(Present Day – En route to Varithiel)
The sea was too calm.
Dantes leaned against the ship's rail, one arm braced on the salt-worn wood, eyes locked on the horizon where storm clouds gathered like distant judgment.
Below, the water rolled gently. Too gently.
No wind. No gulls.
Only the slow rhythm of waves brushing against the hull like something breathing beneath it.
He hated ships.
Not because of the sea.
Because of what silence did to a man's thoughts.
---
Francesca and Alberta were asleep below deck.
Cornelius, likely still arguing with the captain over protocol.
That left Dantes alone with the dark, the salt, and the stars.
And something else.
---
He paused. Eyes narrowing.
He didn't turn immediately. Didn't want to give it away.
But the hairs on his arms lifted.
Not cold. Not fear.
Something older. That familiar hum at the base of the skull—the one he felt when a blade was aimed at his back, but hadn't yet been drawn.
He straightened and scanned the rigging, the crow's nest, the stillness just beyond the lantern glow.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No shift of breath.
But someone was watching.
He could feel it.
---
Dantes muttered, almost to himself, "You're too quiet."
His voice didn't echo. The sea swallowed it.
A creak above.
He flicked his gaze to the mast—but the movement had already passed. Maybe a sail rope, maybe not.
He stepped away from the railing and walked casually along the deck.
Not rushed. Not alert.
Let them think he didn't care.
But inside, every instinct burned sharp.
This wasn't a soldier watching.
Wasn't some eager informant.
This was someone who knew how to disappear.
Someone who had been trained to wait.
And worse—someone who already knew who he was.
---
He exhaled slowly and let his fingers brush the dagger hidden at his hip.
"Next time," he whispered, "try knocking."
---
High above, cloaked in shadow, a figure crouched in the rigging, unmoving.
They had not blinked since dusk.
They had not spoken since boarding.
No glint of steel. No shift of weight.
Only observation.
Careful. Silent. Calculated.
A small leather-bound journal rested beneath their cloak, its latest entry written in slanted script:
He knows.
Still, the figure did not move.
They were not here for Dantes.
They were here for someone else.
Assigned to watch. Not interfere. Not yet.
The ship drifted deeper into open waters.
And the watcher remained—
part shadow, part silence—
waiting for the moment the others would break.