The sails groaned as Kaelin wrestled with the rigging, icy wind tearing at his cloak. The skies above had turned a pale, sickly gray, and the sun refused to shine. Ael stood at the prow of the ship, eyes fixed on the northern horizon—an endless wall of fog and frost.
"The Sea of Silence," Nyra murmured, stepping beside him. "No winds, no waves, no sound. Once you cross into it, even your heartbeat seems to stop."
"How do we move through it?" Elen asked from behind, her hands clutched tight around a fur-lined cloak. "You said there's no wind."
"There isn't," Nyra replied. "That's why we brought this."
She gestured to a crystalline orb embedded in the hull—a spell engine, ancient and humming softly with violet runes. A relic from the Age of Tides. It pulsed with steady mana, pushing the ship forward like a ghost gliding over a still lake.
Ael narrowed his eyes. "You've sailed through this sea before."
"I've died in it before," she corrected, voice quiet. "Twice."
Veyne let out a low whistle. "Charming. Anyone else want to turn back before we reach the ice grave of a death-god?"
"No," Ael said. "We move forward. The Sleeper is one of the last Ashborn. If he joins the Executioner, this world ends."
Veyne nodded reluctantly and walked off to check supplies. The others remained quiet, the air growing colder by the hour.
By nightfall, the mist thickened. The sea turned perfectly still—so still it reflected the ship like a black mirror. No waves lapped the hull. No gulls cried overhead. And no one spoke above a whisper.
Then came the silence.
Real silence.
It descended like a smothering blanket.
Kaelin opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
Elen gasped, grabbing her throat. She looked around, panic rising.
Even Nyra's magic dimmed under the weight of the quiet.
Only Ael remained calm.
It wasn't the first time he'd felt this kind of void. His former life as a heartless king had been filled with it—nights with no dreams, no guilt, no thoughts, only the cold mechanics of survival.
But now… now it unsettled him.
He touched the memory shard at his side, the one Nyra had given him. Its faint warmth anchored him.
Then something tapped the hull.
All heads turned.
Another tap.
And another.
The sound echoed unnaturally loud in the dead silence, like hammers on coffins.
Shapes emerged from beneath the glassy water. Pale figures, featureless and drowned, crawling along the ship's hull. Some reached upward with clawed fingers. Others simply stared, their eyes wide and hollow.
Elen stepped back in horror. Kaelin drew his blade—though no wind stirred, and no sound accompanied its unsheathing.
"They can't come aboard," Nyra mouthed silently, pointing to the runes etched into the ship's deck. "As long as they remain intact."
But the figures below weren't attacking.
They were warning.
One of them placed a hand on the hull and etched something into the frost with its nail.
Ael leaned over and read it slowly.
"Do not wake the Sleeper."
He clenched his jaw.
Too late.
The fog parted.
And in the distance, rising from a mountain of frozen bones, was the island.
It was not land as much as it was a mausoleum—a glacier carved into spires and black arches, encased in blue flame. A massive gate stood at its heart, sealed with iron chains and ancient ice.
And from behind it came… a heartbeat.
One slow, thunderous pulse.
BOOM.
The mist rippled.
BOOM.
The sea cracked around them.
BOOM.
The spell engine on the ship flickered.
Veyne ran up from below deck, shouting silently and waving his hands—"The engine's failing!"
Nyra darted below to stabilize it while Kaelin and Elen held weapons ready. The drowned were closing in now, crawling over the sea like spiders across glass.
Ael didn't flinch.
He stared at the glacier.
He felt the pulse echo in his chest.
And for the first time in a long time, he was afraid.
But not for himself.
For the world.
Because something behind that gate wasn't just dreaming.
It was remembering.
And waking.