It had been four moons since we set sail upon Zaratharos.

  Four moons since we abandoned the trembling shores of Paxnoctis, casting behind us the last breath of civilization. Four moons of carving a path through oceans lined with teeth, scales, and silence.

  The scent of our voyage had changed.

  Gone was the crisp perfume of new sails and fresh-forged blades. Now, the wind carried only the scorched tang of char, and beneath it, a copper-threaded whisper of blood—faint, but ever present.

  Each time a beast rose to strike, we answered in kind.

  Each time one fell, we carved it open.

  What began as necessity…

  …has since become ritual.

  The meat of sea-beasts is muscle forged by tide and time—dense, yet yielding. The bore, draped in black and backlit by firelight, stood at the prow like a warrior before an altar. A long iron skewer in one hand. A glistening slab of cetus flank in the other.

  “Oil-dripping spine meat… three days salted and spine-charred over burning shell-ember,” he muttered like a priest reciting sacred rites, flipping the meat with delicate reverence. "It doesn’t get better than this."

  Smoke coiled around him like a dragon’s breath. His crimson eyes glinted—not with joy, but with acclaim.

  "Do you have to narrate every time you cook?" I asked, crouched atop a coil of rope, my salt-slicked hair tied back with a strip of seawater-soaked linen.

  He didn’t glance my way.

  "Cooking is a battlefield," he said. "You conquer the flavor—or it devours you."

  Chara passed by, the wind tugging at her braid. "Smells edible. That’s new." I nodded solemnly. “A miracle, truly. I was half-expecting poison.”

  He scowled. "Bold words from the girl who once tried to roast Kraken meat on a lantern."

  "That was science," I said, unrepentant.

  He snorted and tossed me a seared strip. I caught it with one hand. Smoke kissed my face. Salt stung my tongue. The hot flesh melted against my teeth, leaving behind fire and fat.

  He was right. It didn’t get better than this.

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  But pleasure is a fickle guest.

  The next morning, the water jars were dry.

  Not one but all of them. Clay amphorae, tall as my hips, sealed with wax and prayer. Gone. The water had vanished into the mouths of the sun.

  Two months of drought. Not a drop of rain.

  No clouds.

  Only a sky that watched, merciless and unblinking, like a god with a vendetta.

  "We’re out," Chara said quietly, as she steered. Her lips were split. Her breath brittle.

  A pounding behind my eyes. Thirst clawed my throat. And yet, from the hollow of my mind, a memory surfaced—a page, half-torn. A diagram.

  Reverse Osmosis.

  "We can filter it," I said, voice hoarse.

  Both of them turned.

  "Filter what?" the bore asked. "You see a river here, O vessel of wisdom??"

  "The sea," I murmured. "We’ll turn saltwater into drinkable water. It’s old—ancient even. Used during drought. We build a membrane filter, pressurize the water through it, and collect the freshwater. It’ll leave behind the salt and impurities"

  Silence.

  Then—

  The bore raised a brow. "See, this is what confuses me—you’re terrifyingly smart and undeniably the dumbest creature I’ve ever met. The contrast is impressive.”

  "I contain multitudes," I said, smug.

  “I swear, it never fails to amaze me,” The bore muttered."You speak like a poet and a sea slug."

  "I read it in the Library of Whispers," I said proudly. "Maritime survival section."

  Chara folded her arms. "We’ll need heat. Pressure. Containment. Guts for membranes."

  "I’ll handle the filter," I said. "Beast entrails are semi-permeable. We’ll use the hollow pipes we salvaged from that leviathan’s spine."

  "Stop," the bore groaned, "you’re making sense again. I’m nervous."

  Chara added, "And we’ll distill some too. Fire. Steam. Condense. Slow—but certain."

  "And the salt left behind…" she smiled, faint and tired, "we season what we survive on."

  By sundown, three barrels held half their promise. Four jars gleamed with crystallized salt, and our bellies sang with kraken heart roasted and rimmed with purity.

  We stood by the railing as the sea devoured the sun.

  Satisfied.

  Then—

  A shift.

  Not a sound—but a pull. A silence that came with teeth. The kind that enters the marrow before the ears.

  The ship lurched.

  Ropes snapped like tendons.

  Saltwater burst over the bow.

  Below, something pulled.

  It felt alive.

  Chara dropped her shell. Her eyes widened. The bore reached for his blade. I gripped the railing as the horizon tilted.

  Zaratharos was moving—fast. Unnaturally fast. Dragged. Torn forward like prey.

  And then, silence. Just the sound of the waves hissing.

  The vessel was no longer ours to control.