Eleven seas (english edition) E-Book

Elias J. Connor

• Herausgeber: FINN Books Edition FireFly
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Hannah Fanning returns: the nineteen-year-old student, living between two worlds, reluctantly embarks once again on a journey to the magical Naytnal. Hannah is consumed by the realization that freedom comes at a price. At her side is Dawson, the human who gives her support—and at the same time, the vulnerability that her new adversary threatens to exploit. When a stranger from her past reappears, a dangerous triangle of trust, desire, and betrayal ignites. Aboard the old Starwatch, a decommissioned ship, the crew sails through storms of lies, demon pirates, and islands fraught with trials, but the eleven seas of Naytnal demand more than courage: they demand choices. Then, voices suddenly emerge from the ocean depths, tempting Hannah to evil... Dark, romantic, and merciless: ELEVEN SEAS explores the cost of leadership—and whether love is strong enough to tame destiny. (Volume 2 of the fantasy series THE STORY OF HANNAH FANNING.)

Leseprobe

Elias J. Connor

Eleven seas (english edition)

Dark, romantic, and merciless: ELEVEN SEAS asks what it costs to be a leader—and whether love is strong enough to tame fate. (Book 2 of the fantasy series THE STORY OF HANNAH FANNING.)

Dedication

For my girlfriend.

Your dreams enrich my life.

Day after day, year after year.

I am happy to be by your side.

Elias

The books of the fantasy series THE STORY OF HANNAH FANNING

ELEVEN HILLS

(The story of Hannah Fanning – Book 1)

ELEVEN SEAS

(The story of Hannah Fanning – Book 2)

ELEVEN TEMPLES

(The story of Hannah Fanning – Book 3)

ELEVEN NIGHTS

(The story of Hannah Fanning – Book 4)

Impressum

FINN Books Edition FireFly

c/o Elias J. Connor

Bahnhofstraße 10

50169 Kerpen/Germany

Autor: Elias J. Connor

Verlag: FINN Books Edition FireFly

Lektorat: FINN Books Edition FireFly

Korrektorat: FINN Books Edition FireFly

Bei diesem Werk wurde zur Übersetzung das KI-Modell Google Translate eingesetzt. Ferner wurde Chat GPT für manche Sätze und Passagen in der deutschen Version angewendet. Für das Cover wurde das KI-Modell Dall-E verwendet. Das Urheberrecht liegt zu 100 % bei Elias J. Connor.

Chapter 1 - Salt in the mirror

The hallway in the Humanities Building smells of carpet cleaner and hot dust, as it always does when the air conditioning is struggling against Los Angeles. It's that typical UCLA smell of paper, sweat, and too much coffee. I should be able to cling to it—to normality, to things that can be explained.

Instead, moisture is stuck to my skin.

I stop abruptly in the middle of the aisle, so suddenly that a student behind me almost runs into me. "Sorry," she murmurs without looking, and pushes past me. Her flip-flops slap against the floor as if nothing had happened.

I lift my hand and touch the wall. Cold, smooth paint. But my fingers return damp, as if I'd just reached into fog. A fine film, barely visible, but there. I rub my thumb and forefinger together. Salt. Not much. Just a hint that instantly seeps into my skin.

“Okay,” I whisper, and the tone doesn’t sound like a joke.

The star pendant beneath my shirt is getting warm. Not the pleasant warmth of skin contact, but a warning glow, as if someone in the distance had struck a match. I swallow and pull the chain out a little, just enough to feel the eleven points between my fingers.

Eleven, I suddenly think, and the thoughts taste like metal.

Hannah, says a sensible part of my head. You haven't slept enough. You've studied too much. It's condensation. UCLA has old buildings. Los Angeles is weird. End of story.

Another part of me – the part that knows what a world feels like when it becomes thin – remains silent and listens.

A whisper drifts through the hallway, so quiet it would be mere imagination at any other time. It sounds like waves lapping against wood in the distance. Not loud. Not dramatic. But rhythmic. Persistent.

I look around. Nobody reacts. Nobody pauses. Nobody seems to hear an ocean in the university. The voices around me are normal: "Have you read the assignment?" – "The midterms are brutal." – "I swear, the professor..."

I force myself to keep walking. My legs feel heavy, as if I've been standing on the beach for too long. Every movement rubs against the pendant. I tuck it back under my clothes so I don't look like someone having a meltdown in the middle of the hallway.

As I go down the stairs, I see it.

Traces of salt. Fine white lines on the steps, as if someone had tracked sand up from the sea with damp shoes. But it's not sand. It's more crystalline. More glittering. And I know, without being able to explain it, that it's not from here. It's not Santa Monica. It's not Malibu. It doesn't smell like a sunny vacation.

It smells of seaweed and cold iron.

My stomach clenches.

I stop on the landing and look down, as if waiting for a wave to crash around the corner. It's ridiculous. It's UCLA, for crying out loud. It's concrete, neon lights, students who don't know how to eat quietly.

And yet.

The pendant warms up again, almost hot. I flinch as if someone had pinched me with a finger. I reach for it again, and in that moment I see briefly – really only briefly – an image that doesn't belong here: black columns, falling stars like ash, the light of the star-soul bowl.

I blink. Away.

"Hannah?"

The voice is coming from behind. I turn around, and there's Dawson.

He's carrying a backpack, as always, and a dark gray jacket that he wears even on warm days because he always pretends the cold doesn't bother him. His hair has grown a little longer, and he has this way of looking at things, as if he sees something different through them.

Since Naytnal, his gaze has changed. Before, he was silent because he had to be. Now he is silent because he chooses. And sometimes, when he speaks, it still seems as if he has to remind himself that he can.

"You are... pale," he says, more quietly than the surroundings require.

“I’m not pale,” I reply reflexively. Then I hear myself, and it sounds like the kind of lie the swamp loves. I sigh. “Okay, maybe I am pale.”

Dawson steps closer, his eyes fixed not on my face, but on my hands. "What's wrong?"

I hesitate. It's absurd to be discussing salt magic in the middle of a UCLA stairwell. And yet, it's even more absurd not to.

I turn halfway towards the stairs and point at the track. "Do you see that?"

Dawson leans forward. His fingers brush against the white, and I see his pupils constrict slightly. He takes something between his finger and thumb, rubs it, doesn't taste it (thankfully), but smells it. His face remains calm, but his shoulder tenses.

“Salt,” he says.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He looks up at me. "Not from here."

I feel my chest relax a little, just because he says so. Because I'm not alone in this feeling of "This is wrong".

"It was damp in the hallway," I said. "And... I heard it."

"What?"

"Waves," I say softly.

Dawson closes his eyes for a moment, as if checking to see if he can find something within himself. Then he opens them again. "Me too," he says.

I'm getting cold. "What do you mean by 'also'?"

He looks around to see if anyone is listening. A group of students walks by, loud, laughing. No one pays any attention to us. Dawson lowers his voice.

“At night,” he says. “I’m lying in bed, and I hear…” He swallows, as if he doesn’t like the word. “…a whisper. Like water. Like… as if someone is talking under my door.”

My heart is beating harder. "Since when?"

“Three nights,” he says. “Maybe four. At first I thought it was… the heating. Or my neighbors.”

"And now?"

His expression becomes serious. "Now I think it's Naytnal."

The word hangs between us like a drop that refuses to fall.

I take a deep breath. Images flicker in my mind, uninvited: the black pillars, the entity, a name I don't yet know, but whose taste I may already carry in my mouth – salt and fear.

“We need to go to the library,” I say suddenly.

Dawson blinks. "Why?"

“Because…” I search for a rational connection, “…if I go to my seminar now and pretend this isn’t anything, I’ll go crazy. And in the library we’re…” I shrug. “…at least among books. That feels safe.”

Dawson nods. "Okay."

We walk side by side across campus, and everything looks the same as always: palm trees, students, skateboards, sunshine. But I feel like I'm walking through a stage set. As if the real weight lies beneath the surface.

It's cooler in the library. Quieter. The light is even, the sounds muted. I want to believe the sea has no access here. Yet I smell it immediately as we enter: a brief whiff of seaweed, so fleeting I almost think I imagined it—and yet I feel Dawson pause beside me.

“You can smell it too,” I say, without a question mark.

Dawson nods. "Yes."

We sit down at a table in the back, where the windows are small and the outside world seems further away. I put my bag down, as if it were heavier than usual. Dawson sits opposite me, pulls out his notebook, as if trying to create some structure.

"Okay," he says quietly. "What do we do?"

I stare at the tabletop. Wood grain. Scratches. A dried coffee stain. So banal. So calming. And yet the pendant burns against my skin.

“We’ll check the basement,” I finally say.

Dawson nods immediately, as if he had already made the same decision. "Today?"

“Now,” I say. My voice sounds firmer than I feel. “Before it gets worse. Before… it spreads.”

Dawson places his hand on the table. “Hannah,” he says, his tone so calm that it forces me not to panic. “If we go downstairs, there could be…”

"I know," I whisper. "It could get thin again."

He nods. "And we now have... a life here. If we..."

“If we get drafted again,” I finish. My stomach clenches. “Yes.”

We are silent. In this silence, I hear, very faintly, the whisper of the waves again. Not loud. But there. It's like a rhythm beneath everything, like a second heart in the library.

"It's already here," I say quietly. "It doesn't only come when we go down to the basement."

Dawson exhales. "Okay," he says again. That word is his anchor. Our anchor. "Then we go."

We pack our things. The air outside is warm, and it feels wrong that the sun is shining while somewhere between concrete and neon, an ocean is knocking at the door. We walk faster than we need to. Not running—I don't want attention—but purposefully.

The path to the old part of the building is familiar. Too familiar. I remember the first step through the mirror, the feeling of cold water from the shadows. I remember Dawson's hand, his whisper, the code word. And I remember the naive version of myself who thought it was a one-time adventure.

The entrance to the basement is locked, as always. But Dawson has the key—or rather, he has the ability to pretend he does. He used to use magic. Now he uses… patience and knowledge. He knows the janitor's routine. He knows the times when no one is around. And since Naytnal, he's learned to open things without breaking them.

"You're frighteningly good at this," I murmur as he picks the lock.

Dawson grins briefly. "I used to have a lot of time. Back then."

I know what he means: the time spent as a bound guardian, as someone who stood and waited in human form in human corridors. The weight of that hangs briefly between us. Then the door opens.

A cool breeze hits us. The smell changes immediately: dust, concrete, metal. And underneath it all… salt.

The basement hallway is empty. Our footsteps echo. The neon light flickers slightly, as if it too is afraid. I swallow and feel my pendant warm up again.

"Do you hear it?" I whisper.

Dawson nods. "Yes."

The sound of the waves is more pronounced here. It sounds as if water is running along the back of the walls. But I know: there's no water in these walls. Not normally.

We reach the room with the closet. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can barely hear Dawson breathing. I open the door, and the smell hits me like a hand: seaweed, cold wood, something old.

The wardrobe is there.

The mirror is black.

I stop dead in my tracks, as if someone had nailed me to the ground.

“He wasn’t…” I begin, swallowing. “…like that, right?”

Dawson steps to my side. His hand brushes against mine. "No," he says softly. "He was... quiet."

He isn't now.

The surface of the mirror isn't simply black. It moves. Like oil. Like the surface of water in complete darkness. And at the lower edges – where the frame meets the concrete – something shines.

One drop. Then a second. Water.

It runs out of the mirror, slowly, as if the other side no longer obeys the rules. It's not clear. It has a hint of gray, like water filtered through ash. It pools in a small puddle, and I briefly see a starlight flickering in it, as if it were a reflection of something that isn't here.

My breath catches in my throat.

“Naytnal…”, I whisper.

Dawson positions himself slightly in front of me, not as a guard, but as instinct. "Don't touch," he says.

"I need to understand," I whisper, and I hate that it's true. "If it gets through here, then..."

“Then it comes to us,” Dawson says. His voice is rough, but firm. “And then it’s no longer just… our secret.”

Another drop falls. Then another. It's as if the mirror is sweating.

I grope for my pendant and pull it out. The eleven points feel hot. It reacts to the mirror like a magnet. My hand trembles.

“Hannah,” Dawson says quietly. “We can also… go. We can get help. Lys…”

"Lys isn't here," I say sharply, then immediately regret my tone. I exhale. "Sorry."

Dawson shakes his head. "It's okay."

I look at the mirror again. The surface is pulsating slightly. Not like a heart. More like an open throat.

And then I hear it. No longer just waves. A word. Not an English word. Not a German one. A sound that settles in my head like a wet finger on paper.

Hannah.

I'm freezing.

Dawson senses it. "What?" he asks immediately.

"It…" I whisper. "It says my name."

Dawson turns pale. "Who?"

I swallow. "I don't know."

The mirror moves more intensely, as if reacting to my attention. Water flows faster. The puddle grows. The smell of seaweed intensifies, and beneath it is a scent I recognize from Naytnal: that cold iron that tastes of old alliances.

"This is not Rome," Dawson suddenly whispers.

I stare at him. "How do you know that?"

He places his hand on his throat, as if feeling the resonance of his own voice. "Because..." he breathes heavily, "...Rome sounded different in my head. This... sounds like..." He searches for words. "Like the open sea. Like something that doesn't ask. It pulls."

I feel sick.

A thin stream of water is now running out of the frame, as if someone had opened an edge on the other side. It's no longer dripping. It's flowing.

"We have to close it," I say in a panic.

"How?", Dawson asks, and I can hear that he doesn't have an answer either.

I look at the puddle. It doesn't reflect the basement ceiling. It reflects… something else. For a moment, I see dark water, moving. And above it, a sky from which stars are falling like ash.

My stomach is cramping.

"No," I whisper. "Not again." I reflexively lean on Dawson, and he puts his arm around me.

The mirror makes a sound, a deep, wet sigh. Then the voice comes again, clearer, closer: "Come."

Dawson grabs my hand. "No," he says loudly, addressing the mirror as if a word in a cellar could stop an ocean. "Not like that."

The pendant in my hand becomes burning hot. I flinch, wanting to drop it, but I hold on tight. It's as if it's saying: You are the anchor. You are the point of connection.

My mind is racing. If the sea is now pushing Naytnal through this mirror, then it's no random rift. It's a call. A pull. Perhaps something the hills can no longer contain, something now gathering in the seas. Perhaps the entity, imprisoned within the Hort, yet... capable of sending ripples.

"Hannah," Dawson whispers, and his voice brings me back to reality. "Breathe."

I breathe in. The breath is cold and salty. I breathe out. And I force myself not to think about control, not about "I command." But about alliance. About holding. About what I learned on the eleventh hill: You can't close everything off by locking it. Sometimes you have to reweave it.

I lift the trailer. I hold it in front of the mirror.

“If you call me,” I say softly, and I don’t know if I’m speaking to the voice or to myself, “then tell me why.”

The surface of the mirror trembles. Water splashes slightly, as if I've touched a boundary. And then I see something light up in the blackness: eleven dots, like my pendant – but distorted, as if another system were trying to copy my symbol.

A shiver runs down my spine.

"It knows you," Dawson whispers.

“Or it wants me,” I reply.

The word "will" has a sense of possession.

The voice comes again, this time like a whisper right next to my ear, even though no one is standing behind me: "Crown. Sea. Threshold."

I gasp for air. Words. Clues. It's not a pure pulling. It speaks in fragments, like Naytnal does when it can't say something directly without feeding it.

"Sea," I whisper.

Dawson nods, slowly. "It's... different than the first time."

“Yes,” I say. “These aren’t hills. This is… something that’s in motion.”

The water flow suddenly intensifies, as if the mirror has had enough of our hesitation. A thin stream runs across the concrete, toward the hallway. I see it, and my mind immediately conjures an image: saltwater in UCLA hallways. Students slipping. News reports. Panic. And beyond it all—Naytnal, no longer hiding.

"Shit," I whisper.

“Hannah,” Dawson says quickly. “If it leaks out…”

"I know," I say.

Without thinking, I kneel down and place my hand just above the puddle. Not in it. Just above it. I feel the cold rising from the water. It's not LA cold. It's Naytnal cold. It carries a touch of darkness, but also… magic.

"What are you doing?" Dawson asks, alarmed.

“I…” my voice trembles. “I’m trying to hold it.”

“Not with control,” he says immediately, as if he is afraid that I will fall back into old patterns.

I nod.

"Not with control."

I close my eyes and hum a note, very softly, so softly that it vibrates more in my chest than in the air. A note that isn't a "command," but a "bond." A note that says: You won't move forward without us seeing each other. Without us carrying this burden together.

The water reacts.

Not dramatic. It doesn't freeze. It doesn't evaporate. But the flow slows down. As if someone on the other side pauses briefly, surprised that I'm not shouting, not ordering, not fleeing.

Dawson kneels down beside me, cautiously. "Can I..." he begins.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Put your hand… here. Not in the water. Just… close by.”

He does it. His hand is warm, and I feel how his presence stabilizes the tone. Not magic in the classical sense—he's largely lost that—but presence. Humanity. An anchor that doesn't glitter, but holds.

“I hear it,” Dawson suddenly whispers. “It… speaks…”

"What does it say?" I ask, without losing my tone.

Dawson swallows.

"It says... it needs..." He blinks, as if he has to translate the words. "...a key. A bowl. And..." He looks at me, startled. "...you."

My stomach cramps. "Of course," I whisper. "Of course they need me."

The voice in the mirror gets louder. Not shouting. Just closer. As if it's losing its patience.

"The seas are dying."

"The chains are growing."

"Come."

I open my eyes. The mirror is still black, still fluid, but the surface now shows something clearer: a wide, dark expanse of water. And above it, no sun – only a sky of wet steel.

“Dawson,” I whisper. “We can’t keep it here. Not for long.”

He nods, slowly. His facial muscles are tense. "I know."

“And when we leave…”, I begin.

"Then maybe it will follow," he says.

I swallow. That's the question: Are we being pulled in, or are we attracting it? Is the mirror a call to us, or a way for it to reach us?

My pendant is still glowing, but not as hot anymore. More like a heart beating faster.

"What about the alliance?" I whisper. "What about Naytnal? We already..."

“We’ve banished it,” Dawson says quietly. “Not redeemed it.”

That sentence hits me like a gentle blow because it's so true. We never claimed it was over. We only claimed we would stay awake.

And now it's time to be awake.

I feel tears welling up in my eyes because I suddenly feel the weight of this dual world so intensely: UCLA, exams, a normal life I've just rebuilt. And at the same time, Naytnal, Hügelräte, Hort, seas crying out for help. It's unfair that both are supposed to be "mine."

"I don't want to leave again," I whisper, honestly, quietly.

Dawson looks at me, and his eyes soften. "Me neither," he says. Then he exhales. "But..."

“But we can’t pretend nothing’s wrong either,” I added.

He nods.

The water is flowing more strongly again. The mirror is pulsating. As if the other side realizes that our sound was only a pause.

I slowly stand up. Dawson follows me. We both look at the puddle, which now looks like a boundary. The water has changed the surface of the concrete—darker, shinier. It looks as if a piece of Naytnal has fallen into the basement.

“When we leave,” I say, my voice firmer than I feel, “we will not leave as victims. Not as instruments.”

Dawson nods. "As a decision," he says.

“As an alliance,” I whisper.

I look in the mirror. The blackness looks back. I feel the thin line between the worlds. And I feel that Naytnal isn't asking. It's pulling. But I can still choose how I respond.

"Not today," I say softly, addressing the voice calling me. "Not unprepared."

The water pauses briefly, as if it understands, or as if it's angry. Then it flows on, almost as if it's saying: You don't have as much time as you think.

“We need… something,” I murmur. “A plan. A safety net. Maybe…”

“Maybe we can reach Lys,” Dawson says immediately.

"How?" I ask. "We are here. She is there."

Dawson frowns. "The pendant," he says slowly. "And your song. Maybe... it's not just a symbol. Maybe it's... funk."

I inhale. The thought is insane. And yet: In Naytnal, names were frequencies. Voices were realities. Why shouldn't the pendant be a point of resonance?

I take the star pendant in both hands. The eleven points press into my skin. I close my eyes and hum the same note as before, but this time in the direction of the pendant, as if I were tuning it like a musical instrument.

“Lys,” I whisper, and I don’t speak the name like a cry into the void, but like setting a thread. “Lys. If you hear me…”

The trailer gets warm. Not burning. Warm, like a reply.

For a split second, I see Lys's face in my mind's eye – not clearly, more like a shadow. And I hear a voice, very quietly: "Hannah."

I open my eyes wide. Dawson is staring at me. "Did you...?"

I nod, breathless. "Yes."

The mirror pulsates more intensely, as if it were jealous of the other contact.

"Tell her," Dawson whispers quickly. "Tell her it's coming through."

I inhale, hold the pendant tightly, hum the tone, and speak as clearly as I can, even though my throat is dry.

"The mirror is open. Water is coming. It is calling for the seas. It needs the bowl... and me."

A brief flicker in my head, like a flash without light. Then Lys's voice, just a whisper, like wind on paper.

"Stop. Do not follow until you know who is calling. Close the cellar. Salt is a gateway."

"How do I close it?" I whisper in a panic.

The answer comes like a sentence that is half swallowed.

"Binde the threshold with a name. Not with a command. Then it's gone."

I stand there, breathing heavily.

Dawson looks at me as if he's trying not to panic.

"A name," he murmurs. "Not a command. Not a control."

I nod. "A name that... means border."

My head is racing. Naytnal names. Threshold sounds. The Dragon Guardian. The Choral Ground. The way a sound can define reality.

"Eleven Hills," I suddenly whisper.

Dawson blinks. "What?"

“The code word,” I say quickly. “It was never just code. It was… a label. A framework. When we used it back then, it… coupled us. Maybe now we can… uncouple.”

Dawson nods slowly. "Then... say it. Sing it."

I inhale. I stand directly in front of the mirror, far enough away so I don't get wet, close enough to feel the pressure. My hands are trembling. The pendant lies heavy between my fingers.

I hum. Then I speak, not loudly, but clearly, as if I were drawing a line in the air.

"Eleven Hills."

The mirror trembles.

The water pauses briefly.

I'll repeat it, this time with more tone, more structure, like a little song.

"Eleven Hills."

And then I add, almost instinctively, because I sense that it's missing: "Not here."

The mirror makes a noise like someone is rattling a door. Water splashes. For a moment I think I've made it worse.

Then – very slowly – the surface recedes, as if remembering that it has boundaries. Not because I commanded it. Because I named them.

The water doesn't stop immediately, but it lessens. The stream becomes drops. The drops become individual, hesitant points.

Dawson lets out an audible exhale. "It works," he whispers.

I hold the tone until my throat burns. Until the mirror is black and smooth again, unmoving, just dark. Until the water on the bottom remains still, no longer pressing forward.

When I finally stop, my body feels like I've sung a marathon. My legs are weak.

Dawson catches me by the elbow as I stagger briefly. "Hey," he says quietly. "Breathe."

I breathe. The basement still smells of seaweed, but less so. The mirror is still. But the puddle is there. A piece of the sea on concrete. Proof that it wasn't just my imagination.

"It's not over," I whisper.

Dawson shakes his head. "No."

I stare at the water. It's reflecting the neon light – perfectly normal. But if I look closely, I see a brief flicker underneath, as if another surface is shining through.

"The seas," I whisper.

Dawson nods. "They're calling."

“Or something is calling through her,” I say.

He looks at me, and I see that he has the same thought: A new power. A new kind of entity, maritime, hierarchical, pirate-like. Something that loves it when people stand in ranks and obey.

I close my eyes briefly and see falling stars again.

Then I see a black sea.

“We need to prepare,” I say.

Dawson nods. "Yes."

“And we have to… stay normal,” I add bitterly. “At least outwardly.”

He smiles crookedly. "You're bad at normal acting."

"You too," I murmur.

He laughs softly, then becomes serious again. "Hannah," he says, his voice warm but firm. "If it happens again... if the mirror pulls us..."

"Then we'll go together," I whisper.

“And we say so,” he adds. “When we’re afraid. When we’re about to change.”

I nod. "Alliance."

“Alliance,” he says.

We leave the cellar and close the door, as if we could shut out a whole world. I know it doesn't work that way. Nevertheless, it's a ritual that helps me.

Up on campus, the sun is still shining. Students walk past us. Someone is carrying a surfboard and laughing. The sea is just a place of recreation for these people.

For me, the sea has suddenly become a calling.

As we walk across the concrete, I feel the trailer grow cold again. Not calm. Just… waiting. Like a star that knows night is coming.

“Dawson,” I say softly as we walk between palm trees.

"Yes?"

“If we go back,” I whisper, “it’s not just Naytnal that’s changing us. It’s also changing… here.”

He nods slowly. "I know."

I look up at the blue sky, which looks so innocent. And I think: Naytnal is no longer just reaching for us in dreams. It's forcing water through a mirror in UCLA. This isn't romantic. This isn't adventurous. This is… an invasion in slow motion.

And yet, as Dawson walks beside me and his hand briefly brushes against mine, I feel something holding me: not control, but closeness. Not domination, but courage.

For a split second, the wind smells of seaweed. Then it smells of sunshine again.

But I know what lies beneath.

Chapter 2 - Call of the tides

Over the next few days, I will do everything one does when trying to defuse an impending catastrophe with routine.

I go to lectures. I take notes. I laugh at something a friend says and pretend my laughter isn't tethered by a thread. I stand in the cafeteria, staring at a salad bowl while waves thump against wood in my head. I sit by the window at night, clutching the star pendant until my fingers ache, as if pain could be proof that I'm here.

But the anomalies don't disappear. They become more brazen.

On the second day, I find salt on my bookshelf. Fine crystals on the edge of a textbook I haven't touched in weeks. On the third day, the air in a seminar room is so humid that the chalk on the blackboard smears like on wet stone. An annoyed lecturer wipes her glasses and says something about "bad air conditioning." No one disagrees.

On the fourth day, the library smells so strongly of seaweed that I almost gag.

And Dawson… Dawson no longer just hears waves at night. He hears sentences.

He writes them down on a piece of paper for me in the morning because he doesn't want to say them out loud, as if a name could become more fixed that way.

COME. THRESHOLD. SALT. CROWN.

I fold the piece of paper so small that it disappears into my fist.

"This is not... by chance," I murmur, and my voice sounds too thin in my room.

Dawson sits on my bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His runes are pale, barely visible. But I can see a muscle in his jaw move, as if fighting against an echo.

"No," he says quietly. "It's a train."

“And we closed the mirror,” I say, even though I know that’s only half the truth. We bound him. We calmed him. But he’s not dead.

Dawson looks up.

“He is silent,” he says. “But… I feel him.”

I swallow. "How?"

He hesitates. Then he places a hand on his chest, exactly where the blood band used to burn. "Like a scar," he says. "You can't see it. But when the weather changes, you can feel it."

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I feel my own pendant under my shirt like a second skin. Warm when it wants to be. Cold when it lurks.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go down into the basement anymore,” I say, and I hate how much I feel this decision is an escape.

Dawson nods slowly. "Yes."

We say it in the afternoon. We say it again in the evening, when we sit across from each other in the library, trying to study. We say it like a mantra: Don't put it down. Don't feed it. Don't provoke it.

The following night I was woken up by a noise that did not belong in my room.

Drops.

Not the drops from a leaky pipe. These drops have a rhythm. As if they were counting.

I sit up, take a deep breath, and the smell hits me immediately: seaweed. Salty. Cold.

My star pendant is on fire.

"Dawson," I whisper before I can even think, and grab my phone. My fingers are numb. I dial his number.

The doorbell doesn't even ring when I hear his voice, hoarse, awake, as if he had been awake for a long time.

"Hannah," he says. No hello. Just my name.

"You can hear it too," I whisper.

“Yes,” he says. And then, as if startled by himself, he utters the next word: “It is… here.”

"Where?"

A short breath.

“In the hallway,” he says. “In front of my door. It…” He swallows. “…scrapes.”

My heart is pounding so loudly I can barely hear what he's saying. I swing my legs out of bed, ignoring the fact that I'm barefoot. My room is in the student dorm, not far from his. We don't live together, but close enough that intimacy is possible without forcing it.

"Stay inside," I say, even though I know he won't.

“Hannah, no,” he says immediately. “Not alone.”

“I’ll come to you,” I reply. Without giving him a chance to argue again, I put my phone down.

I pull on a jacket in the dark, grab the trailer as if I need to check it, even though it already controls me. The hallway is quiet, but the air is… different. Damp. A whiff of cold sea air in a building that should smell of carpet.

My bare feet make a soft rustling sound on the floor. The hallway light sensor switches on, bathing everything in that pale yellow light that makes every shadow look older.

And there I see it.

A trail of water.

Not much. Just a thin film emerging from one corner, as if someone had spilled a bucket. But it shines. And in that shine lies something impossible: the hallway isn't reflected in the water's surface.

For a heartbeat, I see another ceiling. Dark. Low. And… sky behind it, like wet iron.

I stop moving, I don't breathe.

"Hannah?" I hear Dawson on the phone, quietly, tensely.

"I see it," I whisper.

"Where?"

“In the hallway,” I say, and my gaze follows the trail until it leads to Dawson’s door.

His door is closed. But the gap beneath it is dark, as if there were no room behind it, but… depth.

And water emerges from this crack. Slowly, persistently, as if it weren't dripping, but breathing.

I take a step closer, and the pendant in my hand gets so hot that I almost drop it.

Then I hear it: Not just waves. A voice that speaks not in language, but in meaning.

Now.

“Dawson,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

“I’m here,” he says, and I suddenly hear his footsteps from inside. He’s no longer on the phone in my ear; he’s behind the door.

"Don't open the door," I say quickly.

"Hannah, it..."

The door is shaking.

Not strong. Not like an attack. More like a breath against it, as if something were leaning against the door on the other side.

Dawson is silent. I can only hear his breathing. Then he says quietly, "It's not out. It's... through."

"No," I whisper.

Another jolt. The water flows faster.

And then something happens that doesn't feel like an event, but like a law.

The hallway is getting cold.

Not "cold at night". But "world change cold".

The light flickers, as if the electricity briefly doesn't know in which reality it should flow.

And I feel a pull in my stomach, like back then in front of the mirror – only more aggressive, more impatient. No polite "come in." A grab.

I press my lips together, trying to breathe. The pendant in my hand pulsates like a heart.

“Hannah!” Dawson calls out, this time loud enough that I can hear him through the door, not just through the telephone.

I reach out and touch the wood of the door. It's wet. And beneath the wetness is something… smooth. Like glass. Like a mirror.

“No,” I say, as if the word could set rules.

The door gives way. Not like wood that breaks. But like a surface that softens.

The world is tipping over.

I have enough time to see Dawson's door open—or something that looks like Dawson's door. Behind it stands Dawson, eyes wide, hand outstretched. For a moment our fingers touch—I feel his skin, warm, real.

Then something pulls at both of us.

A jolt, as if a wave had grabbed us by the ankle.

The hallway light explodes in a white flicker.

And the ground disappears.

I'm not falling. I'm being pulled. As if someone had dumped me into a cold abyss. It's like looking through a mirror, but faster, more brutal, without the gentle "oily feeling." Water rushes in my ears, even though I'm not getting wet. Or maybe I am wet, and my body just doesn't care because other rules apply.

I think I'm screaming. Or I open my mouth and no sound comes out.

Then something hits my back – not hard, but abruptly. I roll over, my eyes snap open, and the air in my lungs is suddenly heavy, salty, cold.

I am lying on black sand.

Above me hangs a sky that looks as if someone had soaked it in water and then dragged it across metal: gray, shiny, heavy. Wet iron. No starry sky. No sun. Just a light that doesn't decide whether it wants to be day.

The wind is rough. It smells of the sea, but not of vacation. It smells of the depths and old ships and something rotting underwater.

"Hannah!"

Dawson's voice.

Real. Loud. Close.

I turn, slipping in the sand, and there he is, a few meters away, also on the ground, half on his knees. His hair is wet, even though it's not raining. His gaze is wild, but he's alive. He's here.

I crawl towards him without thinking. My hands dig into the sand. The pendant hangs heavily against my chest, cold as if it has reached its destination.

Dawson grabs my shoulders. "Are you..."

“Yes,” I blurt out. My voice sounds different here. Deeper. As if the air is swallowing the words. “Yes. I am… here.”

He pulls me into his arms briefly, tightly. Not a romantic moment. A moment of survival. Yet, in it, I sense the thread of our love – not as drama, but as support.

I breathe against his neck and smell salt in his hair. He smells of UCLA and Naytnal at the same time, as if the threshold had mixed us together.

"That was... not the mirror," he whispered.

I swallow. "No."

I look around.

We are on a coast. Black sand, dark rocks jutting from the ground like teeth. The sea is there – a wide, dark expanse of water, moving like an animal breathing in its sleep. The waves are not friendly. They don't crash with foam, but rather with a sluggish, heavy thud, as if the water itself were thicker.

In the distance I see something that might look like a harbor – but it's too quiet. No lights. No ships. Just ruins.

"Where are we?" I whisper.

Dawson looks towards the sea, as if listening. "Not in the hills," he says.

"Coast," I murmur. My stomach churns. "The seas."

The word triggers something. A whisper travels across the waves, barely audible, but there: Come.

Dawson presses his lips together. "It's still pulling," he says.

“Yes,” I say. “But more slowly.”

We stand up. My legs are shaky. The sand clings to my jeans, wet and cold. I feel the wind under my jacket, as if it's trying to open me up.

And then I see movement between the rocks.

At first I think of shadows. Then a figure emerges, and I recognize it by its posture before I see its face: as if it were always ready to shoot the next arrow.

Eira.

She is thinner than I remember her. Her hair is stringy, her face gaunt, as if she hasn't slept in too long. Her bow hangs from her shoulder, and her eyes are sharp but tired.

“You’re finally here,” she says, and her voice is hoarse, as if every word had been smoothed with sand.

My heart leaps. "Eira!"

She comes closer, but not quickly. As if she needs to conserve her energy. "Not so loud," she murmurs, then looks at Dawson, and a flicker of respect flashes briefly in her eyes.

"You're still speaking."

Dawson just nods. "I'm speaking."

Eira snorts softly. "Good."

"What happened?" I ask immediately. I notice my voice cracking. "Why... why are we drawn..."

Eira raises her hand.

"Not here," she says tersely. "The wind carries more than noise."

I swallow and look around. The beach seems empty, but in Naytnal, "empty" is often a lie.

Eira turns and beckons us to follow her, into the rocks. Dawson reaches for my hand, and I hold on tight. Not because I'm afraid, but because I want to remember that we're together. That we won't be separated when darkness falls.

A narrow path winds between the rocks. The stone is damp, as if the sea seeps into its pores. Water drips occasionally, each drop sounding too loud.

We reach a small hollow, sheltered from the wind. There, a tiny fire is burning – not big enough to warm us, but big enough to say: Someone has been here. Someone is holding out here.

And Lys is standing next to the fire.

She looks even more exhausted than Eira. Her clothes are torn, her hair is pulled back tightly, but strands have come loose and are stuck to her forehead. There's something in her eyes I don't recognize: not just worry, but pressure. As if she'd been trying for too long to hold together a system that's starting to unravel.

When she sees me, she lets her shoulders drop slightly.

“Hannah,” she says, and my name sounds in her mouth like a tool and a prayer at the same time.

I walk towards her, and she puts her arms around my forearm. No courtly greeting, no distance. Just relief that I'm there.

“You’re… wet,” I say stupidly.

Lys laughs briefly, dryly.

"Everything is wet," she murmurs. "Even the things that shouldn't be wet."

Dawson steps closer. “We were pulled,” he says bluntly. “Not through the mirror. Through…”

“Through salt,” Lys interrupts. “Through moisture. Through places that are becoming thin. It’s spreading in your world because…” She pauses, and I can see that the next sentence hurts her. “…because we can’t contain it anymore.”

My stomach churned. "What do you mean?"

Lys points towards the sea, although we can't see it from here. "Naytnal is healing," she says. "The hill councils are working. The hoard is keeping the entity... contained. But it hasn't disappeared. It has learned."

"Learned something, eh?", I ask.

Eira sits heavily on a stone that looks like a wet bone. "I learned where she can grow," she says hoarsely. "Not in the center. Not in the hills where you forge new alliances. But where you haven't yet broken old patterns."

Lys nods. "The seas," she says softly.

I feel the pendant pressing against my chest, as if it had been expecting the word.

“The seas have their own order,” Lys continues. “And order on ships is… hierarchy. Orders. Obedience. Fear, because water always means death if you fall.”

Eira spits in the sand. "Perfect soil for something that thrives on control."

I swallow. "The entity is in the oceans?"

Lys raises her hand, as if to be precise. "Not... completely," she says. "She's trapped. But like smoke seeping through cracks. She's settled in the seas. In currents. In harbors. In captains' orders. In pirate contracts."

“And that’s why…”, I begin.

“That’s why the hill councils are losing contact with the coast,” Lys concludes. “The coastal towns are no longer responding. Our messengers aren’t returning. Ships are disappearing. The seas are… closed.”

Dawson frowned. "To?"

Eira laughs humorlessly. "You can't set sail if the sea won't let you."

I feel dizzy. "But... we have a guardian alliance. We have hill councils. Why doesn't that help?"

Lys's gaze hardens. "Because their alliance has an effect inland," she says. "And because the seas have ancient treaties, older than Rome. Older than your prophecy. Other names rule there."

A cold gust of wind sweeps into the hollow. The fire flickers. I hear waves outside again.

"Who rules the seas?" I ask, although I fear the answer.

Eira and Lys exchange a glance.

“In earlier times,” Lys says slowly, “there was a ruler of the seas. Nyromo. Not like an emperor. More like a principle. A voice that ordered currents without possessing them.”

"And now?", I whisper.

Eira grinds her teeth. "Something else is in charge now," she says. "Something that... takes."

Lys lowers her voice. "A demon," she says. "Or a demon form. A name one is reluctant to utter, because names are doors."

My trailer is getting cold. An unpleasant cold, like metal in the shade.

Dawson says it anyway, calmly: "Drakar."

Lys blinks sharply. "Where from..."

“I heard it,” Dawson says, and I see him tense up as he says it, as if he wants to spit out the sound. “At night. In a whisper. Between the waves.”

Eira exhales. "Then he's closer than I thought."

I swallow. "Who is Ar... Drakar?" I quickly correct myself, but my brain stumbles. The sea. The pull. The thought of a name that's like a hook.

Lys's face darkens. "He's the one who possesses the sea," she says. "He killed Nyromo... or shattered him. And ever since..."

“Since then, the chains have been growing,” Eira adds.

"Chains?" I ask.

Eira points to Dawson's hand, which is holding mine. "Not yours," she says harshly. "Others. Treaties. Blood flags. Pirates who trade souls. Dragons that watch over currents and can be bought. Everything you painstakingly decentralized in the hills is now concentrated in one fist on the sea."

I feel anger rising within me. Anger is dangerous. Anger feeds. And yet, it's there.

“And you pulled us,” I say, and my voice sounds accusatory, even though I know they didn’t do it intentionally.

Lys immediately shakes her head. "No," she says. "We tried to warn you. We bound the mirror as best we could. But the seas... they find other ways."

"Salt," I whisper.

"Salt is everywhere," Lys says softly. "In your world. In tears. In sweat. In the air by the sea. If something seeks the threshold, it will find salt."

I stare at my hands. I think about the marks on the stairs. About the water in front of Dawson's door. About the way it didn't ask. The way it took.

"We had no choice," I whisper.

“Yes,” Dawson says suddenly. His voice is calm but firm. “We had a choice about how we left. We held on.”

I look at him. His gaze is fixed on me, not on Lys, not on Eira, not on Naytnal. And I feel my chest relax slightly because he's right: the pulling was forced. But holding was our choice.

Eira snorts. "Rome wouldn't have drawn you," she says.

I flinch at the name. Rome. No longer emperor. Wandering guardian. Repentance. I briefly see his face without the crown, in the palace corridor, his hand raised. I wonder if he knows what's happening here.

"Where is Rome?" I ask.

Lys's gaze falls heavy for a moment. "He's on the move," she says. "He's wandering. He's trying to reach coastal towns, but..." She presses her lips together. "Without power, he's slow. And the sea won't let him pass."

"The sea lets no one pass," Eira murmurs.

For a moment, there is only the crackling of the fire and the distant breathing of the waves.

I suddenly feel very tired.

"So," I say quietly, "what now?"

Lys and Eira look at me as if they have been waiting for this question since the first trace of salt appeared in the palace.

Lys speaks first.

“We need you,” she says simply.

Eira adds: “We need you both.”

Dawson raises an eyebrow. "Why?" he asks, and I hear the old pain beneath the question: I have little magic. I am no longer the Seal. What can I be?

Lys replies calmly: “Because Hannah has a voice that forges alliances,” she says. “And you…” She looks directly at Dawson. “You are proof that a bond can break without a person breaking. You are… a counterargument to Drakar.”

Dawson swallows. I feel his fingers squeeze mine tighter, as if he's making sure he's really there.

“And you want us to… set sail,” I say, and the sentence sounds ridiculous because I was just a student complaining about homework.

Eira laughs dryly. “Yes,” she says. “Welcome to Naytnal. Nothing here is ridiculous.”

Lys nods. "The seas are divided into eleven realms," she says. "Eleven seas, each with its own law, its own current, its own corruption. If we want to find Drakar, we must pass through them. And if we want to find Nyromo's remains, we must..."

She stops abruptly, as if she had said something too soon.

“Nyromo isn’t just dead,” Dawson says quietly, and I see him piecing the thought together from the whispers. “He’s… scattered.”

Lys' eyes widened briefly. Then she nodded. "Yes," she said. "We believe Drakar shattered Nyromo so that no one could restore order to the seas. His pieces drift through the oceans. Whoever unites them can deprive Drakar of his sustenance."

I feel sick. Not from fear. From the sheer magnitude of the task.

"And the hill councilors?" I ask. "When we're gone..."

“The hill councils are holding the land,” says Lys. “But they can’t reach the sea. The coastal connection is gone. And without a coast… Naytnal will be isolated again. Then Drakar will grow stronger. Then the Hort will become unstable again.”

"And then the water will come back to UCLA," I whisper.

Eira nods slowly. "Exactly."

The thought hits me like a slap in the face. This isn't just Naytnal. This is our world, which is suddenly no longer safe because salt is everywhere.

“Okay,” I say, and I hear the word fall inside me like a stone. “Okay. Then…”

Dawson looks at me. "Then?"

I inhale. The wind smells of metal and seaweed. The sky hangs heavy. The sea breathes like an animal waiting.

“Then we’re not fighting a monster,” I say quietly. “But a system.”

Lys' gaze sharpens. "Yes."

“And we won’t win by killing anyone,” I continue, because I still carry the truth from the Eleventh Hill within me. “But by… changing the rules.”

Eira tilts her head. "You sound like you're already ruling," she says, half mockingly, half approvingly.

I swallow. "I don't want to govern."

"You want to stop," Lys murmurs.

I nod.

"I want to stop."

Dawson exhales. "Then we first have to... survive," he says dryly.

Eira grins briefly. "That's usually step one."

A sound outside makes us all freeze. Not loud, but different from waves. A cracking sound. Like wood breaking. Or like something heavy scraping against stone.

Eira immediately reaches for her bow. Lys stands up, her hand on a small knife I hadn't seen before. Dawson instinctively pulls me behind him, and I want to shake him for no longer being my guardian—but my body accepts the protection nonetheless, because fear is sometimes faster than ideology.

"What is it?" I whisper.

Eira listens. "Footsteps," she murmurs. "Several."

The fire flickers as if the wind has suddenly changed direction. A cold breath pushes through the hollow, and I smell something new: a putrid sweetness, like rotting seaweed wood.

"Pirates," whispers Lys.

My stomach clenches. "Already?"

Eira pulls an arrow from her quiver. “The coast isn’t safe,” she says, her voice both weary and bitter. “It’s… the door.”

Dawson leans towards me. "Can you…" he begins.

I know what he means: Can I sing? Can I make light? Can I do something that protects us without feeding it?

I close my eyes briefly. I feel the pendant. I feel my song. I feel the waves.

“Yes,” I whisper. “But not loudly.”

I begin to hum, barely audible. A sound that is not an "attack," but a "veil." A sound that doesn't attract attention, but scatters it. Like fog, but made of voice.

Eira glances at me briefly, surprised, then nods as if she understands: Don't show power. Don't feed her.

The crackling outside grows louder. Shadows move among the rocks. I don't see anything directly, but I sense a presence. A kind of hungry curiosity.

Come, something whispers in my head, but this time it doesn't sound like the sea. It sounds like a person smiling.

Eira raises the bow, aiming at a gap between two stones.

Then someone steps forward.

Not Lys. Not Rome. Not a known ally.

A man, or something that moves like a man, with a coat that's dripping even though it's not raining. His face is half in shadow, but I see something that immediately makes me shiver: his eyes seem too bright, too shiny, as if reflecting light like wet stones.

And behind him – two more figures, thin, agile, with blades that did not shine metallically, but swallowed darkly.

Eira draws her bow. "One more step," she growls, "and you'll feed what you seek."

The man raises both hands, slowly, as if being polite. "Feeding?" he says, his voice smooth as oil. "I'm just looking for... travelers."

Lys steps forward, her eyes cold. "This coast doesn't belong to you," she says.

The man smiles. "Not yet," he murmurs.

My voice holds. My heart races.

"Who are you?" I ask, even though I know that names are doors. But sometimes you need to know which door is in front of you.

The man looks at me, and there's something in his gaze that touches me like a cold hand: He recognizes me. Not Hannah from UCLA. Hannah as a crown-without-a-crown.

“One who’s late,” he says quietly. Then his smile falters. “But at least she’s coming.”

Eira pulls the arrow even tighter. "Say your name or die without it."

The man laughed softly. "Oh, child of the hills," he said. "You know: At sea... you only give your name if you want to lose it."

Lys' voice is a knife. "Then go."

The man tilts his head as if considering something. Then he says, almost kindly: "I'll see each other again."

And he withdraws, so quietly that it almost seems as if he had never been there.

The shadows behind him glide away.

The crackling stops.

The hollow is breathing again.

I let the sound fade away slowly. My throat burns. My body trembles.

Eira lowers her bow, cursing softly in her language.

"What was that?" I ask.

Lys' face is hard. "A messenger," she says. "Or a hunter."

"For Drakar?" I whisper.

Lys nods slowly. "For something that the coast already considers its own."

Dawson looks in the direction the figures disappeared. His eyes are dark. "Then it's worse than we thought," he says.

I can feel the pendant pressing against my skin, as if it were agreeing.

“How do we get away from here?” I ask, and the question contains more than just “away from this beach.” It means: How do we get into a system that is currently tipping over?

Eira points towards the sea, invisible behind the rocks.

“With a ship,” she says dryly.

Lys nods.

“With an old ship,” she says softly. “One that not only sails. But… remembers.”

I see Dawson's face. He knows it too.

We've both heard of it without knowing what it is: Starwatch. A shipwreck, a ritual, a ship as a character.

My stomach clenches with fear and anticipation, because both feel similar when approaching a threshold.

“Then,” I say, and my voice sounds rough, “we’ll find this ship.”

Dawson steps closer, places his hand on my back, not as possession, but as support. "Together," he says.

"Together," I whisper.

And outside, behind the rocks, the sea crashes against the beach as if it were laughing.

Chapter 3 - The wreck of the queens

The path to the "Star Watch" does not begin with a map, but with a feeling in your bones.

We walk until my legs grow heavy and the sand rubs against my shoes like a small, stubborn curse. The coast isn't a beach like the ones I know from LA, not a place for towels and sunscreen. It's furrowed, eroded, as if the sea has been relentlessly attacking it for centuries. Black stones lie like broken teeth in the shallow water. Salt glitters among them, not bright and friendly, but like cold scabs.

Eira goes ahead, silently, even though the ground is anything but quiet. She finds the paths between the rocks that won't slip, that won't crack, that aren't too close to the water. Lys follows her with a bundle under her arm—fabric, leather, something that looks like a map, but I can only see fragments. Dawson stays with me, half a shoulder's width away, like someone who's learned not to mistake proximity for control. Still, he's there, constant. When the wind picks up, his hand brushes my elbow, as if checking if I'm still in my body.

“How far?” I ask, because otherwise my voice will get stuck in my head and turn into fear.

Eira doesn't answer immediately. She stands still, listening. The wind ruffles her hair, and she looks like a figure from an unfinished painting.

“Not far,” she says finally. “But the sea…” She grimaces. “It’s acting like it wants to turn us upside down.”

"It wants to take us back to the hills?" I murmur.

Lys snorts dryly. "No. It wants us to give up before we even begin."

"That's... nice," I say.

Dawson makes a sound that is almost a laugh. "Welcome to the sea."

I glance at him. His eyes are awake, but they also hold a shadow I've known since UCLA: the memory of nights when he heard things he couldn't explain to anyone. Now that shadow is no longer isolated. We all hear it.

The whisper of the waves is not just water. It is a language without words, a constant come. Come. Come. And beneath it, something that sounds like a grin.

We climb over a rocky ridge, and suddenly the coast opens up into a bay. The water here is calmer, but not peaceful. More like a hand that relaxes because it already knows it will grip again soon.

And there it lies, half in water, half in mud.

The "Star Watch".

I stop because my body cannot immediately accept what my eyes see.

The ship is large—larger than anything that would make sense on this narrow strip of coastline. It looks as if the bay swallowed it and then spat it out again, too weary to fully digest it. The hull is dark, almost black, with green, encrusted lines where saltwater and time have done their work. Sections of the deck have sagged, as if they had given up at some point. The masts are still there, but they are crooked, like bones that have healed incorrectly. Sails hang in tatters, flapping in the wind like old skin.

And yet, the ship possesses a presence that outweighs its decay. As if it remembers what it once was.

"There she is," Eira says softly. No pathos. Just a fact.

"She looks... dead," I whisper.

Lys's gaze is hard, but there's a glimmer of respect in her eyes. "Ships don't die like people," she says. "They wait."

Dawson stands next to me and says nothing. I can feel his breathing slowing. He stares at the ship as if he sees something within it that is invisible.

“Runes,” he finally murmurs.

I follow his gaze.