“Vitus:

What use have we for gods above,

When here on earth they roam and love?

Lysandra:

Their stories, once our guiding light,

Now seem to fade in modern sight.

Vitus:

Our world has changed, the old ways lost,

And with them, gone the gods we once accost.

Lysandra:

But in their place, new idols rise,

And we worship them with blinded eyes.”

– The Divine Tragedy, a Limrodian play

“They said a single truth could shatter worlds. They didn’t know how right they were.”

– Anonymous

Year 301 of the Age of the Tetrarchy

The morning breeze kissed their weathered cheeks, as if beckoning them forward, out into the unknown. Sunlight danced on the sea’s surface as the Uninvited Guest cut through the cerulean expanse, no land in sight. Sails billowing proudly, timbers singing under the strain.

No more than a handful of Trifelt sailors manned the caravel, like they were born to it. From a distance, it almost looked effortless. Up close, it was different. Eyes lingering on the horizon—just a moment too long—hands restlessly tugging on rigging and cutlasses. The occasional look over their shoulders. As if fearing the sea could sense their excitement, their trepidation. Bear in mind, these were no landlubbers—oh no—they knew the perils of a blue-water voyage. Had braced them, time and time again. Had survived. No. It was the unknown that troubled them on this voyage. You did not venture north and come back to tell your tale.

Delam did not fault them. At the stern, broad frame squared against the wind, he tightened his grip on the rough teak wheel. Squinting eyes that had glimpsed countless foreign shores on the horizon, in his years during the pirate wars. He would love to see one now, in fact. But all his eyes registered was an endless desert of uncharted waters. The final frontier, some called it. He preferred to view it as his final push, whatever that might mean in the end.

No wonder everyone was on edge. He noticed it every day, saw it grow, like a surging wave preparing to crest. No open discussions, not yet. But crew members exchanged glances when Delam passed them on his rounds, faces taut with anticipation, with uncertainty.

“Life on the waves, a gamble with fate, eh?” he heard one sailor mutter to another, thinking himself unobserved, as they adjusted the rigging. “Adventure and untold riches, they say. Haven’t seen too much of that so far.”

“Or a watery grave with all the space you could wish for, coming for free,” a young deckhand chimed in from the side, only half-joking, casting a wary eye toward the roiling sea.

Riches. Whenever you needed a lure, that was a ready option. Maybe the option. You did not need to convince anyone of its worth. Anyone but Delam, these days. Freedom from the chokehold of the Belt, he thought, that’s the real treasure here, isn’t it? Delam glanced at the navigational charts. The lure of the northern seas was not just adventure. It never was, once you had left that vibrant country of youth.

No, it was that devastatingly sweet promise of freedom and true wealth that tugged at a man’s heartstrings. No more bowing to Tetrarchy tariffs or monopolies. No more bureaucracy looming over them like a towering cloud. Perhaps those would even be their own tools for profit then, for a change.

Sure, nobody had actually found something north of Lycar. Yet. But Delam remained undeterred, if he considered the competence of an average sailor these days. Most of them had a hard time navigating from Taris to Limrod. Bloody amateurs. He paused to scrutinize the navigational charts one more time, fingers tracing potential courses. He was well-prepared. He would not fail.

Days had turned into weeks as they had journeyed north from Olban. Sailing under the endless tapestry of moon and stars, a deceptive calm that had lulled them into complacency. Delam did not like that. If this was all the challenge there was, he thought, why did nobody come here before? They even had ample time for rest and recreation so far. It just did not feel right. Of course, provisions needed to be managed but they could keep going for weeks at this pace. Far longer than he expected this to take. There simply had to be land somewhere ahead. He allowed himself a glimmer of seductive hope. Delam was certain, however daunting the journey, there was no crew north of the Belt better suited for this. He had made sure of that.

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They had encountered choppy waters at first, venturing into those northern seas, well past Taris. But Delam had the Uninvited well-equipped to navigate these waves. He was proud of his beautiful ship, one of the few remaining teak vessels from Reldan’s shipyard. Cost him a fortune though. Delam saw it as an investment. Still, the seas here proved a challenge, even for the most experienced sailors among them. Then came the storms. Torrents of water from above—like flights of arrows—joining those from below, rising higher than the towers guarding Taris’ harbor.

When the waters finally calmed again, latitude readings confirmed it: they had made it past the outermost reaches of Lycar. True open ocean. Unknown lands and untold riches, he thought. Delam gazed upwards, tracking the movements of a flock of black birds high above. He idly wondered whether they were following them.

Harrold joined him at the helm. Delam glanced over to his first mate. His friend. He went way back with that craggy face. Fitting that they would be here now, together, in their greatest dare.

“We’re making pace, Cap’n,” the huge man said, unable to contain his excitement. “Won’t be long now ‘til we find what we’re lookin’ for. Riches or ruin, eh?”

Like most of the crew—like Delam himself—Harrold had a somewhat shady past, involving the odd bit of pirating here and there. That was simply the Trifelt in their time. It was during one such ‘expedition’ that Harrold had overheard drunken talk of an island beyond the north. Just a four-week sail from Olban, supposedly. That was what they had built their entire journey on. That, and the common sense that the world could not just end in water. Everyone knew you needed a large wall or something, to keep it all together.

Of course, the grizzled sailor had also mentioned monstrous creatures and cursed waters to Harrold, but they had chosen to ignore that part. The man was a drunk, after all.

“Aye,” Delam answered, eyes never leaving the compass and navigational charts that lay before him on the helm. More than enough uncertainties lurked in their path, and caution had kept Delam alive this far. He meant to make it a habit. “We’re on schedule according to my calculations, but you know as well as I do, the sea has a mind of her own.” He finally looked up to meet Harrold’s eyes. “So, let’s not get ahead of ourselves; I don’t know these waters ahead of us. Nobody does.”

“But imagine, Cap’n,” Harrold’s gaze followed the sun as it sunk below the horizon, his face basked in a soft orange glow, “if we’re the first from Olban to step foot on this undiscovered land.”

“Oh no, old friend,” Delam smirked, turning his eyes back to the horizon too. “Imagine if we’re the first in the entire world,” he corrected.

Then he suddenly caught the reflection of his ship in the darkening waters—his brow furrowed at the huge shadow, the spark of adventure dimming a fraction in his eyes. What if we’re chasing a mirage? What if there is no land beyond Lycar, or if it’s just too far out of reach? He shook his head, refusing to voice his uncertainties. Too many unknowns. Delam had not exactly stressed these questions when he recruited the men for this voyage.

“So, Cap’n, about the crew...” Harrold started, pulling him from his thoughts. Delam could see where this was headed and was already preparing to roll his eyes. “They were hoping to crack open a few wine barrels tonight, maybe get a bit of music going, and...” His friend never finished his sentence. Because with this, Harrold Ironhorn, first mate of the Uninvited Guest, vanished. Or, more precisely, he was suddenly replaced by a gargantuan black mass, in a fine mist of blood and seawater.

No scream, just the snapping of timber.

Delam’s eyes widened, mouth agape, as interlocking scales blurred past him in a whirlwind of motion, tearing up the planks of his ship. He stumbled backward. Two more of the terrifying masses erupted from the bow of the Uninvited, shattering and scattering more of his crew. There. A sailor spiraled through the air, screams cut short as he was impaled on a splintered mast. There. Another man crushed against the aftcastle, with a sickening sound that miraculously penetrated the clamor.

Delam’s mind whirred. Seeing—oh by the Belt did he see—but not understanding. Stunned, his thoughts raced through explanations. Slugs, ropes, whips, snakes, tentacles. Tentacles! Some kind of sea monster? Moving impossibly fast, impossibly strong. More and more of the intrusions surfaced from the ocean—or the bowels of his ship—annihilating everything in their path.

All around him now, the tentacles squirmed in a cacophony of clanks and screeches, writhing masses blotting out the emerging stars. Sailors stared in paralyzed horror at the display before them. Delam shouted desperately, trying to rouse them for a battle they could not possibly hope to win. But what were they to do, lie down and die? His voice barely cut through the pandemonium.

Some readied harpoons and nets, perhaps in the vain hope of entangling their aggressors into submission. Too late. Just as he had finished issuing his command, an enormous wave came crashing down on them, washing most of his sailors off the deck. Delam heard cries from the decks below, as the resting sailors there were thrown about like ragdolls. Death, death everywhere. He called out more orders but to no avail; this massacre was beyond his control.

Delam swallowed. “Abandon ship!” The few remaining men and women—those who could still hear and understand—obeyed without hesitation. Leaping into the violently foaming waters below, leaving behind everything but the clothes on their backs. As they struggled against the surging waves below, Delam stayed behind at the helm, until he too was forced off by another wave, hitting the roiling waters with a splash. Biting water soaking him to the bones in an instant. Struggling against the tug of the current, he frantically surveyed his surroundings.

Before him, the Uninvited—his ship, his beautiful ship—slowly disappeared beneath the waves in a black web of tentacles, amongst a crescendo of snapping timber. All around him, Delam’s sailors tried to keep afloat, watching in dismay as their vessel sank into oblivion. Their home, their belongings, their dreams of discovery, all vanishing into the depths. Slowly, the sounds of destruction faded, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves.

Then, one by one, heads disappeared below the churning surface.

Screams tore through the air anew, harmonizing with the eerie, resounding screeches of the monstrous tentacles, which re-emerged, as if taunting their human prey. Delam could only watch helplessly as his crew was dragged, pushed, shattered, and drowned.

All around him expanded an endless field of flotsam, body parts, and terrified Trifeltians. And there, where the Uninvited had floated just moments ago, something dark. Something huge. But then Delam felt something tug at his ankle, and his mind—blank with terror—never had to process what it saw before he was yanked into the dark depths of the northern sea.