The voyage had just begun, the great galley cutting across the open waters as the smaller supply ships followed in steady formation. The wind filled the sails, and for a time, the sea was calm. Around the deck, the various Orders settled into their own routines—Templars polishing their weapons, the Hospitallers preparing herbs and poultices, the Teutonic knights murmuring prayers, and the Order of the Garter sharing stories of their past campaigns.
Alaric, Celestria, and Sylas found a quieter spot near the railing and sat together, the sea breeze brushing past them.
Celestria leaned her staff against her shoulder and broke the silence first. "So… what do we do once we reach Gaul? Practice with the druids as the master said?"
Sylas adjusted his hood and shrugged. "That's the smart path. Hone our armours, learn their strengths before Rome eats us alive." His eyes flicked toward Alaric. "But the real question is—do we stick together or split when training?"
Alaric rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the waves. "We stay together. We're stronger as one. Splitting up… would just invite trouble."
Celestria smiled faintly, tapping her gloved fingers against the wood. "Good. Because I'd rather not babysit either of you alone."
Sylas let out a muffled chuckle under his mask. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing."
For a moment, the three sat in companionable silence, the sea stretching endlessly before them, danger lurking unseen beneath the waves.
The three continued their quiet conversation, the lull of the sea almost soothing.
"So," Celestria said softly, one finger brushing along the rim of her staff, "if Gaul is truly our first stop… what do you hope to gain there, Alaric?"
Alaric thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on the rolling horizon. "Strength. Control. If this gauntlet chose me, then I need to understand why—and what it demands. Otherwise, it could become more of a curse than a blessing."
Sylas tilted his head, arms folded. "Hn. At least you're honest about it. Power without control gets you killed faster than any blade."
Before Alaric could respond, the entire ship jolted violently, nearly knocking them off balance. The timbers groaned, the sails flapped as the mast creaked under the sudden strain.
"What in the—?!" Celestria gasped, grabbing hold of the railing.
The galley shuddered again, this time harder, as though something massive had rammed the hull from beneath. Shouts erupted across the deck—Templars calling for order, Hospitallers rushing to secure supplies, sailors struggling to steady the ropes.
Sylas' eyes narrowed beneath his hood. "That wasn't the current… Something hit us."
Alaric tightened his grip on his sword's hilt, rising to his feet as the ship rocked again. His tired eyes sharpened with focus. "Stay ready. Whatever's out there—it's not going to let us pass quietly."
A thick, rolling mist began to creep over the waters, swallowing the ship in a shroud of pale white. The horizon disappeared in seconds, and even the mast seemed distant, blurred as though the ship itself had been set adrift in another world.
Sailors muttered uneasily, their voices hushed. The clatter of armour stilled. Even the steady rhythm of the waves seemed to have gone silent.
Then it came.
A sharp, piercing neigh tore through the silence—unnatural, echoing, the cry of no ordinary horse. The sound carried across the deck, chilling the marrow of every soul aboard.
Before anyone could speak, a scream rang out—high, terrified, cut short in an instant. The only thing that followed was a splash, as though something—or someone—had been dragged into the depths.
Everyone froze. Weapons were drawn, eyes darting into the mist, but nothing stirred. The silence returned, heavier than before.
And then, just as quickly as it had come, the fog thinned, burned away by the wind. The ship was once again bathed in sunlight, the sea calm and unbroken.
The deck looked untouched. No signs of struggle. No blood. No missing faces. Every man and woman stood in their place, as if nothing had happened at all.
Yet the echo of the scream lingered in the minds of all who had heard it, like a stain that could not be scrubbed away.
Celestria gripped her staff tightly, her one visible eye wide. "That… was real. I know it was."
Sylas said nothing, but his hand hovered near his bow, his stance tense and ready.
Alaric looked out at the endless waters, his expression grim. "We've only just begun this voyage… and already the sea wants to test us."
One of the Hospitallers broke the uneasy silence first, his voice trembling but resolute. "I'll fetch my Converter… just in case. If this is the work of something greater, I'd rather be prepared than caught bare-handed."
His comrades nodded, grim-faced. He turned and headed below deck, boots thudding against the wooden planks, the sound echoing strangely in the lingering quiet. A moment later, another member of the Order of the Garter muttered, "I'll go with him. No one should be alone right now."
Minutes passed. The mist had lifted, but unease clung to every soul on the deck like a curse.
Then—
A scream ripped through the ship. Long. Desperate. Then, suddenly—silence.
Every knight and adventurer bolted toward the source, their armour clattering, sailors shouting behind them to hold steady. They rushed into the corridor leading to the adventurers' rooms, hearts pounding, weapons half-drawn.
The chamber where the Hospitaller had gone lay open. Empty. But the floor was slick. Not with blood—but with water. A glistening trail of droplets led across the wooden boards, out the doorway, and toward the ship's side.
"The sea…" Celestria whispered, clutching her staff close.
The group followed the trail quickly, boots splashing against the wet planks. It snaked along the deck, straight toward the railings—and ended there. The water dripped down into the dark waves below, as though the person had been dragged screaming overboard.
"Where's the other one?" Sylas asked sharply, scanning the crowd.
Faces turned, counting, searching. The member of the Garter who had gone after him was nowhere to be seen.
Two gone. No blood. No bodies. Only the lingering memory of that scream—and the endless, dark waters that hid whatever had claimed them.
Alaric's jaw tightened, his hand brushing unconsciously over the black gauntlet still fused to his arm. "The sea isn't finished with us."
While the group crowded by the railing, eyes straining into the restless sea below, a sharp cry split the air behind them.
"AAAAH!" one of the sailors screamed from the deck near the mast. The sound was cut off with a sudden splash—loud and final, as though he had been yanked straight into the waves.
Everyone spun around, weapons half-raised, but again… nothing. No trace of a body. Just wet footprints smearing across the deckboards, trailing toward the side of the ship.
The crew muttered in panic, some crossing themselves, others gripping their hilts so tightly their knuckles whitened.
Celestria stood still for a long moment, her single purple eye darting from the footprints to the sea, then back to the dripping trail. She whispered, almost to herself at first, "It isn't the sea itself… it's on board."
Alaric turned sharply to her. "What do you mean?"
Her grip tightened around her Converter staff, her voice low but certain. "A Kelpie. A water demon from the old tales. It lures victims, drags them into the depths, makes them vanish without a trace. It must have slipped onto the ship when the mist covered us."
Sylas' eyes narrowed behind his mask. "So it's not the sea testing us… it's already here."
Celestria nodded, cloak rustling with the motion. "And it won't stop until it feeds enough… or until we cut it down."
The weight of her words hung heavy over the deck. The Templars and Hospitallers exchanged uneasy looks, gripping their Converters. The Teutonic knights muttered prayers under their breath.
Alaric's tired eyes hardened. "Then we hunt it. Before it hunts the rest of us."
The deck had gone silent after Celestria's grim words, the crew scanning every shadow as fear tightened its grip on them. Then, from the edge of the group, a weak, trembling voice called out—
"…I… I'm back…"
Everyone spun in shock. Standing among them was the Hospitaller who had been dragged into the sea minutes before. His armour was drenched, water dripping steadily onto the deck. Clumps of wet sand clung to his boots, and bits of shell and seaweed tangled in his hair, as though he had crawled up from the very ocean floor. His skin looked pale, lips slightly blue, but he breathed—alive.
Gasps broke out across the deck.
"Impossible!" cried a Teutonic knight, backing a step.
"We saw him taken—dragged under!" shouted another.
One of the sailors whispered shakily, "The sea doesn't return its dead…"
The Hospitaller swayed on his feet, his eyes dazed, voice hoarse. "It… it pulled me down… into the dark. I couldn't breathe. But then… something… let me go." His gaze swept over the group, desperate. "Why? Why am I still alive?"
The adventurers murmured in disbelief, the orders muttering prayers, suspicion and confusion spreading like fire among them.
Only Celestria remained still, her single purple eye locked on the man. She studied the shells in his hair, the sand clinging to his armour, and the faint shimmer of water that never seemed to dry. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered, almost too quietly for anyone to hear:
"…The Kelpie returned him. Not out of mercy, but as a warning."
Alaric's brows furrowed, catching her words. "A warning?"
Celestria finally lifted her staff, her cloak brushing the deck. Her voice was steady, though her eye betrayed a trace of fear. "It wants us to know it can take anyone it chooses… and return them. Alive or dead. We are not safe on this ship."
Sylas clicked his tongue, glancing around the misty horizon. "So we've gained a man back… but lost the certainty of who holds the deck."
The Hospitaller sank to his knees, trembling, muttering to himself. No one moved to comfort him—fear kept them rooted, every gaze darting nervously between him and the dark waters.
The silence of the deck stretched on, heavy and brittle. The Hospitaller sat slumped, coughing seawater, while unease rippled through every knight and sailor.
Then, without a word, Sylas reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, worn leather book. Its pages were water-stained, edges curled, filled with scribbled notes and sketches of creatures both common and rare. He crouched, flipping quickly through, his fingers moving with urgency. His masked face was unreadable, but his eyes flicked sharp with realization as he stopped on a page.
A sketched outline of a long-maned horse. Notes scribbled in ink: Drowns men. Shifts form. Never to be trusted.
Sylas' voice broke the silence, sharp and cutting through the crew's murmurs.
"That's it…" His gloved hand slammed against the page. His eyes lifted, narrowing.
"That's the Kelpie!"
Before anyone could react, he was already moving. In a fluid motion, Sylas drew his Converter bow, his fingers glowing as he nocked an arrow of crackling energy. The bowstring snapped taut—
—and the arrow flew.
It struck the Hospitaller square in the chest with a wet, sickening thud.
The man's body convulsed violently. A piercing, unnatural neigh exploded from his throat, so loud and raw it rattled the sails. Blood burst from his mouth in a spray, pouring down his chin as he collapsed to his knees, clutching the deck.
Then the horror began.
His skin split along the seams of his arms and legs, tearing like cloth as thick clumps of black, coarse horsehair pushed through, slick with blood. His jaw snapped and stretched unnaturally, the bones cracking loud enough to be heard, his teeth elongating as his face warped. Blood streamed from his eyes as they bulged and sank, reforming into the dark, inhuman orbs of a beast.
The man's legs ruptured open with a meaty rip, bones shattering outward as elongated horse legs burst free, dripping crimson, hooves slamming against the deck with a spray of gore. His spine arched violently, bones breaking and reforming, his back splitting open as his frame elongated into the grotesque body of a black horse slick with seawater and blood.
The screams of the crew were drowned beneath the grotesque sounds of transformation—wet tearing flesh, snapping bones, the pounding neigh that echoed from the creature's throat as though its disguise was being shed like rotting skin.
When it finally stood in its full form, the Kelpie's hide gleamed black and wet, blood and seawater dripping in rivulets down its body. Tatters of the Hospitaller's armour and flesh still hung grotesquely from its sides, trailing behind it like rags. Its maw dripped blood, thick ropes of it splattering the deck.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Knights, sailors, even Alaric and Celestria—all were frozen, stunned by the horror before them.
The Kelpie's coal-black eyes flicked across the crowd, its head jerking unnaturally, mane hanging in dripping clumps. With a single, deafening neigh, it launched itself back toward the railing.
Its massive body hit the edge of the ship with a bone-rattling crack, and then it was gone—splashing into the sea below, vanishing beneath the waves as if it had never been there.
Only the blood remained—so much of it, painting the deck in a fresh scarlet sheen.
The captain gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles pale beneath the leather of his gloves. From his post, he had seen everything—the arrow, the blood, the hideous transformation, and the beast's final leap into the waves. For a long moment, his jaw hung slack in horror, his eyes wide. But the ship still needed its helmsman. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, forced his gaze forward, and steadied his hands on the wheel. "Focus… hold steady…" he muttered to himself, anchoring his mind to duty rather than terror.
On the deck, the chaos of a heartbeat ago slowly ebbed. No more screams. No more tearing flesh. Just the wet slap of blood dripping onto the wood. The knights lowered their weapons, some trembling, some muttering prayers. Sailors leaned against the mast, gasping, clutching their stomachs as though holding themselves together.
The nightmare had ended. For now.
Alaric's hand hovered near his blade, but his tired eyes shifted toward Sylas. Celestria did the same, her single purple eye narrowing in quiet curiosity.
Alaric broke the silence. "You knew. You didn't hesitate. How?"
Celestria tilted her head, her voice softer but edged with suspicion. "And that book—where did you get it?"
Sylas, still holding his bow at the ready, exhaled slowly. His hand reached into his cloak once more, pulling out the battered leather journal. He turned it over in his hands before answering.
"My father," he said, his voice low but steady. "He traveled across kingdoms, hunting beasts most men only whisper about. Kelpies, griffons, wraiths… monsters that don't leave behind witnesses. He wrote everything he learned here." Sylas glanced at the bloodied pages, his eyes briefly shadowed with memory. "Before he died, he passed it on to me. Said I'd need it more than he ever did."
He snapped the book shut and tucked it away, his gaze lifting to meet theirs. "That knowledge is the only reason I'm alive now. And—apparently—the reason we still have a ship."
Celestria studied him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable behind her eyepatch. Then, slowly, she nodded.
Alaric's grip on his sword eased. "Then we'll need that knowledge again. Because the sea hasn't finished with us."
The uneasy quiet of the bloodstained deck was broken by the captain's booming voice from the wheel. His words cut sharp through the salt air, urgent and commanding.
"Cover yer ears!" he roared. "We be enterin' the zone where them sirens arrr active!"
The crew stiffened at once. Sailors scrambled for cloth, knights and adventurers alike shoved fingers to their ears, some pressing hands against the sides of their helms. The air itself seemed to tense, as though waiting for the first ghostly note to drift across the waves.
The captain, never letting go of the wheel, reached into his coat with one hand and pulled out a pair of battered earplugs. With practiced ease, he jammed them into his ears, jaw set as his gaze remained fixed on the misty horizon.
"Ye hear me well now!" he bellowed, voice almost shaking the sails. "Don't open yer ears 'til I fire me gun! That'll be the signal we arrr clear o' their cursed song!"
With that final warning, he fell silent, his focus locked on steering them safely through the waters.
The deck was a strange sight—every man and woman clamped their ears shut, tense, waiting, knowing that the next voice they didn't block out might be the one that lured them to their deaths.
The sea fell into an eerie stillness. Then, soft at first, almost like the wind itself was humming, came the voices.
A song. Sweet, sorrowful, and beautiful enough to break a man's heart.
The sirens had begun.
Their melody slid across the waves like silk, coiling around the ears of those on the ship, seeking a way inside. Even muffled by tightly covered ears and earplugs, the faint vibration of the song seemed to seep through the skin, to nestle into the bones, tempting, tugging.
Men clenched their jaws, gripping hilts and shields, refusing to yield. The Templars, standing tall with hands pressed firm over their ears, lowered their heads in prayer. Their discipline was ironclad; no song of lust or longing could sway them from their devotion to God. To sin was death, and they would rather die than succumb.
The Hospitallers knelt, humming hymns under their breath to drown the temptation further. The Teutonic Order gritted their teeth and locked their gauntleted arms, their sheer willpower holding them steady. The Order of the Garter clung together in pairs, each knight watching the other for any sign of weakness.
Alaric sat stiffly, muscles tight, every instinct urging him to remove his hands, to hear the song more clearly. His tired eyes were narrowed, locked on the floorboards of the deck. No. Not me. Not now. I won't fall here.
Celestria's one eye was shut, her staff hugged to her chest, as if the weapon itself might anchor her against the tide of temptation. Her lips pressed together in determination, a faint flicker of flame forming at her fingertips before she smothered it. She knew one mistake could ignite disaster.
Sylas remained as a statue, hood pulled low, bow resting across his lap. Beneath his mask, his teeth ground together. His father's book had warned of the sirens, of the countless hunters lost to their call. He would not join them. Not today.
The song grew louder. Voices layered upon voices, rising and falling like a choir of angels drowning in sorrow. It was so beautiful that even muffled, it clawed at the heart. Men trembled. A sailor wept silently, pressing his palms harder over his ears, his shoulders shaking as though the song reached into his very soul.
Then the ship lurched.
The timbers groaned as the hull slammed against an unseen current. The deck tilted sharply to the left, sending men stumbling. Ropes strained, sails whipped, and the mast groaned under the pressure.
The sirens weren't content with singing. They wanted the ship broken, its crew tossed screaming into the sea.
Another lurch—this time to the right. The deck pitched violently, crates tumbled, armour clattered. A knight lost his footing and would have gone overboard if not for two comrades seizing him by the arms at the last second.
Still, no one uncovered their ears. Better to die clinging to the ship than leap willingly into the waiting arms of monsters.
The ordeal stretched on endlessly, every second a fresh torment. The sirens' voices never faltered, never ceased. The ship rocked again and again, but the galley was strong—its hull broad, its frame reinforced, built to weather the tempests of both sea and sorcery.
Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Sweat dripped from brows, breaths came in sharp gasps, and yet the crew endured, clinging to the captain's command. Not a soul dared break it.
Then—
BANG!
The captain's flintlock pistol cracked through the air, louder than thunder. The shot echoed across the sea, cutting through the lingering threads of song. His voice followed, booming, firm, and final:
"Coast be clear, lads! Sirens arrr behind us!"
Relief swept across the deck like a wave. Hands slipped from ears, shoulders sagged, and heavy breaths filled the air. Knights murmured prayers of thanks, sailors laughed nervously in shaky triumph.
The captain stood tall at the wheel, lowering his smoking pistol. A rare grin tugged at his weathered face as he pointed ahead.
"Land ho!" he bellowed, his voice brimming with pride and victory.
All eyes turned forward. Through the thinning mist, jagged cliffs rose from the horizon, and beyond them, the faint, welcoming green of foreign shores.
The nightmare at sea had ended. But on land, a new trial awaited.
The galley groaned as its anchor struck the seabed, ropes were cast, and the wooden bridge lowered to the dock. The three adventurers stepped off first, boots meeting solid earth at last. Behind them, the Templars, Hospitallers, Teutonic knights, and the Order of the Garter formed ranks to escort them a short way, ensuring their safety until they were firmly on land.
The captain remained at the wheel, shouting orders as his crew prepared to set sail once more. Supply ships followed close behind, their decks heavy with crates and barrels. Their duty was far from done, and they could not linger. With one last booming laugh, the captain raised a hand in farewell before turning his vessel back to sea.
Celestria stood still for a moment, her cloak tugged by the coastal breeze. She spread her arms wide, her single visible eye closing as she breathed deep the scent of salt and sand. A long sigh escaped her lips, heavy with the weight of tension gone.
"At last," she murmured, voice soft but firm, "that nightmare is behind us."
Sylas said nothing. He had pulled his hood low, mask still covering his face. But as the others moved, he quietly turned away, stepping to the edge of the dock. With a flick of his hand, he unlatched the mask, lifted it just enough to expose his mouth, and leaned over the waters.
The sound of retching broke the brief silence. He spat bile into the rolling tide, gripping the dock's edge with white-knuckled fingers. The sirens' song had left more than temptation—it had left his body sick from the endless rocking, from holding himself rigid against their influence. He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, silent, before pulling the mask back in place and lowering his hood again.
Alaric watched him, then chuckled under his breath, folding his arms across his chest.
"Well," he said with a faint grin, turning his eyes toward the roads of Gaul stretching before them, "new place, new adventures."
After waiting for Sylas to regain his composure, the three regrouped and began their walk toward the gates of Gaul's bustling port. The harbor stretched wide with the noise of sailors shouting, merchants haggling, and carts creaking beneath the weight of foreign goods. The smell of fish and salt mixed with the sharper tang of burning torches that lined the entryway.
Ahead of them, a checkpoint stood firm—an archway of stone engraved with Druidic runes, humming faintly with power. Two tall figures stood guard beneath it: Averni soldiers, their emerald-green cloaks rippling in the breeze. Bronze breastplates gleamed over their tunics, and each carried a long staff topped with a crystal that pulsed faintly.
One soldier raised his hand, stopping the line of arrivals for a moment. He lowered the staff toward a man burdened with sacks. The crystal flared briefly before dimming again, confirming the goods were harmless.
The second soldier's eyes swept over the crowd. "Step forward. All weapons and artifacts must be declared. Anything stronger than a Converter is forbidden entry."
The three watched as a nervous merchant was turned away when the staff revealed something hidden in his cart. Muttering curses, he had no choice but to retreat back to the docks. The line moved again, slowly, each traveler scanned with precision.
Sylas muttered under his breath, "So they're using detection magic… makes sense. Gaul doesn't play games when it comes to power."
Celestria tilted her head slightly, her single eye narrowing as she studied the runes. "Not just detection… it reads resonance. If a weapon holds more than Converter energy, they'll know instantly."
Alaric adjusted the gauntlet still clinging to his hand. His black Converter shimmered faintly under the sunlight, nails catching the light. For the first time since setting foot on land, he wondered how the soldiers would react to its presence