CHAPTER — The Sea That Hungers
The night was deceptively calm.
Above the endless stretch of dark water, the moon hung pale and distant, casting fractured silver trails across the waves. The Black Harbor had long vanished behind the ship, swallowed by fog and distance, yet Sabre felt no sense of escape. If anything, the farther they sailed, the heavier the air became—as if the sea itself was watching.
The ship swayed gently beneath him, wood creaking in tired protest. Each groan of the planks carried a sense of warning, a low murmur that something was wrong. Sabre sat crouched between towering cargo crates beneath the deck, his back pressed against rough wood, knees drawn close to his chest.
Rest was impossible.
His chest throbbed again—that same muted, unnatural heartbeat. Not his own. Something layered beneath it. An echo.
He pressed his palm lightly against his sternum, teeth clenched. The sensation pulsed faintly, then stronger, like a signal searching for an answer.
This isn't normal, he thought grimly.
The air below deck was thick with dust and salt. Lanterns swung overhead, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted across the walls. Sailors moved cautiously above, their footsteps slower now, voices hushed. Even they could feel it—the unease crawling through the ship like a living thing.
Then the ship shuddered.
At first it was subtle. A tremor that ran through the hull like a ripple beneath skin. Sabre stiffened instantly, instincts screaming. Dust drifted from the beams above, floating down in slow spirals.
Another shudder followed—stronger.
The lanterns swayed violently.
A low, guttural sound rolled through the air.
Not thunder.
Not wind.
Something deeper. Older.
It rose from beneath the ship, vibrating through bone and marrow, a sound that did not merely reach the ears but settled inside the chest. Sailors froze mid-step. Someone whispered a prayer. Another dropped a coil of rope with a clatter that echoed far too loudly.
Sabre's pulse spiked.
That sound…
The muted heartbeat inside him surged in response.
The ship lurched violently to one side. Crates slid. Wood cracked. Sabre was thrown forward, barely managing to catch himself against a beam as something massive brushed against the hull.
Then came the roar.
It tore through the night like a living thing—raw, furious, and hungry. The ocean answered with violent waves, crashing against the ship with bone-rattling force.
Above deck, chaos erupted.
"BRACE!" someone shouted.
"By the gods—what is that?!"
Sabre didn't hesitate.
He bolted for the ladder.
The moment he emerged onto the deck, the full horror revealed itself.
The sea had risen.
A monstrous shape broke the surface beside the ship—vast, skeletal, impossible. Water cascaded from its massive skull-like head, hollow eye sockets glowing with a faint, unnatural blue light. Jagged bone plates lined its form, each one etched with ancient scars.
The Marrow Leviathan.
Legends spoke of it in whispers. Of ships crushed like driftwood. Of fleets vanishing without a trace. Of oceans stained red and silent afterward.
Now it was here.
Its presence alone crushed the air, a suffocating weight pressing down on every soul aboard. Sailors screamed as one of its massive limbs slammed into the railing, splintering wood and hurling men into the sea. The deck tilted sharply, sending bodies sliding.
Sabre staggered but stayed upright.
Lightning sparked faintly along his arms.
He stared at his hands in shock.
The power responded before he could think.
Another roar shook the sky as the Leviathan reared back, towering above the ship. Its jaws opened slowly, revealing rows of jagged bone teeth slick with seawater.
Sabre's fear was immediate—and overwhelming.
He had no weapon.
No training.
No idea what he was truly capable of.
But the heartbeat inside him pounded louder now, faster, urging him forward.
Move.
The creature struck.
Its tail slammed down onto the deck where Sabre had stood seconds before, obliterating crates and sending splinters flying like shrapnel. Sabre dove, rolling across the wet wood as lightning flared uncontrollably from his skin.
Pain ripped through his chest.
He gasped, barely pushing himself up as sailors scrambled past him, some praying, others screaming orders that no one could follow.
Instinct took over.
Sabre raised one trembling hand.
Energy surged.
A thin, unstable bolt of lightning leapt from his fingers and struck a crate nearby. It exploded violently, grain and wood blasting outward. Guards stared at him in disbelief.
Sabre didn't look back.
The Leviathan lunged again, its skull crashing against the deck, crushing beams and tearing metal apart. The ship groaned, listing dangerously.
Sabre ran.
He grabbed a dangling rope near the mast, wrapping it tightly around his arm as another wave smashed across the deck, soaking him completely. Salt burned his eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps.
I can't outrun it.
The heartbeat echoed.
Fight.
Lightning surged stronger now, coursing through his veins like liquid fire. His muscles screamed as the energy built, wild and untrained, threatening to tear him apart.
The Leviathan rose again, eye-level with the deck. Its glowing gaze fixed on Sabre.
The world seemed to narrow.
Sabre planted his feet.
He raised both hands.
The lightning responded.
A blinding arc erupted from him, slamming into the creature's skull. Energy danced violently across its bone plates, illuminating the night in stark blue-white light.
The Leviathan shrieked.
The sound shattered eardrums and rattled teeth. It thrashed wildly, smashing its limbs against the ship. Men were thrown aside like dolls.
Sabre fell to one knee, coughing, chest burning.
Again.
He forced himself up, teeth clenched, blood trickling from his nose. He reached deeper—past fear, past pain—into that echo buried within him.
Another bolt.
Stronger.
More focused.
It struck the creature's joint, cracking bone with a thunderous snap. One massive limb slammed onto the deck, crushing planks and sending vibrations through the hull.
The Leviathan recoiled.
Sabre moved without thinking.
He leapt from crate to crate, boots slipping on wet wood, climbing higher as the creature struggled. Lightning wrapped around his arms like living chains.
He jumped.
Midair, he released everything.
The bolt tore through the night and struck directly into the Leviathan's eye socket.
Blue light exploded outward.
The creature screamed—high, sharp, furious—and reeled back, crashing into the sea. Waves surged violently, nearly sweeping Sabre off his feet.
He collapsed hard onto the deck.
Silence followed.
The sea calmed.
The Leviathan floated motionless beside the ship, eyes dark, massive body slowly sinking beneath the waves.
Crew members stared in stunned disbelief.
Sabre knelt there, shaking.
His chest burned.
His hands trembled violently.
The lightning faded.
Then he felt it.
A presence.
Sabre lifted his head.
A man stood near the shattered railing, cloaked, unremarkable at first glance. But the air around him felt…wrong. Dense. Controlled. Ancient.
The man's gaze locked onto Sabre.
Not with surprise.
With recognition.
"You," he said quietly.
The single word carried weight—authority, certainty, and something else.
Judgment.
The heartbeat inside Sabre pulsed once more.
Stronger than ever.
And far beneath the ship, in the depths of the ocean, something answered.
The sea waited.
The storm had only just begun.