Gareth stirred as the gentle sway of the New Ones rocked him in his sleep.
The creak of timber and the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull formed a lullaby he had long since learned to trust.
Beside him, Kael Draven slept soundly, his chest rising and falling with measured precision.
Even in rest, there was a tension about him — the kind of taut energy Gareth had learned to respect, and occasionally envy.
A faint smile brushed Gareth's lips. For once, the sea wasn't a battlefield.
The island, the pirates, even the invisible weight of his destiny felt distant here, cushioned by the warm hum of the ship's engines and the occasional call of gulls above.
A sharp rap on the door broke the serenity. Gareth's eyes snapped open.
"Oi! Wake up, boys!" a voice barked.
Marcellus shoved the door open without waiting for an answer, his soot-streaked face grinning in that familiar chaotic way.
"You two asleep or plotting the destruction of the ocean in your dreams?"
Gareth groaned, sitting up, hair sticking to his damp forehead.
Kael's eyes flickered open, a frown forming as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Marcellus strode in, slamming a fist against the small table by the wall.
"Get dressed! Captain says we've got business before breakfast. And trust me, you don't want to be the last ones on deck today."
Gareth swung his legs over the side of the bunk, still half-asleep, but already smiling at Marcellus's energy.
Kael muttered something under his breath, reaching for his boots, clearly just as annoyed as he was intrigued by the interruption.
The ship's gentle sway, the muffled sound of the waves, and the early morning light spilling through the small porthole made the room feel impossibly alive.
For a brief moment, Gareth let himself linger in it — the quiet calm before the chaos of the day.
The ship's narrow corridors smelled of salt, wood, and last night's meals as Gareth, Kael, and Marcellus made their way toward the kitchen. The crew's laughter and the distant slap of waves against the hull carried through the ship, a comforting hum.
Marcellus, ever boisterous, had spotted a small flicker of fire from the cooking stove. His eyes widened, pupils darkening — a spark of memory igniting something buried deep.
In an instant, the man froze, muscles coiling like a spring. The hum of the ship vanished, replaced by the drum of his rapid heartbeat. Without warning, he launched himself forward with terrifying speed.
Gareth barely had time to react. Marcellus swung a fist that could have shattered the bulkhead; Kael rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding the strike, boots skidding against the wooden floor.
Gareth's mind raced. With a flick of his wrist, telekinesis flared, slamming Marcellus against the wall. But the moment he loosened, Marcellus surged again — faster, more frenzied, moving like a ghost.
The hallway became a blur of motion:
Kael ducked under a flying chair, kicking it back toward Marcellus.
Gareth leapt into the air, spinning mid-flight, using bursts of telekinesis to throw objects in Marcellus's path.
Pots and pans clanged, smoke curled from the stove, and the narrow corridor felt impossibly small.
Marcellus's attacks were precise, deadly, yet chaotic, driven by PTSD-fueled reflexes. Every step and swing seemed choreographed in its own terrifying rhythm — a storm contained in the ship's hull.
Gareth spotted Kael charging head-on toward the next strike. Without hesitation, he grabbed Kael by the shirt from behind, yanking him back in half a second, just as Marcellus's fist smashed into the air where Kael had been.
"Hang on!" Gareth shouted, and in the next instant, he pinned Marcellus down with a pulse of telekinesis. The man thudded against the wall, struggling, fists pounding, eyes wild.
Kael caught his breath, his chest heaving. "Damn… that was fast!"
Gareth didn't answer, eyes locked on Marcellus, holding him firm. "You're not hurting anyone. Not today."
Marcellus thrashed, rage and fear colliding, but Gareth's telekinetic grip was absolute. Even Kael took a step back, nodding — the power Gareth now wielded was no longer subtle, no longer just defensive.
Slowly, Gareth eased the pressure, letting the man slump against the wall, exhausted and trembling. The corridor was a mess: overturned crates, singed floorboards, and scattered cooking supplies.
Kael rubbed the back of his neck, voice low. "You… saved my ass. Half a second later, I'd be a smear."
Gareth exhaled, shoulders tense. "We all have our limits… even Marcellus. He's fighting ghosts of fire no one else sees."
Kael nodded, his usual smirk replaced with something softer, more measured. "And you… you're holding him down with just a thought. Lenziuela, you really are something else."
The kitchen door loomed ahead, scorched slightly from Marcellus's frenzy. Gareth let go of the telekinetic grip, the man collapsing into a heap, breathing ragged but alive.
The ship rocked gently beneath them, and for the first time that morning, a tense calm settled over the corridor — a quiet before breakfast, a brief pause before chaos inevitably returned.
The ship's corridor was a wreck — pots overturned, planks scorched, the air thick with smoke and sweat.
Gareth kept his telekinetic hold steady, not crushing, not releasing — just enough to keep Marcellus from tearing himself apart.
Slowly, the man's thrashing weakened. His breath came ragged, sweat dripping down his soot-streaked face.
"Let me go…" Marcellus rasped, voice breaking between rage and exhaustion.
Gareth knelt beside him, loosening his grip so Marcellus slumped against the wall.
"I'll let you go," Gareth said quietly, "but not until you stop fighting ghosts."
For a long moment, the only sound was the groan of the ship's timbers. Then, with a shudder, Marcellus let out a laugh that wasn't a laugh at all.
"You think I fight you, boy?" His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, staring somewhere far beyond the corridor. "I've been fighting fire for years."
Kael lingered nearby, arms folded, unease plain on his face. But Gareth didn't move. He waited.
Marcellus's hands trembled as he spoke, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper.
"I was a family man once. Wife. Daughter. A small home near the shipyards. Thought I'd die old and happy, building hulls and chasing my little girl through the sawdust."
His jaw clenched. The next words scraped raw.
"Then they came. Not thieves. Not soldiers. A cult." His gaze unfocused, drifting to the flicker of the kitchen fire. "They wore masks of ash and spoke like priests, but there was no god in them. Only hunger. They said the sea demanded a tithe of flame."
Gareth's throat tightened, but he said nothing.
Marcellus's voice cracked, the words spilling faster, jagged.
"They tied me down. Made me watch. My wife's screams… my daughter's small hands pounding the door as the fire took her. The smoke, the stench — it's in my skin, boy. Every breath I take is ash."
His hand gripped his chest as if trying to claw the memory free.
"They burned everything, and when the flames died, I wasn't a man anymore. Just cinders walking."
The corridor seemed colder. Even Kael, hardened as he was, had no smirk left — only silence.
Marcellus laughed again, bitter, hollow. "You wonder why I smile so much? Why I shout, joke, drink? Because if I stop… if I stop for even a second… all I hear are their screams. All I see is fire."
Marcellus's eyes went distant, as if he was no longer in the ship's kitchen but standing again in the inferno of his past. "And then… in that fire, I saw it. A veil—thin, silver, shimmering like smoke in the night. Behind it, I glimpsed the Soul itself—raw, endless, burning brighter than the flames that took everything from me. It stared back at me."
His breathing slowed, but his voice deepened. "That night, I awakened. The fire did not just take—it opened. It split me, broke me, and showed me the truth. The Veil. The Soul. And it left me alive when I wanted to die."
Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall. He swallowed them, just as he had swallowed the screams of his family. "And so I walk… marked. Haunted. With nothing but ashes where love used to be."
He lowered his head, voice breaking. "And gods help me… I've been alone ever since. So damn alone."
Gareth's telekinetic hold faded completely. He placed a hand on Marcellus's shoulder, firm, steady.
"You're not alone now," Gareth said softly.
For the first time, Marcellus looked at him — really looked, past the boy, past the powers — and saw the truth in his eyes. His lips trembled, then pressed into a tight line as tears cut through the soot on his face.
The ship swayed gently around them, the chaos of the fight giving way to a fragile silence.
And in that silence, for the first time in years, Marcellus allowed himself to grieve.