North Sea, Just Before Dusk.
The clouds had begun to thicken by late afternoon. The horizon melted into gray—sea and sky blending into one endless smear.
Cain stood at the helm of the Falcon, hands gripping the wheel, his eyes locked ahead. The Light Stone pulsed beneath his coat in slow rhythm, in tune with the deep shudder of the engine far below.
Janice stepped onto the bridge, map in hand, hair tied back in a salt-stiff braid. Her cheeks were wind-chapped, her coat damp from mist.
"We should slow down," she said, quietly. "There's merchant traffic near the Dutch coast. Too much light. Too many eyes."
Cain didn't speak.
But he didn't need to.
Because just then—
They saw it.
A flash.
Far off, maybe a kilometer to port—a lantern signal, blinking in practiced cadence.
A Dutch freighter.
Big. Sluggish. But watching.
Cain's eyes narrowed.
Another flash. A signal flag lifted.
Not a hail.
A warning.
Someone aboard had already turned to the wireless.
Janice's breath caught.
"They've seen us."
Cain adjusted the throttle.
Not down.
Up.
All the way.
The Falcon surged forward, the engines roaring louder, the deck plates shivering beneath their boots.
Janice looked at him in disbelief.
"Cain, what are you doing?"
He didn't look away from the sea.
"We don't stop."
"But we're in Dutch waters. We can still—"
"We don't stop."
The prow cut through the surf like a blade, carving up spray that lashed the windows.
Cain's jaw was tight, the muscles in his arms flexing with every turn of the wheel. The throttle lever trembled under his grip.
He wasn't steering carefully anymore.
He was aiming.
Straight.
Hard.
Toward land.
The coast was coming into view now.
Lights scattered across it like fireflies—lighthouses blinking, harbor lamps glowing orange through the mist. Church steeples rose like fingers in the dark. Even from this distance, Janice could hear the muted echo of life: dogs barking, gulls crying, the distant ring of a church bell.
But Cain didn't aim for the lights.
He didn't aim for the ports.
Or the people.
He aimed for the land itself.
The raw, empty shoreline where no one was watching—because all eyes would be on the steel dragon screaming in from the sea.
The temperature gauges ticked higher.The boiler groaned.The hull shuddered beneath their feet.
Janice clutched the side of the console.
"We'll overheat," she whispered.
Cain's eyes never left the sea.
"Good."
He turned to her, finally.
His face calm.
"Get to the canoe."
She blinked.
"What?"
"Now."
She hesitated.
He stepped forward, hands gently gripping her shoulders.
"It's a distraction," he said. "They'll go to the wreck."
"And us?"
"We go around. In the dark. With the shark."
Janice's eyes widened.
But she didn't argue.
She trusted him now more than anything with a flag.
They moved fast.
Cain led Janice below deck, his footsteps pounding against steel as the Falcon surged forward beneath them like a beast with no reins.
Steam hissed from the overhead pipes. The ship groaned, rivets creaking under the strain of full throttle. The engine roared like something being fed its last breath.
They reached the side loading bay.
The canoe—black, reinforced, ragged—was still lashed to the interior winch, swaying with the ship's momentum. Its canvas straps creaked. Inside, gear bundles were packed tight: preserved food, spare boots, the Light Stone kit.
And the shark—cleaned, bundled, rolled in canvas like a smuggled weapon. The fin wrapped in rope. The eyes sewn shut.
Cain didn't waste time.
He grabbed the lever, ripped it downward, and unlocked the hoist.
Clang—Hiss—Clunk.
The canoe dropped to the deck with a loud bang.
Janice flinched.
"What are you—"
"Get in," Cain said.
She hesitated.
The ship was still moving—fast.
The waves below churned like teeth.
"Cain, we can't—"
"We can."
His eyes were locked on hers—calm. Fierce.
She nodded.
Swallowed hard.
And climbed in.
Cain tightened the bindings around the shark, checked the straps.
"Hold tight," he said.
Then he stepped back.
And with a grunt—
He shoved the entire canoe off the moving deck.
"WAIT—CAIN—!"
Janice's scream ripped through the air as the canoe plummeted from the ship's side, slamming into the water like a stone. A wave crashed over her. Supplies shifted. The shark slammed against her boots.
She grabbed the side rails, heart hammering, the entire canoe rocking wildly.
Then—
Splash.
Cain hit the water seconds later, cutting through the dark like a missile. One arm extended. The other dragging the glaive behind him on a line.
He surfaced beside her.
Soaked. Breathing hard. Eyes blazing.
She gasped.
"You threw me!"
"You landed," he replied.
She stared at him, still panting.
Then gave him the faintest glare.
"You're insane."
"Efficient," he corrected.
Then he climbed aboard.
Behind them, the Falcon began its death run.
It thundered toward the coast—full steam, no flag, no soul aboard.
Cain had locked the wheel hard to port—aiming the ship at a remote strip of sand near a cliff face, far from any port.
The destroyer hit the land like a falling god.
Steel screamed.
Smoke exploded.
The bow plowed deep into the beach, burying itself, breaking in two with a sound like thunder being torn in half.
Flames shot from the ruptured engine room, black smoke rising into the sky like a funeral pyre.
All across the coastline, bells rang.Spotlights flickered.Guards shouted.Villagers ran.Watchmen raised glasses and alarms.
All eyes turned to the wreck.
None looked to sea.
Janice and Cain floated in silence.
The canoe rocked gently.
She took the oars. Began paddling.
Her arms ached. Her boots were wet. Her braid clung to her neck.
But her eyes were clear.
Cain sat behind her, steering with the small rear oar, his cloak soaked and steam rising from his back like heat from a furnace.
They moved parallel to the shore, hugging the dark.
Far behind them, the flames still rose. Sirens wailed in the distance.
But no one saw the canoe.
No one saw the shark bundled beneath the tarp.
No one saw the boy with the glaive, eyes glowing like stars beneath the surf fog.
They didn't speak for a while.
Then, as they rounded the second cove—
Janice turned, breath catching in her chest.
"You're insane."
Cain didn't deny it.
He gave the smallest nod.
And kept rowing.
---
Schleswig Coast, Germany – Nightfall
The surf had quieted by the time the canoe scraped up onto the shore.
They had landed under cover of fog, just west of a sleeping fishing village tucked between farmland and sea—a hamlet with no name on the map, just a cluster of wood and smoke and horse cart trails. Lanterns still burned in some windows. Others had gone dark, their owners already out chasing the warship that had screamed into the coastline an hour ago.
The crash would occupy them for hours.
Exactly as Cain had planned.
He stepped onto land first.
Boots sinking into the wet grass with deliberate weight.
The earth was soft beneath him, slick from coastal mist and flecked with patches of frost. Each step sank just enough to feel anchored. The ground here wasn't hostile. It didn't resist him. It accepted his presence—not as a stranger, but as something expected.
Cain paused.
His eyes swept across the horizon.
Cottage chimneys, slouched and smoking.Shoreline fences, wooden and weary, wind-bent from years of storm.Farm fields, neat and furrowed, sleeping beneath early spring damp.
And the soil—
That was what mattered most.
He crouched, pressing his palm to the ground, fingers splayed.
The soil was alive.
Not just rich or black or loamy.
But good.
He could feel it.
Smell it.
The Light Stone pulsed faintly beneath his coat—not flaring, not humming with power. But like an open eye, adjusting to light. Receptive.
Like it was waiting.
Behind him, the water rocked gently.
Janice stepped ashore with a soft gasp, her boots skidding slightly on the mossy rocks. Her legs trembled from exhaustion—thirty-six hours without sleep, most of it spent in a damp seat, gripping rope, rowing, holding herself together.
Her coat clung to her hips.
Salt crusted her lips.
But her eyes—
Sharp.
Scanning.
Awake.
"It's so quiet here," she whispered.
Cain didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
He turned back to the canoe and hauled it ashore with one arm, dragging it past the line of reeds to a dry patch of grass near an old anchor post.
He lashed it in place. Twice.
Then turned to the shark.
Still bundled in thick canvas, its form monstrous and solemn. Janice had wrapped it like she was preserving a body, not an animal. The fin, still visible under the cloth, glistened in the moonlight like a scythe.
It sat there beside them like a godless relic, as if it too had come to claim land and name.
"We need clothes," Cain said, finally.
His voice was flat. Controlled.
"And money," Janice added, glancing toward her own boots—threadbare, soaked.
He nodded.
Then turned his gaze inland.
A pale orange glow flickered in the distance—one light, behind a square window.
A squat, heavy cottage.
Stone-bricked. Thatched roof. A fence surrounding a narrow yard.
Janice squinted.
"Someone's awake."
Cain didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Just stared at the cottage.
His head tilted slightly.
"You want me to go?" she asked.
He nodded once.
Then, wordless, he lifted his arm and pointed—not toward the village where lanterns bobbed in the distance like fireflies—but down a muddy path that led toward the flickering light.
"They're all there," he said. "Watching the ship."
His voice dropped to a murmur.
"Except them."
He pointed back to the cottage.
"Blue eyes."
Janice blinked.
"You could tell from here?"
Cain didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He was already turning—stepping backward into the tall grass like fog being pulled into itself.
He melted behind a ridge, unseen but present.
"Go," he said.
From the dark.
"I'll watch."
Janice swallowed hard.
The mist curled around her ankles as she stood at the edge of the path.
Behind her, the wreck of the Falcon still smoldered in the distance, casting an unnatural glow into the fog-drenched sky. Cain had disappeared into the grass, unseen but never far.
She pulled her coat tighter.
Her hands were shaking—from cold, yes, but also from something else.
The feeling of walking into a stranger's world without invitation.
But with hope.
She took a breath.
And walked.
The path was muddy and narrow, lined by old fence posts leaning like tired soldiers. The brush on either side was winter-burned and silver-gray, flecked with patches of moss. The earth was soft under her boots, but it made no sound.
She passed a wooden shed half-collapsed at the corner of a field.
A dog watched her from behind a low wall—broad-shouldered and silent, its coat the color of smoke. It didn't bark. Just watched her go.
As if it understood.
The cottage rose from the earth like it had been grown, not built.
Thick stone walls, half-covered in old vines. A thatched roof slick with frost. The window above the door glowed faintly, golden through sheer linen curtains. She could smell woodsmoke—pine, mixed with something richer. Fat, maybe. A soup long left to simmer.
She climbed the last few steps to the door.
It was heavy oak, reinforced with black iron bands. A small bell hung from a wire hook above it, swaying faintly in the breeze.
She raised her hand.
Knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then stepped back.
And waited.
A minute passed.
She almost turned to leave.
Then—the door creaked open.
The hinges groaned softly, like the house itself was waking.
An old man stood in the doorway.
Broad, but thin with age. Wool vest buttoned over a gray shirt. A pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth, unlit. His beard was trimmed close, his face lined with cold years.
But his eyes—
Pale blue.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
Just… watchful.
He looked at her like he'd been expecting her.
Behind him, a woman stepped into view.
Older still—her hair in a long, silver braid draped over one shoulder. Her dress was plain, apron tied at the waist. Her posture was straight, her expression quiet.
Her eyes matched the man's.
Blue.
Janice didn't speak at first.
Neither did they.
The wind moved between them.
Then the man took the pipe from his mouth and said:
"You're not from here."
Janice nodded, her voice soft.
"No."
She hesitated.
Then:
"But we mean no harm. We just... came from the sea."
The woman's gaze drifted past Janice, toward the darkness behind her.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"That ship," she said. "It didn't belong here."
Janice shook her head slowly.
"Neither do we. But... we're trying to."
The old man studied her a moment longer.
Then he looked to the woman.
She gave the faintest nod.
He stepped back from the door.
Held it open.
"Come in," he said.
Janice exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
And stepped inside.