The fading toll of the dusk bell echoed faintly through the damp tunnels and vertical shafts of the Pland sewer system. Muffled and distorted, the mournful note barely reached the sunken chamber where a handful of black-robed cultists huddled, their faces drawn tight with fear and exhaustion.
One among them was dying.
He lay limp on a pile of filthy cloth, breath shallow, lips parted. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed but still faintly moving. He could hear the others whispering, could feel their indecision—he knew exactly what they were considering.
"He's still breathing," one cultist muttered uncertainly. He glanced toward the dying man, voice almost hesitant, as if hoping his observation might change the outcome.
"For now," replied another in a low growl. "But the dusk bell has already sounded. He can't be allowed to die in this room. The sun's grace will only protect him if he dies in the dark."
A feeble twitch passed through the dying man's hand. He knew what that meant. His "brothers" were preparing to carry him out—cast him beyond the lamp's glow before his soul slipped away. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. Fear that whatever residue remained from the failed ritual would cling to his corpse. That he might become something else.
The silence grew dense. Every wheezing breath seemed louder than it should be.
Then, finally, one of the black-robed men—the one who had earlier cursed the storm cult—spoke again. "Wait a little longer. He won't... change immediately. At least not right after he stops breathing."
"Fine," came the gruff reply. "But we can't risk it if he goes cold. And... are we sure it's just an illness?"
There was hesitation.
"I know the guy," said another cultist, finally speaking for the first time. "He used to run some fake antique shop on the fringe of the city—always had health problems. Probably just the stress of the raid, and spending too long in this damn sewer."
That explanation eased the tension slightly.
Though none of them were high-ranking "clergy," the man who had spoken before knew enough of the hidden arts. He understood how the failed summoning had left behind traces—spiritual contaminants, splinters of madness. Anyone at that ritual could've become a carrier.
And the man on the floor... he looked far too much like a ticking time bomb.
But they hadn't abandoned him. Not yet. The law of the Order still held weight here: All Children of the Sun are brothers.
With a sigh, the speaker pulled something from beneath his robe—a small golden charm. He tucked it against the chest of the unconscious man.
"What's that?" someone asked.
"A sacred relic," he murmured. "I traded dearly with the emissary to acquire it. May the sun's mercy shield him in the dark. May his soul pass in peace."
The others bowed their heads. "All Children of the Sun are brothers," they whispered.
And the man who offered the charm repeated it, his voice low: "All Children of the Sun are brothers."
Above the waves, the sun vanished beneath the sea's edge once more.
And with it, the stars failed to return.
Duncan stood at the rear deck of the Vanished, staring up at the black sky. The great pale wound split the heavens—silent, eternal, and terrible.
He sighed. No matter how long he stared, no constellations would ever blink back. This was not his world. And this sky held no stars.
Yet his heart was lighter than it had been the last time he saw this night.
He had food. He had the ship. He had not gone insane—yet. And his dinner had been spectacular.
He turned to glance at the pigeon perched on his shoulder.
"You know," he mused aloud, "maybe I should try something more traditional for a pirate captain. Like... robbing some merchant ships."
The pigeon tilted its head, both eyes drifting lazily in opposite directions. "That sound right? That sound right? That sound right?"
Duncan laughed. "No, probably not my style. Besides, it's easier said than done. First you'd have to find a trade route worth pillaging."
He glanced around the vast ocean. Empty, silent, stretching in every direction.
Not a single sail in sight.
Ever since the Vanished had collided with that convoy ship weeks ago, they hadn't seen another soul. Not a whisper of civilization. Not even a wreck.
Maybe the sea didn't want him to find anyone.
His musings were interrupted by a soft voice behind him.
"Captain? Are we going to rob someone?"
He turned to see Alice, perched elegantly atop a coiled rope stack, her silver hair shining faintly in the ghost-light of the scarred sky. In the eerie glow of the celestial wound, she looked like a painting—a porcelain doll frozen in time, her dress perfect, her expression curious.
For a moment, Duncan blinked. He'd almost forgotten how surreal she could look when not, say, pulling her head off to avoid conversation.
"You're asking if we're going to rob someone?" he repeated.
Alice nodded seriously.
Duncan grinned. "Do you want to?"
She frowned. "Not really. It sounds... boring."
"You say that," Duncan chuckled, "but I did rob you. Sort of. You're here, aren't you?"
The cursed doll looked down at her own hands, tilting her head. "True... I guess you did kidnap me."
"See?" Duncan winked. "You've already been robbed. You're part of the experience."
"But... are we going to rob anyone?"
"No," he said as he turned toward the captain's quarters. "That sounds like a lot of work. I think I'd rather go for a walk after dinner."
He stepped inside, leaving Alice blinking on the deck.
The lamp in his cabin was dim. The brass compass gleamed faintly on the desk.
Tonight, he would walk the dream again.
He lit the spirit flame at his fingertips, and in an instant, Ai—the pigeon—disappeared from the table and reappeared on his shoulder in a burst of green fire.
He felt the connection. The link between them—thin, ethereal, almost a thread of instinct.
With slow precision, he fed that link with fire.
Ai's wings shimmered. The brass compass snapped open. Arcane glyphs flared into motion, and the needle spun wildly before pointing true.
The world dissolved.
Darkness returned.
The current pulled him inward.
The same strange space unfolded before him—blackness and flowing lights, a sea of scattered fires. Possibilities. People. Moments. All floating, all waiting.
He turned his gaze toward them.
And among the countless flames... one pulsed in time with his heart.
He didn't know why. He didn't know who. But he moved toward it.
If this was what it meant to walk between worlds, then tonight, that flicker of light would be his next destination.
In the darkness below Pland, the cultists waited.
The bell was long past. The light from their lone oil lamp barely held back the suffocating dark.
Their comrade was still. His breathing shallow. His chest hardly rose.
He would not last the hour.
They could feel it.
No one spoke. Not until the moment came.
The dying man exhaled—and did not inhale again.
The room held its breath.
"May the Sun shine on your soul," the senior cultist murmured, and raised his hand. "Take him—"
And stopped.
Because in the dim, flickering light, they all saw it.
The corpse breathed.