The Fog Sea stretched endlessly under the pale light of a waning moon. The waters were calm, deceptively so, like a sleeping leviathan waiting for an unwary soul to wake it. Somewhere within this vast expanse, the ship known as The Crimson Tide cut through the mist, its blood-red sails barely visible against the thick fog that clung to the ocean's surface. The ship was silent save for the rhythmic creaking of wood and the occasional whispered conversation between its crew. The air carried an unnatural chill, but for those aboard, it was familiar—a presence rather than a temperature, a warning rather than discomfort.
Vice Admiral Isolde "Frost Phantom" Edwards stood at the helm, her silver-white hair reflecting the moonlight like spun frost. She was a woman of striking presence, cold yet not unkind, her steel-blue eyes scanning the horizon with calculated precision. Clad in a dark navy coat lined with silver embroidery, she radiated an authority that even the most hardened pirates dared not question. Beneath her composed exterior, however, simmered a hunger for vengeance. She had not built her reputation merely to rule the Fog Sea; she had built it to bring down Admiral Lucien Drake, the man who had razed her family's estate and driven her into the shadows.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock against the wooden deck. She turned to see her first mate, Elias Graves, a lean, sharp-eyed man whose reputation as a master navigator was second only to his loyalty to her.
"The informant's message arrived," Elias said, extending a folded parchment. "It seems the bounty hunter has taken the bait."
Isolde took the parchment without a word, unfolding it carefully. The inked words were short but clear: Gehrman Sparrow has been sighted near the Isle of Wraiths. He's looking for the lost artifact. He believes it's connected to the Aurora Order.
A slow smile played on her lips, but it was devoid of warmth. Gehrman Sparrow—bounty hunter, enigma, and reputedly a man with a trail of bodies behind him. If he had indeed taken the bait, then he was walking straight into her domain. The Isle of Wraiths was no ordinary landmass; it was a place wrapped in supernatural dangers, where illusions and reality blurred, where only those who understood the Fog Sea's cruel nature survived.
If Gehrman Sparrow wanted an artifact, he would have to go through her first.
Meanwhile, aboard a smaller, dark-hulled vessel gliding through the mist, a man stood near the prow, his gaze locked onto the distant shadows of the Isle of Wraiths. Gehrman Sparrow, known to the underworld as the Mad Hunter, had the air of a man who had long since abandoned the trivial emotions of ordinary men. He was dressed in a fitted black coat, a hint of silver lining at its cuffs, and a wide-brimmed hat that cast a partial shadow over his sharp features. His gloves were worn but well-maintained, and at his side, an ornate revolver gleamed faintly in the dim light.
His eyes—dark, calculating, and unreadable—narrowed as he processed the information before him. The artifact he sought was rumored to hold knowledge of the Second Epoch, something the Aurora Order desperately wanted to keep hidden. The whispers of cultists, the coded messages from old smugglers—everything pointed to this place.
Yet something did not sit right with him.
His sources had been too willing to give up information. The Isle of Wraiths was a treacherous place, but the way the details had been fed to him smelled of careful orchestration. Someone wanted him to come here.
A trap? Likely. But Gehrman was not the kind of man who shied away from danger. If someone had set the board, he intended to be the one who dictated the next move.
"Captain?" One of his subordinates, a wiry man with an uncanny ability to sense danger, approached him. "The fog's thickening. Unnatural."
Gehrman's gaze didn't waver from the approaching isle. He merely adjusted the grip on his revolver. "Good," he murmured. "Let's see who's waiting for us in the dark."
The Isle of Wraiths was as foreboding as its name suggested.
Jagged rocks jutted from the water like the fangs of a beast, and the fog here was heavier, clinging to the ground like a living thing. Faint whispers drifted through the air—not voices, not truly, but echoes of something ancient.
As The Crimson Tide anchored near the shore, Isolde disembarked first, her boots silent against the damp earth. Her crew followed in disciplined formation, torches kept low. They were not fools; they had seen men disappear in this cursed place.
And yet, she felt no fear. She had come here with purpose.
"He'll be here soon," Elias murmured, watching the distant flicker of another ship's lantern.
Isolde nodded, drawing a slender but deadly cutlass from its sheath. "Then let's welcome our guest properly."
High above, hidden in the mist, Gehrman Sparrow watched from a perch among the ruins, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile.
He had walked into the trap willingly.
But he had no intention of playing the role they had set for him.
To Be Continued...