The storm had passed, but an eerie silence followed in its wake. The Crimson Tide sailed cautiously, its crimson sails now damp with rain and mist. The fog was thick—too thick. It clung to the ship like unseen hands, muffling every sound, distorting the horizon.
Selene Blackthorne stood at the helm, her sharp gaze scanning the shifting mists. The words of the stranger still echoed in her mind.
The ones who sail without names. The Phantom Fleet.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel. Legends had always followed her, but she was no fool. Some myths held grains of truth.
A sharp whistle from the crow's nest shattered the silence. "Ships ahead!" came the call.
Selene's blood ran cold. There, emerging from the mist, were silhouettes—hulking, silent, moving with unnatural grace. Their sails bore no markings, their hulls gleamed black like obsidian. They did not sway with the waves, as if the sea itself feared to touch them.
Orin Vale appeared at Selene's side. "By the gods... They're real."
Selene exhaled slowly, suppressing the surge of unease rising in her chest. Fear had no place aboard her ship.
"Prepare for engagement," she ordered. "Let's see if ghosts can bleed."
The crew sprang into action, cannons loaded, weapons drawn. The Crimson Tide turned to face its approaching enemies, defiance in its every movement.
From below deck, the stranger—his wounds still fresh—stumbled onto the deck. His dark eyes locked onto the phantom ships, dread written across his face.
"You don't understand," he rasped. "You cannot fight them. They are already dead."
Selene shot him a glance. "Everything dies, one way or another."
Then the first cannon fired, and the battle began.
Blackened cannonballs soared through the air, but when they struck the Phantom Fleet's ships, they passed through as if hitting smoke. The enemy vessels did not return fire. Instead, they closed the distance in eerie silence.
A deep, guttural horn sounded from the lead ship, shaking the air like a ghostly wail. And then, they emerged.
Figures in tattered coats and skeletal armor, wielding rusted cutlasses and spectral pistols, stepped onto the decks of their cursed ships. Their hollow eyes burned with eerie blue light, and their presence brought a coldness that sank into the bones.
One of them, taller than the rest, stood at the bow of the lead vessel. He was clad in a dark admiral's coat, a sword gleaming in his skeletal grip. His hollow gaze locked onto Selene. When he spoke, his voice was like the whisper of the grave.
"Selene Blackthorne... You have something that belongs to us."
Selene narrowed her eyes. "Then come and take it."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the battlefield. The Phantom Fleet surged forward, their warriors stepping onto the sea itself as if it were solid ground. The crew of the Crimson Tide braced themselves.
A clash of steel, the roar of the ocean, and the howls of the damned filled the air.
The battle for the Fog Sea had begun.