The deck of the dreadwake was chaos.

Sailors barked orders and curses as they scrambled to tie down flapping sails, their boots pounding against the groaning wooden planks. The black mist was rolling in faster now, coiling around the masts and slithering across the deck like an invading force. Overhead, the sun struggled to pierce the haze, casting a dull gray light that drained all color from the scene.

At the helm, Captain Glade Clayden clays stood tall, his dark coat whipping in the wind. His gray eyes, sharp as a blade's edge, locked on the horizon where two Imperial frigates bore down on them like predators scenting blood.

"Carol!" he called, his voice cutting through the din.

His first mate, Carol Zhander, was already climbing the steps to join him, her crimson coat a splash of defiance against the bleak backdrop. Her curls were damp with sea spray, her expression grim as she met his gaze.

"They're gaining on us," she said without preamble. "We'll be in cannon range within the hour."

Glade didn't respond immediately. His hands gripped the wheel, the leather creaking beneath his fingers. "And the sails?"

"Stretched to their limit," she replied. "If we push any harder, we'll tear them to shreds."

Kael glanced back at the Imperial ships. Their black-and-gold banners were unmistakable, their sleek hulls built for speed and destruction. He knew what would happen if they caught up—he'd seen it before. No quarter. No mercy.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

Carol leaned closer, lowering her voice. "We could fight. Take one of their ships by surprise. It's a long shot, but better than—"

"No." Kael cut her off, his tone sharp. "We're too battered. One broadside and we're finished."

Carol's jaw tightened, but she nodded. Glade had never been one to sugarcoat their odds. That was part of why the crew followed him—they knew he wouldn't gamble their lives lightly.

But this time, he might have to.

His eyes drifted forward to the black mist gathering ahead. It wasn't just mist—it was thicker, darker, and colder than anything Glade had ever seen. It swirled like smoke in water, swallowing the horizon and turning the sea beneath it into a void.

The Hollow Sea.

Legends whispered in every port told of ships vanishing into its embrace, of sailors lured by phantom lights and the mournful cries of their dead. Some said the waters themselves were cursed, others claimed a drowned god slumbered beneath the waves, its wrath eternal.

Glade didn't believe in gods. But he believed in survival.

"Helmsman!" he barked. "Adjust course two degrees south. Head straight for the Tides."

The helmsman froze, his hand hovering over the wheel as though he'd misheard. "C-Captain?"

"You heard me!" Glade snapped. "Southward, now!"

A ripple of unease passed through the crew. Sailors paused mid-task, their faces pale as they turned toward their captain. Even the most hardened among them flinched at the sight of the black mist, and whispers spread like wildfire.

"Captain!" Carol hissed, grabbing his arm. "You can't be serious. The hollow sea? Are you out of your mind?"

"They won't follow us," Glade said, keeping his voice steady.

"They won't have to!" she shot back. "No one survives the hollow sea. You've heard the stories—ships disappear. Men go mad. Whatever's in there, it's worse than the Imperials."

Glade's eyes flicked to hers, steel meeting fire. "The Imperials will hang us, Carol. Slowly. If the Tides are half as bad as the stories say, at least we'll have a fighting chance."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue further. Instead, she turned to the deck below, raising her voice. "All hands! Prepare for a course change!"

The crew hesitated, their fear palpable. One sailor, a broad-shouldered man with a scraggly beard, stepped forward. "The hollow sea? Captain, you're leading us straight to hell!"

Glade met his gaze coldly. "Then get off my ship, Orman. Swim back to the frigates. I'm sure they'll welcome you with open arms."

Orman's face darkened, his hands balling into fists, but he didn't move. Around him, the other sailors exchanged uneasy glances.

Glade turned to the rest of the crew, his voice cutting through the fog like a blade. "I've sailed through storms that should've sunk us. I've stolen from kings and lived to tell the tale. And I'll get us through this, too. But if any of you think you'd rather face the Imperials, you're welcome to jump overboard now."

Silence fell over the deck.

Orman muttered a curse and returned to his station, and the rest of the crew followed suit. Glade didn't miss the way their hands trembled as they worked, or the nervous glances they cast toward the encroaching mist.

Carol stood beside him, her arms crossed. "You have a way of inspiring loyalty," she said dryly.

"They'll thank me when we're still breathing tomorrow," Glade replied.

Carol raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

---

The dreadwake plunged into the hollow sea.

The mist was thicker than Glade had imagined, swallowing the ship whole and turning the world into a ghostly gray. The air grew colder, and the familiar sounds of the sea—waves, wind, and the creak of the hull—faded into an eerie silence.

Glade stood at the helm, his eyes scanning the fog. His compass was useless, its needle spinning erratically. He steered by instinct, trusting his gut to guide them through.

"Captain," Carol said softly, her voice low. "Do you hear that?"

Glade frowned. At first, he thought it was just the wind, but then he heard it—a faint, melodic sound drifting through the mist. It was hauntingly beautiful, like a song half-remembered, its notes pulling at something deep inside him.

The crew heard it too. A young deckhand stopped mid-step, his head tilting as though entranced. "It's... it's so pretty," he murmured, moving toward the rail.

"Hey!" Carol barked, grabbing his arm. "Snap out of it!"

The boy blinked, shaking his head as though waking from a dream. "I... I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't know what came over me."

Glade's grip on the wheel tightened. The stories were true. The Tides weren't just cursed—they were alive, and they were playing with them.

"Keep your focus!" he shouted. "Stay away from the rails, and don't listen to anything that doesn't sound human!"

The ship shuddered suddenly, throwing Glade off balance. A loud scraping sound echoed through the fog, followed by a distant groan.

"Collision!" someone yelled.

Glade cursed, spinning the wheel to steer them clear. The dreadwake lurched to the side, narrowly avoiding a jagged piece of wood that emerged from the mist.

"What the hell is that?" Carol muttered, leaning over the rail.

The object came into focus—a massive, barnacle-encrusted hull rising from the water like a specter. It was a ship, or what was left of one. Its masts were broken, its sails shredded, and its deck eerily empty.

Glade stared at the derelict vessel, a chill running down his spine. It wasn't just a wreck. It was a warning.

"Keep moving," he ordered. "And don't stop for anything."

Carol hesitated, her eyes lingering on the ghostly ship. "You think that'll be us?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Glade said grimly.

But even as he spoke, he couldn't shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching them from within the fog.

And whatever it was, it wasn't going to let them leave easily.