Dawn's pale light revealed a sea still draped in mist. The Vigil's Wake rode the swelling waves as if rocked by some hidden current. Cilian emerged onto the quarterdeck to find Old Arthur bent over the rail, ear to the wood. His one good eye was distant—a window to some other world.
"Something's come awake," Arthur whispered. "And it's closer than before."
Moments later, the water ahead bulged without warning. A vast ridge of white broke the surface half a mile off, its shape impossible—a mountain carved of living ice. No spray hissed, no whale-song boomed; only the silent lift of water that dwarfed the Vigil's Wake.
Captain Halgrave drew his sword and stepped to the rail. "Battle stations!" he commanded, voice steel.
Harpoons were manned. Cilian found himself at the first line, heart pounding. The ridge edge tilted toward them, revealing rows of pale, overlapping plates—like dragon scales. Still, no eyes, no mouth, just unblinking expanse.
A hush fell over the crew as the whale's flank crept nearer. Cilian felt an indecipherable tug in his mind, a low vibration beneath his ribs. The world's colors seemed to pale—wood grew gray, the sky dimmed, even the brass fittings dulled.
Arthur's voice rose, trembling with awe. "It's not breathing… but it bleeds cold."
Halgrave signaled: "Hear me, men! We strike true. This ends today."
With a collective cry they launched harpoons into the flank. The shafts sank into flesh like into stone—and nothing happened. No spray, no tremor, only the waterfall of mist rising from the wounds.
Then the water around them began to rise, curling up the ship's side. Cilian clung to the rail as he felt the deck lift underfoot. The swell climbed higher and higher until the Vigil's Wake floated—a phantom vessel carried by an invisible tide.
The helmsman's song rose in the air, discordant and piercing. Wren's humming warped into words Cilian could almost grasp: "…bound by sorrow… bound by blood…"
Captain Halgrave shouted, "Hold fast!" but the rising sea answered with a roar that had no sound—a deafening silence.
Wave after wave of white water curled overhead like the arches of some impossible cathedral. Cilian saw the sky through the water, inverted: clouds drifting beneath him.
He closed his eyes against vertigo. When he dared to open them again, the sea had receded. The white ridge was gone, as if it had never been. The Vigil's Wake rested gently on normal waves once more.
The crew stood battered, wide-eyed. Halgrave sheathed his sword and turned to Cilian.
"Few live to tell of that sight," he said quietly. "If you still have your mind, you're among the fortunate."
Cilian's legs trembled. "What… was that?"
Wren reached out, placing a rough hand on Finn's shoulder. "Not a whale, lad. A wound in the ocean's spirit. And it knows each of us by our regrets."