Above deck, lanterns swung wildly. The ship groaned like a living thing, a low, dragging sound that made the chains in the hold hum and the entire hull shudder.

  The sea itself bulged and groaned, the Brine rising in thick, unnatural swells that didn't crest so much as heave.

  Salt spray flew like ash, coating the planks, hissing and crackling against the iron fastenings.

  "The Brine! It's moving!" a lookout cried, his voice thin with disbelief.

  Seris stood by the mast, her cloak whipping in the sour, metallic wind. Her eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in sharp assessment. "That's no ordinary storm."

  "It's a Brine-storm," Veynar replied, his usual calm replaced by a taut vigilance.

  "Impossible," Grish spat, his voice cracking against the roar of the gale. He gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned the color of the salt-crusted wood.

  "The Brine is too heavy to dance!"

  It was a known truth, a sailor's catechism. The Brine Sea was less like water and more like liquid earth.

  Yet the impossible was happening. The horizon was gone, replaced by a churning wall of black and grey-green. The sea was not just moving; it was convulsing.

  "Something stirs it," the Captain growled, his voice cutting through the panic. His gaze was deadly serious. "Get the men ready. Secure the holds."

  GRRRRK

  The ship groaned.

  Down below, white light bled through the cracks in the planks. The prisoners whimpered as salt sifted through, stinging skin and burning iron.

  Dion’s heart pounded. He heard it again, louder, clearer, as though the voice had slipped out of the groaning hull and crawled into the hollow of his own ear.

  Step out.

  A temptation, soft as a sigh.

  Be free.

  A promise, cool as deep water.

  Dissolve.

  An invitation not to die, but to unravel. To let the saltwater in his veins match the saltwater outside, to let the pressure in his skull equal the pressure of the deep.

  He felt it tugging at the edges of his mind, gentle, insistent. His memories began to blur.

  The face of a mother, the smell of dry earth, the weight of a sword in his hand. All of it seemed distant, small, wrapped in a fog.

  Why cling? Why fight?

  The humming around him wasn’t so terrible. It was almost… a lullaby.

  Let go.

  The Brine whispered, and for a moment, he wanted to.

  What was there to live for? He was a slave.

  SLAP.

  A jolt of pain, sharp and bright. The sting bloomed across his own cheek, he had slapped himself.

  His face stung.

  The fog in his mind thinned, ripped open by the raw, animal shock of self-inflicted pain.

  He clenched his fists until his nails bit blood. His father’s words rose in memory.

  Discipline bends the will. But without purpose, it is chains.

  Why do you endure?

  Dion drew breath through his teeth. Only one thought ran through his mind.

  What in hell was this?

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  “You felt it just now, yes?” Varro’s voice was low, gritty, close beside him. “The hold. It was strong?”

  Dion didn’t reply. Instead, he glanced around. The chains were rattling all around him, not from the storm, but from movement.

  One by one, the prisoners stirred. Their hollow faces caught the sway of the lantern, eyes reflecting that unnatural, seeping light.

  They weren’t panicking. They were… waiting.

  He turned toward the hatch, the only way out of the hold.

  No laughter drifted from the guards above. No footsteps, no curses, no barked orders. Only a thick, heavy silence, broken by the groan of the ship and the rising hum from the throats of the changed.

  He felt it then, a cold certainty settling in his gut. Something was wrong.

  Horribly wrong.

  Even the air felt thick, wet, heavy as if the hold was already filled with seawater. Then the first sound came like a hammer dropped on wood.

  THUD.

  A heavy weight above them. Followed by another.

  Slow.

  Wet.

  Dragging.

  Nails shrieked in the timbers, while the lantern swayed wildly, painting stretched shadows across the walls.

  “It's because we left….we left the shore. The sea demons come for us. It's only a matter of time," one prisoner whispered.

  “Shut your mouth,” another snapped, but his own voice cracked.

  The stairwell darkened. Lantern light bent around a shadow. Someone was coming down.

  Unfortunately, a stench arrived first.

  Salt and Rot. An odd combination.

  The stink of drowned corpses bloated on the shore. It clung to the back of Dion’s throat until he gagged.

  Then Dion saw it.

  A figure descended.

  It was a man. Or it had been one.

  Skin the sickly color of drowned flesh, pale gray blue and stretched thin over bone. Black veins spiderwebbed through the skin like cracks in glass.

  Barnacles jutted from its jawline. Its eyes pale, milky, glowing faint rolled aimlessly until they locked on the prisoners.

  GASP

  Just mere looking at the monstrosity in sight made him feel as if he was drowning, his lungs filled with water

  Saltwater poured out from it's mouth in a steady stream, dribbling down its chest. No words passed its lips, but the voice entered their skulls all the same.

  Step out

  Be free

  Dissolve

  The very sight of the creature was enough to leave any weak man in shambles.

  And it did.

  One of the prisoners who had been rocking whimpered louder, pressing himself against the wall.

  Another prisoner began to sob, pressing his forehead to the planks as if praying.

  Dion felt his own body loosen, breath slowing as though a weight pressed on his chest. His limbs trembled with the urge to cough up water.

  Step out

  Be free

  Dissolve

  A scared slave opposite Dion and Varro gasped and laughed all at once, losing his sanity, he reached out.

  Another clutched his chains, whispering back promises of freedom. “Yes… yes, take me. No more hunger, no more pain.”

  As if on cue, the Hollowed turned to him. Its jaw cracked sideways, brine spilling out with a bit more intensity causing the plank to sizzle.

  The whisper slammed inside his skull, drowning thought.

  His knees buckled. His body leaned forward, straining toward those waiting arms. His chains rattled against the pull.

  The violent jerk nearly dislocated his shoulder.

  “Don’t you dare listen!” Varro snarled. “That’s how it hollows you out!”

  The Hollowed didn’t attack. It only waited, its jaw yawning wider, saltwater and whispers spilling endless, patient.

  Surprisingly, the woman and her baby in the hold remained sane. Her eyes stayed clear, sharp with a fear that was human and present, not vacant.

  The same woman who had shown such bitter detest for him since the first day, glaring when their shackles clinked too close, curling her body around her child as if to shield the infant from his very presence.

  The baby, he had no doubt it was dead already.

  Now, her gaze found him. Unfortunately, Dion didn’t have much time to think about it.

  GRRRRK

  With a final, shuddering, the ship lurched violently to starboard.

  All hell broke loose.

  The sound pierced the hold like shattering glass.

  The Hollowed snapped its head toward the noise. Brine gushed from its chest as it lunged, barnacled hands reaching.

  The mother screamed. The sane prisoners shouted, their chains scraping against the hull.

  The hold erupted.

  Some fought swinging shackles, clawing with nails. Others collapsed to their knees, covering their ears. Some leaned into the Hollow embrace.

  As if cue, the hollowed launched a counter, a casual swing of its web claw, slamming into the side of multiple people

  BAM

  The blow sent bodies sprawling like ragdolls. One prisoner’s skull cracked against the hull with a sickening crunch, another coughed blood as ribs caved in.

  Dion staggered back, ears ringing. The Hollowed loomed in the swaying lantern light.

  Brine hissed where it dripped, searing pits into the deck. Its arms spread wide, claws dripping.

  Step out

  Be free

  Dissolve

  The whispers crashed harder now, like waves against the skull.

  Dion’s vision blurred.

  He saw himself sinking into dark waters, his chains dragging him down, down into silence.

  “Dion!” Varro’s bark cut through, the chain in his hand already swinging at it.

  “We need to get out of here!” Varro bellowed. He swung his chains in a vicious arc, smashing them across the Hollow’s skull. "We can't kill it…not like this"

  The Hollowed met it this time. Its claw snapped out with predatory speed, catching the iron mid-swing. The sound was like tearing metal

  Varro’s chain snapped in half, rust flakes spinning through the air. The old man grunted, staggered back, but his gaze never left the creature.

  The prisoners panicked. Some clawed over one another in blind frenzy, trying to climb the walls though there was nowhere to go.

  Others fought like cornered dogs, chains whipping through the air, their desperation lending them mad strength.

  The Hollowed waded through them. Chains rebounded off its shoulders. Nails tore across its drowned flesh without leaving a mark.

  One man hurled himself onto its back, biting and screaming.

  The Hollowed opened its mouth a bit wider, saltwater rushing forth in a choking torrent.

  The man shrieked as his scream gurgled into silence, his lungs filling. He collapsed, twitching, his eyes turning milky.

  Dion’s body moved before his mind did. He hurled himself sideways, wrenching the loose end of his chain against the lantern pole.

  Sparks flew as iron scraped wood, the lantern crashed down, rolling across the floor in a frenzy of flame and oil.

  The Hollowed turned, milky eyes locking onto him.

  Dion felt the world tilt, salt filling his throat, drowning him. His knees gave out.

  “RUN BOY” Varro slammed his palm into his back, forcing the air out. “IGNORE IT, BOY! BITE YOUR DAMN TONGUE IF YOU HAVE TO!”

  The Hollowed lunged for them both. Its barnacled hand swept low too fast. Dion barely threw himself aside as the claw smashed into the planks where he’d been.

  —

  Above, boots finally thundered, the slavers stirred, voices shouting. But it was too late. The Hollow's, they were already down below, the holds had become a slaughterhouse.

  Still, whatever was happening below, the deck was far worse.

  The sea itself had risen.

  Dozens of Hollow's clambered over the rails, pale arms reaching, jaws unhinged. Waves slammed the hull, spraying salt that burned on contact.

  The Carrion Host had formed a ragged circle, their guns flashing in the moonlight.

  Seris stood at the prow.

  Her hooked blade carved arcs through skulls, brine spraying as she laughed a sharp, wild sound that cut the storm. Saltwater streamed from her hair like jewels.

  “Keep them off the masts, boys!” she roared. “The Brine doesn’t get to claim our ship tonight!”

  Dion staggered to the past the hatch, his chest heaving, yet the sight before him froze him.

  Dead bodies of the guards.

  A swarm of Hollows.

  Hollows. Dozens, maybe hundreds, crawling from the sea, dragging their brine-swollen bodies onto the deck.

  They moved with a jerking, relentless purpose, their eyes vacant pools of that same cold phosphorescence that had bled into the hold. They were not attacking the ship.

  They were taking it.

  One lunged. Its bloated fist, heavy as a maul, swung for his skull. Dion ducked by raw instinct. The blow missed his head by inches and struck the mainmast behind him.

  BOOM

  Wood exploded, the great beam groaning as a crack spiderwebbed up its length.

  That strength,

  Dion thought, his blood running cold.

  His body moved before his mind could catch up. As the Hollow over-extended, he swung the heavy iron links of his shackles in a short, vicious arc.

  They crunched across the thing’s jaw with a sound like breaking stone. It toppled sideways, its neck bent at an impossible angle.

  “Not bad, little thing,” a gravelly voice barked.

  Grish stood a few paces away, his own massive arms slick with brine and darker fluids. He’d been fighting, and from the look of him, winning.

  His eyes, however, were on the hatch Dion crawled out from. “And the others in the hold?”