own wrath. Whoever these Mer were, they had just made the gravest mistake of their existence.
"Fire at will," I commanded, my voice grim and unwavering.
For five minutes, I let the crew vent their fury, sending volley after volley into the alien vessels. The sea itself seemed to surge with our anger, waves churning in rhythm with our assaults.
Then Venessa's sharp voice cut through the chaos. "Captain… look."
I followed her gaze. The Mer had halted, their skirmish suspended as if some unspoken signal had passed between them. One by one, they pulled beyond our range, leaving behind only the churning aftermath of the sea. Flags of parley were raised—silent warnings that this was far from over.
"Accept the parley, Natasha," I said, my voice calm but edged with steel.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to the Mer, the boiling sea, and then back to me. Finally, with a curt nod, she set the course. From either side, a ship slid forward, gliding through the churning water to meet us.
We anchored a good distance from the battlefield, letting the currents settle beneath the Deadwood. From our vantage, the two sides slowly came into view, their movements deliberate and cautious. At first glance, the ships resembled my own, with living coral forming the basic frames. But that was where the similarity ended. Chitinous plates encased the majority of their hulls, glinting with an otherworldly sheen.
And though the vessels on each side were built alike, their crews were not. Two distinct subspecies stood upon the decks, their differences obvious even at a distance.
On one deck stood squid-faced humanoids, their features a tangle of thick, rope-like tendrils that shifted and flexed with lives of their own. Barnacle-scarred skin clung to warped bone, and briny water streamed from them as if the sea itself refused to let go. Their eyes were deep-set and ancient, heavy with the patience of creatures that measured time in tides rather than years.
Opposite them stood the shark-folk, closer to human in shape but unmistakably forged by predation. Dorsal fins rose along their backs, cutting clean lines through the air, and their fingers were webbed, long and strong, built for speed and control in open water. When they spoke or shifted, rows of sharp, triangular teeth caught the light—shark-shaped, efficient, made to shear rather than tear.
As the ships drew closer, a pressure settled behind my eyes, deep and unfamiliar. It wasn't fear, not exactly, but something older, heavier, as if unseen currents were brushing against parts of me I hadn't meant to stir. The ocean's pulse shifted, no longer echoing my wrath, but probing, recognizing.
I turned away before the feeling could take root.
"Hold position," I said quietly, already moving. I retreated to my quarters, the door sealing behind me as the Deadwood creaked in uneasy anticipation, leaving the parley to unfold without me.
I was perched in a nook overlooking the water below when a knock at my quarters door interrupted my thoughts. Through my creations' eyes, I had already seen, already knew who waited on the other side.
"Enter," I said simply.
My quarters quickly filled as Venessa led four Mer inside. Natasha lingered at the threshold only long enough to inform me she was keeping watch outside, then pulled the door shut behind her.
The room felt smaller at once. The sea's presence pressed in through the walls, and every gaze turned toward me, waiting. Venessa's mouth opened to speak—but before she could, the Mer dropped to their knees.
The two Mer closest to me were shamans, the religious clergy of their kind. Their foreheads touched the deck a heartbeat before the other two. Only then did the eldest shaman speak, his voice low and reverent.
"Forgive us, my Lord."
I was shocked once again at being called "my Lord"—though this time, at least, I knew it had nothing to do with my family. I opened my mouth to deny their claim, but Venessa spoke up first.
"You will refer to the Captain as Captain," she said, sharp and unwavering.
The eldest shaman stiffened, eyes briefly flicking toward his fellows, then bowed his head lower.
"My apologies, Captain," he intoned, his voice steady now, reverent without hesitation.
Venessa's loyalty surprised me, adding another layer to the mystery I had found myself tangled within.
I broke the silence. "What is going on here?"
The room seemed to hold its breath. Even the air above the water seemed to thicken, as all eyes—Mer and crew alike—turned toward me, waiting for an answer.
The eldest shaman's voice was steady, but carried the weight of centuries.
"This is a sanctioned territory battle. The victor claims the territory."
Understanding dawned on me. I remembered learning, when I was younger, how the Mer governed themselves. A sheepish smile crept across my face.
"I should be the one apologizing," I said. "I overreacted. Now—up, all of you."
I studied them, eyes narrowing. "Will the battle resume?"
The eldest shaman shook his head slowly as they rose. "No. The surface battle has ended. The Finned have conceded the victory to the Squibs."
I sighed, my voice calm but firm, "Did I cause the Finned to concede?"
The eldest shaman inclined his head. "You did..... Captain."
My expression softened, the heat draining from my gaze as the ocean beneath us settled. "Then I'll correct my mistake," I said quietly. "I'll repair both sides, and the battle can resume once I've left."
Behind the Mer shamans, the largest Mer I had ever seen spoke. His voice rolled through the chamber like the tide crashing against cliffs. "The Finned will accept your repairs, Captain, but I have already conceded this battle." but I have already conceded this battle." His gaze held mine for a brief moment, and within it I found respect… loyalty… and something deeper still, quiet and unsettling in its weight.
I smiled faintly as I spoke. "A Mer is nothing without their honor." An unfamiliar sense of pride welled in my chest.
My words stirred a visible reaction among the Mer. The Finned diplomat stood a little straighter, while the others—and even Venessa—inclined their heads in quiet reverence.
I inclined my head in return. "I am Captain Nyth," I said. "No titles."
A hush fell over the room, thick and expectant, as if the sea itself had leaned in to listen. Even the shamans, usually composed and deliberate, shifted slightly under my gaze. Their eyes lingered on me—not in fear, but in understanding. They sensed it—my bond to the Wave-Mother—and I could feel their recognition, silent and reverent, brushing against me like the tide itself.
I opened my mouth to ask why, but a sudden pulse from the ocean stilled even the shamans, as if the sea itself had drawn a line. The eldest among them bowed his head slightly, his voice hushed. "At your destination… you will find your answer."
My eyes narrowed at the prophecy. I had no desire to be a pawn again… yet here we were, a path set before us—and it would be a shame to waste it. I relaxed, letting my gaze flicker between my new guests. "Introductions, then."
Without missing a beat, much to the shamans' dismay, the Finned delegate spoke with a boisterous lilt. "Deep-Tooth, Captain. Chieftain of the Finned—our nomadic tribe of chaos."
The younger shaman spoke next, practically vibrating in place. She served the Finned, and following her chief's lead, she introduced herself. "I am Wave-Weaver, my L… Captain. It is an honor to meet you."
With a sigh, the Elder Shaman motioned to the Squibs delegate to speak. Chest heaving in a proud salute, they introduced themselves. "To'rrock, Chieftain of the Squibs, pays honor to the Captain."
"And I am Tide-Seeker, shaman of the Squibs, and High Shaman of this underwater region," the Elder Shaman spoke last, head bowed in reverence.
I nodded at each of their introductions, then came to my feet. "Now that that's over with, let's get to repairs," I said.
What should have taken days, I completed in hours, leaving both sides in awe. My crew moved with precision, repairing ship after ship as if the sea itself guided their hands. I used my excess bones as raw materials, fueling the regrowth of their vessels, each one rising whole as if stitched by the ocean itself.
During this time, the Finned Chieftain, Deep-Tooth, proved to be a surprisingly good conversationalist, his boisterous energy softened by moments of sharp wit and insight. Even amidst the work, he shared stories of his nomadic tribe—their triumphs, their follies—and somehow made the long hours pass with ease. It was through him that I learned how the battle had even begun.
Both tribes were splintered groups, each searching for a place to settle. Both had laid claim to the same territory, and neither was willing to back down. I arrived just as the battle began, leaving both sides battered and wounded—but, surprisingly, without a single casualty.
The repairs were finished, the sun dipping toward the horizon and painting the surface of the water in bruised purples and golds. The two Mer fleets sat high in the water, their hulls gleaming—not just restored, but reinforced with the dense, ivory-sheen of the Deadwood's essence.
Tide-Seeker, the Squib Elder, approached with a somber gait. His tendrils curled tightly against his chin—a gesture of deep contemplation. "The Squibs will hold this territory," he intoned, "but we do so knowing it was granted by the hand of the Deep. We shall carve your sigil into the primary reef, so that all who swim below know who brokered the peace."
"No sigils," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.
Tide-Seeker chuckled, "As you wish Captain."
Before I could respond further, Wave-Weaver glided over, her movements fluid and deliberate. She bowed her head, but not as deeply as Tide-Seeker—there was a spark in her gaze, a curiosity that flickered at the edges of reverence.
"The Finned," she began, "wish to bid you good fortune on your journey, my Captain."
I allowed a faint smile to tug at my lips.
"Actually… I have something for you."
Curious, Wave-Weaver tilted her head as I reached into a pocket of the Deadwood and produced a map, the edges worn but the details clear. I held it out toward her, letting the light catch the inked lines and tiny sketches of the island we were headed for.
"This is a map to a deserted island, about a week from here," I said, letting my fingers trace the edges of the inked lines. "It's a special place to me. I've never met another Mer there, so it should be… free."
Wave-Weaver's eyes widened, her mouth opening slightly in disbelief. She was completely speechless, and for a moment, the only sound was the gentle rocking of the Deadwood.
I continued, letting a small smile tug at my lips. "There are some crabs that live on the island. Just tell Gulp I sent you."
Both shamans stood in silence, Tide-Seeker wearing a fond, knowing smile. "Let us depart now, but may we meet again on a sandy shore," he intoned, guiding the still-shocked Wave-Weaver toward her vessel.
Only after their forms had sunk into the horizon did I allow myself to watch the chiefs' flagships begin to submerge once more. Within moments, no trace of the battle remained on the ocean's surface—everything as if it had never happened.
My thoughts drifted toward the growing mystery, the threads of strange events tugging insistently at my mind. Krakos held answers—of that I was certain—and every new revelation seemed only to point toward it. The ocean was calm now, but the questions it left in its wake churned louder than any storm.
My hands gripped the wheel, grounding me back in the present. The Deadwood creaked beneath me, steady and familiar, each plank and rope a reminder of what I commanded. Ahead lay Krakos, the jewel of the ocean, and with it, the answers I had been chasing—answers the waves seemed determined to guard until we arrived.