Cooking a beast that large was no small task.
It was more than just culinary—it was physical labor. A task of sweat, muscle, and determination.
Luckily, Duncan had both a fisherman's resolve and a starving captain's motivation. Fueled by his dreams of a better meal and a ship free from eternal rations of jerky and brittle cheese, he threw himself into the work with gusto.
The kitchen, never meant for industrial-scale butchery, quickly became a battlefield. He spent nearly an hour wrestling with the grotesque anatomy of the creature. Removing the jagged bone spines from its head, hacking the fleshy bulk into manageable chunks, separating the belly meat from the ridged back—it was grueling. The head was a loss, more bone than meat, so he cast it aside for now. But the rest… the rest had potential.
There was something satisfying in the process. Odd, perhaps, to see the captain of the Vanished elbow-deep in monstrous seafood—but Duncan was too invested to care. He paused only once, briefly wondering what the average citizen of the city-states might think if they saw the terrifying ghost captain of the seas in an apron, trying to scale a fish that looked like it had come from hell. Would they be horrified—or would they simply be impressed by his angling skills?
Duncan laughed quietly at the thought.
Maybe one day, when the time came to reconnect with the world above the waves, he'd invite guests aboard. Not as prisoners or sacrifices, but as dinner guests. Perhaps then, the Vanished would no longer be seen as a harbinger of doom.
And he'd serve them fish.
Once the carving was done, he packed most of the meat into a barrel lined with sea salt and rolled it into the storage room at the back of the galley. The smaller chunks he set aside to prepare as dried jerky—weather permitting, they'd hang from the rigging and dry under the sea wind.
If only he had spirits—alcohol would open up a whole new range of culinary possibilities. But the hold was dry, and he had to make do.
Every day with fresh fish would be a gift, but Duncan knew better than to count on it. Fishing was fickle, and today's bounty might not come again for weeks. Preservation was essential.
He kept the finest cut—the freshest, most promising fillet—for today's grand experiment. Into the pot it went, along with a few slices of salted meat as seasoning. The result, hopefully, would be edible.
He knew full well this wasn't the best use of such fresh meat. Any respectable chef would be screaming in horror at the very idea of boiling delicate white fish with a slab of ancient jerky. It was a crime against the culinary arts.
But Duncan wasn't here to win awards. He was here to survive.
The creature he'd hauled from the sea was unknown, perhaps even unnatural. The safest path was to cook it thoroughly. Steaming. Boiling. Incinerating if necessary.
Just to be sure.
He'd try it this way first. If it didn't kill anyone, he could experiment later.
By the time he finished, the sun was already dipping toward the horizon. The fish stew—his long-awaited, questionably sourced lunch—was ready. The scent was… surprisingly good.
Before he so much as picked up a spoon, Duncan prepared a small test portion and set it on the table.
He slid the plate toward Ai.
The pigeon blinked.
Ai was, nominally, a bird—and birds didn't eat fish. But Ai was hardly a typical pigeon, and Duncan had long since given up trying to fit it into any known taxonomy.
It looked at the fish. Then it looked at Duncan. Then up at the ceiling.
"You sure this stuff's certified?" Ai asked, eyeing the chunk suspiciously.
"You gonna eat it or not?" Duncan replied.
"You gonna eat it or not?" Ai mocked in return, then promptly dipped its head and began pecking.
In moments, the fish was gone.
The pigeon fluffed up proudly, strutted a few steps across the tabletop, and let out a triumphant cry:
"Delicious! Delicious!"
Duncan stared at it in disbelief. The voice, the timing, the repetition—it was like watching a meme come to life.
He shook his head with a laugh, wondering again just what this creature was. If someone had told him Ai was from another world—or maybe from Earth—he might not even be surprised anymore.
Ai showed no signs of illness. No vomiting. No spontaneous combustion. No shadowy tendrils sprouting from its beak.
Duncan deemed the experiment a success.
The two of them, captain and pigeon, feasted in the galley as the sun dipped lower.
The fish tasted just like in his dream.
Chapter 37: The Dimming Light
The sun hovered over the edge of the world.
In the distant city-state of Pland, the golden light filtered through towers and smokestacks, casting long, warm shadows across stone walls and glinting pipes. On the upper reaches of the Storm Cathedral, the bells began to toll.
With them came the shrill hiss of steam escaping pressure valves, a great plume of vapor rising from the side of the cathedral tower. The mist caught the last rays of sunlight, blooming into a glowing canopy over the city's core.
It was the signal of dusk.
A warning.
The solar cycle was ending. The light of the sun would soon give way to the pale dominion of the "World's Wound"—the celestial scar that ruled the night sky.
This was the tipping point. Where order gave way to uncertainty. Where the influence of deeper, stranger realms began to creep forward with the shadows.
Citizens knew to remain indoors. Those who had to venture out clung to the glow of consecrated gaslamps—sacred light that pushed back against the unnatural dark. The Cathedral's guardians took over from the city's mundane constables, patrolling the streets in pairs, keeping watch against the creeping unknown.
Even in a great city like Pland, there were always fools who worshipped chaos. Even beneath the gaze of the Church, there were always shadows too deep for the light to reach.
Far from the city center, deep beneath the old streets, in a forgotten chamber of a sealed-off sewer system, a handful of figures huddled together.
The room had once been a resting place for sewer workers, long since abandoned. Its corners now housed the broken remnants of a fleeing cult.
An oil lamp cast a flickering glow. Shadows danced across gaunt, filthy faces.
One of them lay half-conscious on a pile of rags, his breathing ragged. Another sat beside him, muttering curses.
"Damn those church dogs…"
"We lost so many. The emissary died in the ritual…"
"It was the sacrifice. He wasn't one of us."
"He was clearly an agent of the heretics…"
"Shh," someone hissed. A gaunt man with deep-set eyes gestured upward. "The evening bells. The pressure whistles. Nightfall's coming."
There was silence. Then a whispered curse.
"Gods help us… he won't survive the night."
They stared at the barely-living man among them—once their brother, now something broken.
They didn't know the full truth of what had happened. The ritual had failed, catastrophically. Their most sacred rites had gone wrong, their emissary destroyed by his own offering. Madness had swept the gathering like a tide.
The man on the ground had seen too much. The light behind his eyes was fading.
And outside, the dark was rising.