The hours that followed were a fever of whispered confession. Crewmen huddled in corners, eyes darting, speaking of sins neither confessed to God nor fellow man. Cilian found himself alone at the rail, staring into the endless gray.
Old Arthur appeared silently beside him, wiping a tear from his one good eye. "The Leviathan listens," he said. "It learns your guilt and sings it back."
Colian swallowed. "What about redemption?"
Arthur's gaze drifted to the horizon. "Redemption is the hardest melody to learn when the sea only echoes shame."
Below decks, a soft chorus of murmurs began to rise—voices not of the crew but of something else. They wove through the ship's timbers, twisting familiar words into mournful laments. Cilian recognized his own name whispered, then a litany of his secret fears.
He clamped his hands over his ears, but the song found him still. Faces he'd wronged—friends he'd betrayed—flashed before his eyes in phantom form.
Captain Halgrave's voice cut through the haze. "Enough!" He strode forward, talisman in hand—a simple pendant of driftwood carved with the spiral mark. He held it aloft. "This binds us to reality. No more voices."
He pressed the pendant to his chest and passed it to Cilian. "Carry this. When the Leviathan sings your sins, hold this close."
Cilian accepted it, cold wood burning against his skin. Instantly the murmurs receded, like a tide pulling back from shore.
Arthur nodded. "The first step back from madness."