Chapter 181

Chapter 181

Evan sat back down by the window, staring at the steaming grilled bananas on his plate, and found it a little ridiculous—he had only been hungry and looking for a meal, yet somehow gotten tangled up in the colony's secrets.

He forked a piece of grilled banana, and as the crispy skin broke open, the sweet, sticky flesh mixed with the warm cinnamon on his tongue, just the thing to cut through the rum's bite.

Glancing up, he noticed the two indigenous women in the corner had finished their juice and were hurrying out, heads low. As they passed the soldiers, they made a wide detour as if avoiding a reef, their faces tight under their headscarves. The soldiers, meanwhile, continued their loud banter, their talk revolving around "suppressing native rebellions" and "the blockade of First Island," their tone full of that entitled arrogance.

Evan ate in silence, not looking further, but kept his ears open to the sounds around him—a merchant grumbling about fluctuating spice prices, the front desk clerk murmuring about the earlier blue light, and the kitchen argument gradually fading, suggesting the mixed-race waiter had taken the heat. The colonial night was like a stew of flavors—sweet, harsh, heavy, restless—all mixed into the sea breeze hitting his face.

After finishing his meal, he placed a silver coin on the table, making sure it was in a visible spot, then stood up and headed for the door.

Passing the kitchen, he vaguely saw the mixed-race waiter wiping dishes with his back to the entrance, his shoulders slumped, looking a bit down. Evan didn't stop, but as he pushed the door open, he let the evening breeze blow a slip of paper onto the doorstep—a note he had hastily written in the restroom, bearing just one line: "Thanks for the cinnamon. Watch your back."

Back in his room, Evan locked the door behind him, shutting out the night's noise and darkness. He walked to the desk, lit the gas lamp, and its warm yellow glow spread across the surface, lighting up the letter paper and pen laid out on the desk. He uncapped the ink bottle, dipped the nib, paused briefly, and began to write:

Dear Sara,

Hope you're doing well. I have arrived safely in New Niliasia, having traveled aboard the Victoria without any trouble—though we did run into a Ghost Ship and heard mermaids singing, but we made it through okay.

This colony is nothing like home—scorching sun, palm groves, salty sea breezes, and a pervasive class divide. The Sala live in stone houses lit by gas lamps, while the natives' huts flicker with only a few oil lamps. There's an invisible but solid wall between light and dark skin.

Tonight, upon dining at the inn, I ended up getting mixed up in something small.

At dusk, a pale blue light streaked across the sky, falling toward the depths of First Island—a zone the Empire has strictly off-limits to non-natives. The inn's mixed-race waiter secretly handed me a map, hinting there are secret experiments going on there, and warning me that "the less you know, the safer you are." Looks like this colony has more going on under the surface than I thought.

I am currently staying at the "Pearl" inn, in a comfortable room, and I'm safe for now.

I keep the silver badge you gave me on me at all times. Whenever its cool touch meets my skin, I think of your plans back home—I wonder how things are holding up back in the Empire.

The plight of the natives here is dire. The Empire's assimilation and crackdowns make things look calm, but there's a lot bubbling under the surface.

The church's lights still shine outside my window, as if proclaiming the greatness of the divine, yet they fail to reach the shadows of the native quarters.

I wonder when this colony will finally see some real light.

I await your reply, hoping to hear of your recent news.

Love, Evan

After finishing the letter, Evan folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and wrote Sara's address on it.

Then he blew the conch, and a burst of foam exploded in the air, from which a Sea Elf emerged. Evan handed the letter to the Sea Elf, adding a Silver Keren. The Sea Elf winked at him, then quickly dove back into the foam and vanished.

Lying back on the bed, Evan draped his jacket—still carrying the scent of coconut—over the chair back, his fingertips briefly touching the charcoal map in the watch pocket before pulling the velvet quilt over himself.

The tropical night left him sticky with a thin layer of sweat. He figured the secrets of First Island and that map would keep him up, but the warm glow of the church's gas lamp filtering through the window, mixed with the lavender scent from the pillow, brought drowsiness like a rising tide, and within minutes, it washed over the shores of his consciousness.

When he opened his eyes again, the milky-white stone walls were gone. The sky was a deep, ink-black, and the wind whipped salty foam into his face. He stood on the deck of a small single-masted sailboat, the hull rocking violently with the waves, the wooden rail rough against his palms.

Evan immediately realized: this was a dream.

He looked into the distance, where waves more ferocious than those during the mermaid encounter churned—their crests rolled with pale foam, striking the hull like giant hands, each impact making the planks groan in agony.

Not far off in the black waves, the outline of a two-masted wooden ship was being torn apart by the swell: its sails shredded into rags by the wind, its mast snapping with a crack, the vessel swallowed by the waves in an instant, without even a cry for help, sinking into the inky sea.

Evan looked down at his own boat—a barely floating raft cobbled together from planks, without even an oar.

The waves pushed him into the darkness, and he could only grip the ropes along the gunwale, watching as towering waves surged toward him, only to retreat just shy of the hull—he was like a toy clutched in the sea's grip, rising and falling with the swells, powerless to resist.

As the wave crest hurled the little boat skyward again, Evan's knuckles whitened on the ropes, and from the corner of his eye, a shadow like rotting timber suddenly appeared—not a wave, but the outline of a ship, emerging silently from the black sea.

Its hull was covered in dark green moss, the wood blackened with decay, and trailing seaweed hung from the rails. When the wind blew, the shells caught in the seaweed clinked softly, like the sound of bones colliding. Evan's heart sank—this was the Death Ship, the ghost ship he had seen at sea, now vivid and sharp in his dream.

As the ship drew closer, the scene on its deck fully struck his eyes: skeletal sailors gripped rusty anchors, their hollow eye sockets glowing with eerie green light, their bony fingers resting on the rail, tapping rhythmically against the rotting wood with the waves; on the mast hung faded black sails, their holes billowing in the wind like spread bone wings.

At the helm stood the Skeleton Captain, leaning on a silver-inlaid cutlass, seaweed tangled around his bony neck, his tricorn hat battered but still worn low.

He raised a bony hand, tapping his eye socket, and the green light flared for a moment, fixing directly on Evan's little boat—Evan could even make out the lines of his jaw and the Sala script engraved on the cutlass's hilt: "Never Docks." The waves pushed the little boat closer to the ghost ship, and the Skeleton Captain suddenly raised his cutlass, pointing it at Evan's chest. The green light slid down the blade, landing precisely on the silver badge hidden beneath his nightshirt, as if confirming something, or sending some kind of signal.