Chapter 1
Waves
The boy clung to the railing as if his life depended on it. His knuckles were white from the strain, but the wet iron kept slipping beneath his fingers. The ship heaved, each violent lurch wrenching a grunt of effort from him.
A spasm clawed up his throat. He tried to cover his mouth with his other hand, uselessly. Vomit shot out in a bitter stream that the wind hurled back against his face. He coughed, spat, but the acidic taste clung to his tongue like fire.
—"Ugh…"— he gasped, forehead pressed against the cold rail.
He lifted his gaze to the sea and immediately regretted it. Colossal waves clashed like maddened beasts, some rising so high it seemed the entire ship would be swallowed whole the next instant. The sight dizzyed him further; the world spun as if he were trapped in a barrel tumbling downhill.
A chill racked his spine. He tried to pull back from the edge, but his legs refused. He shoved himself backward clumsily, knees buckling, hands still hooked on the railing.
That's when the wave hit him.
He never saw it coming. A wall of water rose over the gunwale and collapsed with a deafening roar. The impact lifted him from the deck and threw him like a ragdoll against the planking. The air was hammered from his lungs; he felt the hard, cold wood smash into his back, then the base of his skull.
A groan escaped his lips. His entire body screamed in protest. He tried to roll over, to get up, but only managed to twist onto his side before the vertigo forced him still, cheek pressed to the sodden planks.
Still lying on the deck, the boy squinted. Through the veil of water and dizziness, he made out black figures moving back and forth without pause. Men, dozens of them, maybe more, all dressed in dark uniforms soaked by the rain.
One passed so close he nearly stepped on the boy's hand. He was shouting something lost to the wind. Another dragged a wooden crate across the deck; the nails in its lid screeched every time a wave shook the vessel. Two more hauled on a thick rope, muscles corded, neck veins bulging, trying to tame a sail that whipped as if trying to tear free from the mast.
The boy lifted his head a few centimeters, confused. Orders crisscrossed the deck, but they all shattered against the sea's roar.
—"Hold it!"— he thought he heard.
—"Secure the hatch!Secure it!"
The uniformed men pointed, shoved, gesticulated. Each seemed to have an urgent task, but from the deck, it all looked like incomprehensible chaos.
'Is that sailing jargon?' he thought, his forehead pressed against his arm. 'Shit, my head is spinning…'
A loud thrumming beat like a drum in his skull. His vision blurred. His cheek slid across the wet wood until it was fully pressed against the deck.
The black deck gleamed under the rain, filthy with salt and grime. "Such a deep color," he murmured without realizing, stroking it with numb fingers.
The boy tried to push himself up with his palms, trembling as if carrying the entire weight of the sea. He managed to lift his torso a few centimeters before a brutal wave of dizziness slammed him back down. The impact tore another grunt from him.
The world spun. He didn't know if it was the ship, the sky, or his own head, but the planks under his cheek seemed to slide in circles. He swallowed with effort, his throat burning from the vomit.
In the distance, through the rain and shouts, he distinguished a figure turning toward him. A man pushed through the crowd, dodging another who ran with a coil of rope over his shoulder. He crouched beside him.
—"Hey! Hey, boy!"— he yelled, but his voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of the ocean.
The man grabbed him by the shoulder, shook him slightly. His lips moved rapidly, forming words the boy could no longer understand. Everything was noise, water, thunder.
The young man's eyelids drooped against his will. He fought to keep them open, and each time he succeeded, the sailor's face grew more blurred.
A couple of phrases managed to pierce the buzzing filling his ears. Something like "hold on" or "breathe," but they dissolved instantly.
The boy tried to respond, but only managed to open his mouth. No sound came out.
His pulse hammered violently against his temples, and with each beat, he sank deeper into the darkness. The damp wood beneath his face no longer felt rough or cold: just a cushion to rest on.
Finally, his eyes closed completely. The last thought he had, a fading echo, was:
Where am I? Why is there a storm? And why the hell am I on a ship?
The blackness swallowed him without answer.
***
—"HE'S REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS!"— The shout jolted him more than the rain on his face.
The boy frowned, blinded by a gray brightness that invaded everything. It wasn't sunlight, but the churning overcast sky above him. He blinked several times before understanding he was lying on his back, soaked, his uniform clinging to his skin.
He tried to sit up immediately, but something stopped him: his legs wouldn't move. He lifted his head a few centimeters and discovered a man holding his calves, keeping them elevated at an awkward angle.
—"Let me go…"— he tried to order, his voice raspy—. "I need to get up."
—"Better not."— The reply came from elsewhere. A second figure leaned over him, two firm fingers pressed against his neck. His uniform was also soaked, his hair dripping, but his expression was sure—. "We're on the bow, the storm hasn't stopped, and if you sit up now you'll just collapse again."
The boy turned his head and noticed something else: his jacket hung loose, buttons half-undone. The cold air seeped through the wet fabric, making him shiver.
—"Why are my clothes like this?"— he asked, still panting.
—"We had to ventilate you a bit and cover you with the tarp,"— explained the man with his fingers on his neck—. "We didn't loosen everything because of the rain, but when you reach land, see a doctor. It's not normal to faint just from seasickness."
The young man nodded, swallowing. He didn't insist further, though questions piled up on his tongue.
His entire body felt numb, as if he'd slept for hours on a stone bed. Every muscle was heavy. The deck vibrated under his back with each wave impact, and the cold seeped into his bones.
The rain needled his face with icy spikes, mixing with sweat. He tried to move again, but the men held him still.
For a while, he remained like that, legs still elevated and the firm finger on his pulse, listening to the shouted orders around him, the boots running, the ropes whipping like lashes. The ship knew no rest.
Until someone called the man with the firm voice, and he left immediately, running to help. Only the one holding his legs remained, straining with each violent shudder of the ship.
The boy breathed deeply, trembling, not knowing if it was from the cold or the memory of sinking into darkness.
The sailor holding him carefully lowered his legs, as if afraid they'd break upon touching the deck. The boy lay for a moment, breathing raggedly, until he decided to force himself to sit up.
He pushed himself up clumsily, hands braced on the flooded deck. The soaked uniform clung to him like a second, frozen skin. Every movement was a struggle: his muscles didn't respond, his knees shook, and his head still spun.
The wind still swept the bow with violence. The gusts seeped under his loose jacket, wracking him with shivers and pushing him backward as if wanting to return him to the deck. Around him, the men kept running, shouting, hauling ropes and crates. No one could spare him another second.
Head bowed, the young man suddenly looked up. A thought pierced the fog of his nausea.
—"The letter!"—he whispered, his voice hoarse.
His hands flew to his pockets, frantically feeling every fold of the wet fabric. His fingers, purple with cold, could barely move, but he searched relentlessly, over and over. Nothing. No trace of the paper.
—"It's not here? Did I lose it?"— Anguish tightened his chest more than the storm. He looked around, as if the wind itself had stolen it. —"The two from before… maybe they have it…"
He tried to stand up suddenly, but the ship shuddered with brutal violence. The deck tilted and threw him to his knees. The planks scraped his skin through the fabric.
He let out a grunt, grabbed the nearest bench with his left hand, and pushed himself up again, swaying. He remained seated, gulping air, as chaos unfolded around him.
He couldn't stay there. He understood that. If he wanted to keep searching, he had to find cover.
He forced himself to stand again. His legs still trembled, but he took one step after another, leaning against the wall behind the bench. Just a meter ahead, a dark blue door seemed to offer refuge.
He lunged for it, staggering. Each lurch of the ship slammed him against the wall. The handle was wet and slippery. He pulled once: nothing. Again: the door barely budged.
Gritting his teeth, he threw his whole weight against it. The door gave way with a sharp crack and opened just enough for him to slip inside, closing it clumsily behind him.
Closing the door, the change was immediate. The roar of the wind was cut off abruptly, as if he'd crossed into another world. Outside remained the howling storm; inside, only the creak of wood and the rhythmic pounding of waves against the hull.
Before him, a narrow staircase descended. He gripped the handrail with both hands, still trembling, and started down. Each step was damp and slick. His first foot almost slipped, and he had to press his torso against the rail to avoid falling headfirst. He continued down clumsily, slipping now and then, until he reached the bottom step.
A corridor stretched before him. Long, straight, dimly lit by white lamps that sputtered with a dirty glow. The metal walls, painted a light brown, shone damply under the sickly light.
He had no time to notice details. The ship tilted violently, as if a wave had lifted it whole. The boy immediately lost his balance and slammed into the right wall with a dry impact that tore a moan from him. He tried to steady himself with his hands, but another shudder threw him to the left, his shoulder smashing against the frame of a closed door.
The dizziness made it harder to react. He staggered forward, bouncing from one side to the other.
The first door resisted his impact.
The second did too.
The third vibrated with the blow but didn't yield.
The fourth was slightly ajar. And when his body hit it, it swung wide open.
His shoulder went in first, then his hip. The boy rolled across the room's icy floor, leaving a trail of water dripping from his uniform. He ended up on his back, panting, muscles tense, ribs aching with every breath.
He let out a groan. The effort of staying on his feet until now had exhausted him. He could barely make out where he was. His forehead burned, and he felt a constant ringing in his ears.
—"Shit…"— he whispered with dry lips.
The boy raised his head with difficulty. His eyes, still clouded by dizziness, managed to distinguish a figure inside the room.
It wasn't another running or shouting sailor. It was a man standing before a small rectangular mirror, calmly adjusting a blue tie that gleamed in the faint light. He wore an impeccable black uniform, dry, without a single wrinkle, as if the storm hadn't touched him.
The young man blinked several times, bewildered. The entire ship trembled and heaved like a furious beast, but that man remained motionless, as if the deck under his feet wasn't moving at all. The contrast churned his stomach worse than the nausea itself.
'How…? How is he so still?' he thought, without the strength to utter a word.
The stranger stopped dead upon noticing his presence. He stopped adjusting his tie, turned, and walked toward him with calm steps.
—"You look like hell,"— he said in a deep voice, without a trace of surprise—. "Let me help you."
The young man barely managed to open his mouth, but all that came out was a ragged gasp.
The man crouched, extended a firm hand, and gripped his right wrist. The grasp wasn't rough, but it was definitive, as if there was no way to break free.
In one second, he pulled him upward with an impossible ease. The boy felt himself lifted like a sack of wet cloth, his feet losing contact with the floor.
—"What…?"— he murmured, not comprehending.
Before he could react, he was already slung over the man's shoulder, carried as if he weighed nothing. The movement churned his guts further, but the man's strength held him immobile, giving him no option to protest.
He carried him to a simple bed against the right wall. He deposited him there with surprising gentleness, arranging him as if placing a fragile object.
The boy blinked several times, his head still spinning. His vision cleared just enough to notice the man observing him from above, with a serene expression, far too serene for the situation.
'Do I really look that bad?' he wondered bitterly.
The answer seemed to come in the form of a smile. A sly, contained smile that didn't fit the storm raging outside.
—"It doesn't look like you'll be improving anytime soon,"— the man commented, leaning in a little closer—. "But at least you don't look quite so haggard now."
The young man swallowed, nervous. His chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to stabilize his breathing.
'Hm? And that smile now? What's he laughing about?'
The man tilted his head and, as if offering something trivial, asked lightly:
—"Hey, you don't happen to want a potion, do you?"—