Horizon Floating Fortress
Mornings at Horizon always began with the toll of the iron bell from the central tower, ringing out sharply at exactly 6:00 AM. Still, many were already awake by then, as if that sound had long been etched into their biological clocks. Kael stirred as the bell pierced the silence of the night, tearing through the stillness like a blade.
He lay in a cramped steel compartment reeking of seawater, dried fish, and the ever-present stench of rust—metal slowly surrendering to salt. The odor clung to everything: clothes, tools, even dreams.
At nineteen, Kael was a common laborer—one of countless hands working aboard Horizon, one of humanity's last bastions adrift in the boundless ocean.
Out of habit more than thought, Kael climbed down from his narrow iron bunk with deliberate care, making sure not to wake the three others still asleep in the tight quarters. He made his way to a locker in the corner and pulled out his workwear—a patched pair of pants and a worn-out shirt made from recycled plastic.
Two centuries ago, a cataclysmic flood had swallowed most of the Earth. No one alive truly knew what had happened. All Kael knew came from Horizon's mandatory history classes, held for every generation under the guidance of the ruling Council. From those, he had learned the vague outlines of the story: a failed experiment that overheated the planet's core, triggering massive tectonic upheavals, tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions.
The world that once was—its towering skyscrapers, golden fields, and lush green forests—now slept beneath the waves, buried under layers of silt, coral, and the wreckage of human ambition. Only a scattering of mountaintops, islands, and floating fortresses like Horizon remained, drifting like relics of a lost civilization.
These fortresses were known as the Drift—a name that spoke of their endless wandering, year after year, across the empty blue.
Kael grew up on tales of something called the Drylands—a mythical place untouched by the flood, where vast fields still stretched beneath open skies and rivers flowed with endless fresh water. In the old world, children once drifted to sleep with stories of Snow White, Cinderella, and Peter Pan. But in this era, it was the legends of the Drylands that nourished the dreams of those who remained.
Countless versions of the story had circulated over the years, passed down like sacred whispers. Many still dreamed of it—some clung to it like hope, others like a prayer. But not Kael. He didn't believe in fables. He had lived with the sea long enough to know it was everything: family, home, and threat.
The ocean stretched forever, deep and indifferent, vanishing into the gray horizon where it met the sky in a seamless blur. Each day, the salty wind swept across the waves and slapped against the sides of the drifting fortress, a constant reminder that the sea was alive and watching.
But this sea was no playground—it did not forgive the unskilled. Storms here could swallow entire fleets, even a full Drift. And beneath the surface lurked creatures no one could fully explain: tentacles longer than boats, eyes glowing like lighthouse beacons, waiting, hunting. Kael had heard stories of schools of massive sharks in the Northern Sea, each longer than ten meters, always ravenous. He had once heard a deafening wail rising from the deep—not the sound of waves or fish, but as if the ocean itself were wailing.
Yet to Kael, the sea wasn't danger. It was freedom.
Since he was a child, he had been obsessed with the scout canoes—sleek, fast boats that skimmed the water like seabirds in flight. Their crews were explorers and wanderers, the rare few who left Horizon in search of new islands, other Drifts, or traces of the legendary Drylands. They were Horizon's eyes and ears—but few ever returned. Between pirates, northern storms, and abyssal monsters, every mission was a gamble.
Still, Kael dreamed of piloting one someday—of gripping the helm as the bow sliced through waves, of chasing the edge of the world, of finding something no one else ever had.
The floating fortress of Horizon was Kael's home—a labyrinth of steel and recycled plastic, cobbled together from the carcasses of oil tankers and shipping containers from a long-dead age. From a distance, it looked like some sea beast on the hunt, its tilted watchtowers and central citadel rising amid a sprawl of slanted rooftops shimmering under the weary sun.
Patchy solar panels, streaked with rust, powered what mattered most here: the water purifiers—machines more precious than gold. Horizon had a propulsion system of ancient propellers, though it hadn't been used in years. The last time was a decade ago, during a desperate flight from another hostile Drift. As its name suggested, Horizon simply drifted—wherever the wind pushed, it went. Still, in times of need, over a few hundred rowers could be mobilized to steer it.
With nearly two thousand residents, Horizon was one of the largest surviving fortresses. Life here was harsh, reminiscent of an old wartime economy—everything from water, food, housing, to jobs was rationed and assigned by the ruling body: the Council of Leaders, led by Soren, its elected Chairman. Society aboard Horizon was divided into tiers. At the top were the Council of Leaders, followed by engineers, divers, warriors, scouts, and merchants. At the bottom were common laborers like Kael, doing the grunt work that kept the fortress alive. Compensation existed, though calling it a "salary" was generous—most were paid in metal tokens, the standard currency and a rough measure of value in this new world.
Kael, not yet twenty, was too young to join the diving crews or the scout corps. For now, he worked with the fishing team—a common laborer earning 1.5 tokens a day. It was dull, repetitive work, but it kept him fed, clothed, and—most importantly—on board. On Horizon, if you were assigned a job and refused to do it, you were cast out. Simple. Fair.
Still, Kael's heart beat for something more. He admired the Scout Corps with quiet reverence, always watching from afar when they returned—canoes scraped by claws, pitted with rust from storms and sea beasts. Sometimes, there were bloodstains on the hulls—proof of encounters that had nearly turned fatal.
Once, Kael had shyly approached one of their battered canoes, running a hand along its scarred surface, dreaming. He pictured himself at the helm, skimming over the waves under a blazing sun, wind whistling through his ears, the salty tang of the sea spraying his face.
"One more year," he whispered to himself. "Just one more year… and I'll be old enough to join the Scouts."
Trade still existed in this era—a lifeline of the new world, much like it had been in the old one. Here, people bought and sold anything they could get their hands on: food, fresh water, weapons, fuel, raw materials—everything had a price. Even people.
Merchants traveled between far-off Drifts on battered trade ships, bringing back whatever they could find and selling it at Horizon's weekly market. But every trip was a gamble—pirates, storms, and sea monsters made sure of that. Kael had once seen a trader's ship return with its hull slashed to ribbons, claw marks running deep along the metal as if some beast from the deep had tried to drag it under.
Kael's day began, as always, with a splash of briny seawater to the face. It stung his eyes, but fresh water was too rare to waste. Breakfast was a ration from the Council: a dry, rubbery fishcake and a small cup of weakly filtered water.
He chewed slowly, forcing himself to imagine fruit or pastries—luxuries spoken of by the elderly, half-remembered from a world lost to the waves.
"What's an apple like?" he wondered. "Red, round… but what does it taste like? Must be amazing."
Then he shook the thought from his head. No time to dream—he had to eat quickly and report to his shift. If he didn't, the fishing captain would tear him a new one.
After finishing, Kael checked his gear: a rusty knife—his reward from the Council for "diligence" last year—a coil of rope, and a patched-up net. Satisfied, he stepped outside and merged with the flow of people heading toward the docks.