Cilian woke on a shore of fractured glass—sea turned solid. Above him, inverted waves curled through the sky, and drowned cities shimmered like mirages beneath the transparent ocean.
He was alone. The talisman lay by his side, cracked in two. He stood and saw, in the reflection of the sky-water above, every version of himself that had ever existed: child Cilian, storm-battered Cilian, mad Cilian. They all stared back, mouths agape in silent screams.
A figure approached from the kaleidoscope horizon: Captain Halgrave—no, not Halgrave, but a child with the captain's tricorn hat, carrying a broken drum. The boy's eyes were hollow.
The boy Halgrave spoke in a voice both theirs: "I am the keeper of the loop. Every hunt you've lived, every storm you've faced—it feeds me."
Cilian realized the truth: the leviathan was a parasite born of humanity's guilt and longing for redemption. Each confrontation reset the cycle, each victory a repeat of past failures.
The boy drummed once, and the glass-shore cracked. Cilian felt himself drawn into the crack, memory and reality folding.