Chapter 32
Ink
In the bed where Kaep had been before, the alchemist now slept on his side, his face turned toward the wall.
His breathing was slow, constant, almost inaudible, but rhythmic enough to confirm that, finally, he had surrendered to sleep.
Kaep watched him for a few more seconds, making sure he was truly resting.
Then he averted his gaze and settled onto an old wooden bench beside the bed.
The furniture creaked with a hollow sound under his weight.
The hall was calm.
The candles flickered slowly inside the lamps, casting irregular shadows on the walls.
Between the beds, some wounded breathed heavily, others moved in their sleep, but no one spoke.
Kaep remained there, in silence.
Elbows on his knees, hands interlaced, gaze lost on the floor.
"Marked…" he murmured, tasting the word as if it felt strange.
He let it hang in the air for a moment. Then he rubbed his face with his hands, dragging his fingers over his tired eyes.
"So marked ones are strong… and I'm one of them…" he said, almost incredulous. "But… how strong are we supposed to be?"
A grimace formed as he said it, half irony, half resignation. He lowered his gaze and let out a brief, dry laugh, barely a snort.
"Haha…" he let it escape, as if mocking himself.
The sound was immediately lost in the hall's silence. No one moved. Only the crackle of a lamp with a candle inside.
"Third grade…" he murmured, remembering the alchemist's words. "That can't be much, from the way he said it. So, why would being marked make such a difference?"
He furrowed his brow. He leaned back a little, straightening up.
"After all, he said I am one too…"
The thought dissolved with a sigh. His eyes scanned the room, distracted.
"The girl from before… I could ask her," he told himself.
He turned his head, searching the entire room. Among the prone bodies whose faces were still visible, among the disordered blankets and the uniforms serving as covers.
But not finding her immediately, he stopped.
"Right…" he murmured, with a hint of weariness. "She must be asleep somewhere. Better let her rest."
Kaep looked back at the floor, his fingers interlaced again, and let the silence reclaim its place.
---
Still…
He stayed like that for nearly ten seconds… twenty… thirty…
The silence no longer felt tranquil, but crushing.
One minute… two…
"I won't last like this," Kaep thought, letting out a sigh that sounded louder than he intended.
Boredom was starting to weigh on him more than fatigue. He felt his eyelids heavy, his mind wandering aimlessly, repeating useless thoughts just to fill the void.
He shifted in his seat, changing his posture.
The bench creaked again, complaining under his weight.
He looked around: the candles remained the same, the people slept, the alchemist still had his back turned.
All the same.
He passed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, trying to ward off the drowsiness.
He couldn't take it anymore, so he stood up, turned to the right, and walked toward the window, seeking at least to distract himself by seeing how things were outside the ship.
The night seemed calm.
The slight movement of the hull made the floor vibrate under his feet, and the candles flickered with every creak of the wood.
Kaep advanced carefully, avoiding bodies lying on the floor of those who had chosen to sleep on the ground, covered with blankets, uniforms, or any fabric they had found. Some breathed deeply; others barely moved their lips, murmuring in their sleep.
The air was heavy, a mix of weariness, with that saline undertone the sea left on everything.
Reaching the window, he placed a hand on the circular edge and leaned forward a little.
The glass was cold.
Outside, the sea stretched out, barely reflecting the moonlight between the clouds.
"Quiet night, huh…" he thought.
Out of nowhere, a shadow shaped like a hand emerged from the lower part of the window frame.
A wet sound thumped against the glass.
Pshh—!
Kaep reacted with a start, his whole body tensing by instinct. He stepped back and his hand moved on its own, seeking a sword hilt at his belt.
The reflection in the glass trembled from the vibration of the impact, distorting the shape.
A grayish palm, with long, thin fingers like branches, was pressed against the glass. The marks of the suction cups were visible, a viscous trail dripping down.
The monster was stuck to the other side.
Kaep stood still, his heart pumping hard.
For a second, the rest of the room remained calm. No one else had heard anything.
Then the hand moved again. Slow, screeching scratches, descending down the glass.
The hand peeled away from the glass, rising slowly upward, until it disappeared from the window frame.
The viscous sound faded with a soft -plop.-
Kaep didn't lower his guard.
His body remained tense, his eyes fixed on the glass, waiting for something else to appear.
One… two… three seconds. Nothing.
Only the reflection of the candles and the slight movement of the ship.
A few more moments passed.
Silence filled the room again, so thick it almost hurt.
Kaep exhaled carefully, releasing the air he didn't know he was holding.
He lowered his shoulders, his breathing gradually normalized, and he slowly straightened up.
But he wasn't calm.
So he remained for a few more seconds, staring at the circular window, motionless, trying to hear something else.
Nothing. Only the sway of the ship and the faint creaking of the wood.
Finally, he decided to approach.
He advanced slowly, with measured steps to avoid stepping on anyone or making noise. The candlelight flickered, elongating his shadow on the floor like a living stain.
Now facing the glass, he lowered his gaze first.
The waters stretched out black and deep, agitated in broad but controlled movements; they weren't storm waves, but open-sea waves, heavy and constant.
The moon's reflection broke into silver flashes on the surface, giving it a deceptive calm.
Kaep placed a hand on the frame, feeling the cold metal and the vibration of the hull.
He leaned forward a little more, searching with his gaze for any trace of movement under the water.
Nothing.
Only liquid darkness.
Then he crouched a little to look upward.
The reflection of the candles on the glass made it difficult to see clearly, so he narrowed his eyes, trying to distinguish any shape.
He was looking for the cryptid that had pressed against the window just a minute ago.
Nothing.
Not a shadow.
Not a movement.
The circular frame returned only his own reflection: his tense face, the dark circles under his eyes, his agitated breath fogging the glass at times.
Kaep stayed there a few seconds more, waiting for something to happen.
But nothing happened.
He straightened up slowly, with a mix of relief and suspicion.
"Did it leave?... just like that?… but if it went upward, then the upper floors must be infested at least."
He sighed and moved away from the window, carefully navigating between the sleeping bodies.
The air felt heavier than before.
He took a couple of steps…
"Wait a minute."
He lowered his gaze to his waist.
Nothing.
Where every soldier carries a weapon, it was empty.
By reflex, he felt his belt, then the back, even bent over a little to check, as if he might have forgotten it.
Nothing.
He grew alarmed but still, placed his right hand on his chest.
Beginning to exhale and inhale, trying to calm himself.
"Where—…?"
He tried to remember if he had left it by the bed, or if someone had taken it while he was being treated.
But the more he thought, the more he realized he had no idea.
"Maybe? Did they take it from me when I passed out?"
The idea crossed his mind and made him turn his head, scanning the room quickly.
The candles offered light, and among the shadows, some things looked blurry: improvised beds, tables with bandages, jars, stained rags…
His eyes moved from one point to another, searching for something familiar.
Until he saw it.
Kaep advanced slowly, avoiding those sleeping on the floor.
His steps were measured, almost silent.
The air smelled of dampness, dried blood, and the slight sway of the ship made the shadows oscillate on the walls.
In the center of one of the side walls, where the floor was almost covered by sleeping people, a pile of objects rose, stacked without order.
There was everything: deformed metal pieces, empty jars, remnants of medical equipment, straps, dented helmets, and fragments of uniforms. Some still bore insignias, which were little more than soaked or torn strips of fabric, rendered unrecognizable.
The smell of salt, metal, and dried sweat mixed in the air.
And amid all that chaos, something gleamed.
A sword.
Arm's length, sheathed in a dull bronze scabbard, with copper details at the joints.
The metal barely reflected the candlelight, just enough to stand out in the darkness.
Kaep observed it for a few seconds, measuring the distance, the free space between the bodies, and the risk of making noise.
Even so, he took a step.
Then another.
Every creak of the wood under his boots sounded louder than it should.
When he was a meter from the pile, he crouched slowly, stretching his hand toward the scabbard.
As he took it and lifted it, Kaep felt the balanced weight of the weapon and its scabbard.
It was denser than he remembered, the cold metal transmitted a slight vibration through the hilt, as if the ship itself resonated through it.
He adjusted his grip and with his thumb pushed the sword's guard slightly, making the blade slide a few centimeters out of the scabbard.
The interior gleamed with a reddish tone: copper.
A strange design for a scabbard, too conductive, too heavy.
He drew the sword out a little more.
The blade, double-edged, had a dark bronze color with warm reflections under the candlelight. Along the edges, small copper teeth were interlocked with surgical precision, not protruding from the original edge.
It was artisanal work, but designed to damage something more resistant than flesh or bone.
Kaep carefully ran his thumb along the edge, without touching the sharp part.
The metal emitted a low, almost imperceptible hum, as if responding to the contact.
He frowned.
That wasn't normal.
He sheathed the sword until he heard a soft click, the metallic sound sealing the weapon in place.
That small, clean, dry noise felt strangely satisfying.
Looking down, he noticed something else among the pile of objects: crumpled sheets, pieces of paper stained with dried ink, and what looked like fragments of logbooks.
Some were damp from salt or sweat.
Kaep lifted his gaze for a moment, thoughtful.
"With a little ink… I could write down what I remember."
He rested a couple of fingers under his chin, considering the idea. While hooking the sword to his left waist.
Writing down what had happened—the starry sky, the figure, the words, the sensation of drowning—. Everything was still too confused.
Perhaps putting it on paper would help order it.
Perhaps.
The room's silence became noticeable again.
Only the distant creak of the hull and some heavy breathing among the sleepers.
Kaep took a deep breath, lowering his gaze to the paper.
"That would be best… I'll do that."
The thought gave him a strange sensation of control, a minimal stability within the disorder.
As he thought it, he brought his left hand to his head, carefully feeling the area where the stitches were.
The touch was rough, with remnants of fabric hardened by the best-possible disinfection.
He felt the relief of the seam, firm, tight on the skin.
A slight twinge ran across his scalp, but nothing more.
He took a couple of pieces of paper from the pile, choosing the least damaged ones.
Sheets, wrinkled with some ink stains that looked like drops.
He crossed the room with careful steps, avoiding the sleeping bodies and the rags spread on the floor.
He reached an empty table.
He placed the papers on the surface and flattened them with his hand, while pushing aside some obstructing objects with his forearm: empty jars, rolled bandages, loose notes with illegible writing.
The sound of paper scraping against wood was the only thing heard for a few seconds.
A tense calm.
Kaep straightened up, looking at what he had gathered.
"Good… now all that's missing is the ink."
His eyes scanned the rest of the table, searching for something to write with.
Then…
Among the objects he had pushed aside, he noticed something he had overlooked before: a thin, black jar with a metallic screw-top lid.
He picked it up carefully, noting the weight of the liquid inside.
He turned the lid slowly until he heard the click of the seal breaking.
A slight smell of iron and dry oil escaped upon opening it.
He shook it a little, observing the dense movement inside.
Dark, thick, with that shine only authentic ink had.
Kaep nodded to himself.
"Perfect."
He placed the jar on the table carefully and looked at it for a few seconds, satisfied.
It was a small triumph within the chaos: something as simple as having ink and paper made him feel useful and awake.
The ship creaked slightly with the sway of the sea.
A drop of ink slid down the edge of the jar and fell onto the paper, spreading like a round, black, almost perfect stain.
Kaep stood watching as the stain slowly grew.
---
A few seconds passed in which Kaep simply watched the stain spread across the paper.
The dark circle stopped growing, but the center of the stained corner remained damp, gleaming under the candlelight.
Without thinking too much, he took the lid between his fingers and placed it back on the jar.
He twisted it firmly until he heard the click of the seal closing.
The sound resonated more than he expected in the room's stillness.
Too much.
He left the jar on the table, arranging it carefully, and then stood up.
The chair creaked slightly as his legs straightened.
He released the air with a short sigh, trying to clear his head.
The atmosphere felt heavy, as if the temperature had dropped without warning.
He looked around: the sleepers remained motionless, the candles crackled without extinguishing, and the ship's sway maintained that constant, almost hypnotic rhythm.
And in the middle, Kaep, with perfect balance.