Reflections are an ordinary thing.

A puddle of rainwater on the street can capture the sky. A polished blade can return your gaze. A still lake can hold an entire world within its depths, mirroring the one above.

But reflections are not the same under all light.

Under the sun, they are merciless—perfect, unwavering. The light strikes the water and returns in an unbroken path, showing only what is expected. A reflection at midday does not shimmer or shift. It does not waver when the wind stirs the waves. It does not change when something beneath it moves.

Because nothing beneath it moves.

Not truly.

The reflections of daylight are absolute. If one sees something within them that should not be there, it is not an illusion. It is not a trick of the mind. It is real. And it is looking back.

That is why no one stares at reflections during the day.

That is why no one studies the silver sheen of the Dead Sea when the sky is bright and cloudless.

But moonlight is different.

Under the moon, the world is softer. Shadows stretch long, and the light bends where it should not. The sea breathes beneath the night, its surface shifting in waves of silver and black. A reflection under the moon is never still—it ripples and distorts, breaking apart and reforming.

And perhaps, that is why the things beneath do not dwell in it.

Perhaps they can only form where the light is absolute.

Perhaps the waves keep them at bay.

Or perhaps... the moonlight merely hides them.

No one knows.

The hunters do not question why the sea is safe at night. They do not ask what lurks in the daylight, nor do they seek to understand the things that should not be understood.

They know only this:

The day belongs to something else.

And the night... is borrowed time.

The ship drifted through the dark waters, its sails full of quiet wind. Beneath it, the Dead Sea rippled gently, the moon's glow casting silver streaks across the waves. It was a beautiful sight, haunting in its vastness—an endless, shifting mirror that reflected the night sky with unnatural clarity.

Orn stood motionless at the helm, his knuckles white against the railing.

The others had not noticed. The Hunters continued their work, adjusting the rigging, sharpening their harpoons, speaking in low murmurs as if the silence of the sea demanded reverence.

But Orn knew something was wrong.

He had seen the reflection of the moon shatter.

And now, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much instinct told him to look away, he couldn't stop himself from glancing at the water.

The reflection had returned to normal.

A perfect, unbroken moon stared back at him, gleaming softly upon the waves.

But he had seen it.

His stomach twisted.

There were many things people speculated about the Dead Sea—many myths, many warnings. But of all the stories passed down by sailors, one rule stood above all:

Never look too long. Never look too closely.

Because what lay within the reflections... sometimes, it noticed.

Orn clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe. He had looked. He had seen. And though the water was still, he knew—he knew—that something had changed.

But he wasn't about to panic.

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Panic got men killed.

He turned sharply, pulling his gaze away from the water as he called out.

"Status?"

A Hunter near the mast perked up, raising a hand in acknowledgment. "Five hours till sunrise. No disturbances. A few catches, nothing big yet."

Orn nodded. His voice came steady, sharp. "Maintain course. Keep your eyes on the horizon. Don't get careless."

The men responded in kind, adjusting their stances. They were experienced hunters, disciplined and wary. None of them would be foolish enough to drop their guard.

Even so, Orn felt it.

A presence. A weight against his back, a sensation just at the edge of his senses, pressing lightly against the space behind his neck.

Watching.

The wind shifted slightly, and for the first time that night, the ship creaked.

The Dead Sea had no tide. The waves never rose higher than a man's knee, no storms ever churned its depths. The air never carried the scent of salt, only something faintly metallic, something cold.

And yet... something in the water stirred.

Not with movement. Not with sound.

But with awareness.

Orn gritted his teeth. His body remained still, his fingers flexing slightly before relaxing. He wouldn't let them see his unease.

After all, he was of the highest rank among them. Sure, he wasn't the only one that was Emergent amongst them, but he was the strongest Emergent, and why he was the leader.

Strength came in many forms.

And one of them was image.

He could not show unease.

The wind carried no scent.

No salt. No brine. No rot.

Nothing.

It was the kind of silence that made the skin crawl. The kind that didn't belong at sea.

Orn's fingers curled against the railing as he glanced at the horizon. The night stretched endlessly, the black waters blending into the sky so seamlessly that it felt like they were floating in an abyss. Only the moonlight kept them anchored, shimmering against the waves like silver thread.

That was normal. That was how it had always been.

And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.

Not an obvious change—no great wave, no sudden burst of sound—but something deeper. Something fundamental.

His grip tightened.

The ship groaned softly as it glided forward, its hull cutting through the Dead Sea with practiced ease. Behind him, the Hunters moved efficiently, setting lines and checking their weapons. Their voices were quiet but steady, exchanging brief words in between glances at the water.

They weren't nervous.

They should have been.

Orn exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.

The reflection had shattered. He had seen it.

And now, it was as if it had never happened.

That was the problem.

Reflections didn't break. Not on their own. Not here.

A rhythmic splash echoed off the side of the ship—one of the younger Hunters pulling in a net. It came up heavy, writhing, the dark mass of a fish struggling against the woven fibers. The young man grunted as he hauled it over the railing, dropping it onto the deck with a dull, wet thud.

"Good size," someone muttered.

Another splash. Another catch.

The tension eased. The Hunters returned to work.

Orn's eyes flickered to the net. The fish flopped weakly, its shimmering scales catching the moonlight in strange, iridescent hues.

Then he saw it.

Not on the fish—in it.

A crack.

Thin, barely noticeable, running along its body like fractured glass. Not a wound, not a tear, but something else entirely.

His stomach twisted.

A shadow passed through the water.

Not a shape. Not a figure.

Just a darkness, sliding silently beneath the surface, unseen by the others.

Orn let out a slow breath. His hands steadied.

There was no point in speaking. Not yet.

He had been hunting these waters for years. He knew the rules.

The ship sailed forward, and the reflection of the moon shimmered peacefully, unbroken once more.

But Orn knew better than to trust his own eyes.

And he knew why.

Because something else was looking through them.

He knew the feeling. He sensed it.

The same way a human brain senses a gaze even while it is asleep.

A primal instinct buried deep in the mind, untouched by logic, untouched by reason. A warning older than fire, older than language. The knowledge that something was watching, unseen.

It was not fear.

It was awareness.

Orn kept his breath steady. His hands remained loose at his sides, his expression unreadable. Years of discipline had trained him to control his body, to force his reactions into stillness.

But inside, his instincts sharpened like a blade against stone.

The ship continued its quiet glide through the water. The wind had not changed. The sea had not changed. The world remained as it was.

And yet, something was there.

Just beyond the surface.

Just beneath his feet.

The shadows beneath the water did not belong to the waves.

They did not belong to the fish.

They did not belong to anything that should have been there.

Orn exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of the wooden railing.

The Hunters had not noticed.

Not yet.

The younger ones, still green, still eager, still foolish, had begun to talk amongst themselves. Low murmurs, quiet chuckles, the scraping of blades being sharpened.

They thought the night was calm.

They thought the hunt was going well.

They were wrong.

Orn turned his gaze back to the sea, careful, deliberate. He did not look at it, not directly. He studied it from the corner of his vision, watching the way the waves moved, the way the reflections swayed.

The reflection of the moon remained whole.

It had not shattered again.

But he knew better than to believe it was the same.

Something had changed.

The shadows beneath the water were deeper now. Darker.

And worse—

They were following the ship.

A perfect pace. A perfect rhythm.

Moving without moving.

Hiding where nothing should hide.

Orn did not flinch. He did not tense. He only reached for his blade, fingers brushing against the worn leather of its grip.

It was a subtle movement, a quiet precaution.

But he had made a mistake.

Because the moment his hand touched the hilt—

The shadows stopped.

The water was still.

Too still.

And then, the ship creaked.

Not from the wind.

Not from the waves.

But from something beneath them.

Something that had pressed against the hull.

Something that had felt him move.