The wooden goat's head stared fixedly at Duncan, its obsidian eyes glinting faintly with unnatural life. It had no ability to produce expressions, yet Duncan unmistakably sensed eagerness radiating from the thing's carved, ebony face.
This wasn't the first time the goat head had urged him to set sail. Each time Duncan had stepped onto this ship, it had greeted him with the same persistent insistence—eagerly prompting him to end their aimless drifting and return to their intended course.
Yet Duncan remained silent. His normally stern features darkened further, eyes narrowing in deep contemplation. Two clear, unsettling truths weighed heavily on his mind.
First, he was utterly alone aboard this massive sailing vessel, and its size bordered on absurd. He'd estimated the ship's length to be somewhere between one hundred and fifty and two hundred meters. Managing such a gargantuan ship required a crew—dozens, perhaps even hundreds of seasoned sailors. How was one man supposed to handle it alone?
Second, and perhaps even more critically, Duncan had no idea how to sail a ship.
Anxiety fluttered in his chest as he briefly imagined asking the obnoxious goat head for sailing lessons. The thought of engaging in prolonged conversation with that irritating entity made him feel significantly worse. He clenched his jaw and forced down the rising frustration.
"Captain, are you troubled?" the goat head pressed, oblivious to Duncan's inner turmoil. "If you are concerned about the Forsaken's condition, rest assured—she is eternally ready to sail with you to the world's end. Or perhaps you fear bad omens today? I have some skill in divination. What method do you prefer—astrology, incense, crystal reading? Speaking of crystals, do you remember—"
With tremendous effort, Duncan interrupted, forcing an icy calmness into his voice. "I'm going up to the deck to check the situation. Stay here. Quietly."
"Of course, Captain. But I must remind you again, the Forsaken has been drifting aimlessly for far too long. You must reclaim control and steer us back to our true course—"
The goat head's voice trailed off reluctantly, the faint creaking sound indicating its return to its original inert position. Silence flooded the cabin once more, easing Duncan's headache instantly. He sighed softly, grateful for the reprieve.
Picking up the antique flintlock pistol from the table, Duncan rose from his chair and headed toward the door leading out to the deck. The pistol, along with the sword currently sheathed at his side, had been discovered during his explorations of the ship. Though he had yet to encounter another living being aboard—talking artifacts didn't count—these weapons provided a comforting sense of security.
He stepped onto the deck, and a cool, briny breeze brushed against his face, calming his nerves slightly. Duncan instinctively looked upward. Thick clouds stretched endlessly across the sky, as always, obscuring sun, moon, and stars alike. Only a dreary, perpetual twilight permeated this strange ocean.
He couldn't recall seeing anything different since his arrival on this ghostly ship. The persistent, oppressive gloom seemed eternal, perhaps the only weather this bizarre world ever knew.
Duncan turned back toward the cabin, noticing the inscription carved into the lintel above the door for the first time. The characters were unfamiliar, yet their meaning emerged clearly in his mind: "Door of the Forsaken."
"The Forsaken…" he murmured softly, a wry smile crossing his lips. "Appropriate."
He moved past the cabin, climbing a wooden staircase that led to the upper deck at the ship's stern. Here, on an elevated platform, stood a large, imposing black ship's wheel, patiently awaiting the captain's hand.
Duncan paused, suddenly overwhelmed by a strange urgency. Anxiety prickled along his spine. He hadn't felt this way during previous visits. The wheel itself seemed to radiate a silent, compelling need, demanding immediate action.
As if responding to his unease, an unexpected gust of wind swept across the deck. The calm seas surrounding the ship abruptly grew restless, waves rippling anxiously against the hull. Though the sudden squall was hardly enough to disturb a ship as massive as the Forsaken, Duncan's instincts screamed danger.
He whipped his head toward the horizon ahead—and froze, eyes widening in shock.
A towering wall of white mist had appeared abruptly, stretching from the ocean surface to the heavens, filling his field of vision. It was immense, endless, like a vertical sea itself, encroaching upon the ship with unnatural speed. Most unsettling was its familiarity—it was identical to the dense fog that imprisoned his apartment. Fear surged within him; every instinct warned that nothing good awaited within that barrier.
The Forsaken sailed directly toward it.
Duncan's mind raced. He knew instinctively that entering that wall of fog would be disastrous. Panic ignited, propelling him instinctively toward the ship's wheel, though he had no idea how he alone could maneuver this vast vessel away from certain doom.
As he reached the helm, the metallic sound of a voice suddenly erupted from a brass speaking tube nearby. It was the goat head again—this time genuinely alarmed, its voice raspy with urgency.
"Captain Duncan, boundary collapse detected ahead! We are nearing the limit of reality itself. Adjust course immediately!"
Duncan nearly shouted in frustration. Adjust course? How? He was utterly alone, without sails, crew, or knowledge. He glanced toward the ship's bare masts, suddenly realizing another absurdity—there were no sails rigged at all. The Forsaken's masts stood starkly empty.
Panic and frustration momentarily overwhelmed him, drowning out any rational thought. Yet instinct alone drove him to seize the wheel firmly, hands trembling as he gripped the cold, polished wood. This was the first time he had willingly taken hold of the Forsaken's helm—every prior encounter had been filled with doubt, hesitation, and suspicion.
But now, urgency left him no choice.
As Duncan's fingers tightened around the wheel, something incredible happened.
A roar erupted inside his mind, as though a vast, unseen crowd cheered from the shore, a thousand sailors calling his name amidst crashing waves and haunting sea songs. A rush of sensation engulfed him—intense, overwhelming, unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
Then, from nowhere, emerald-green flames burst from beneath his hands, igniting the wheel and surging upward to engulf him completely.
He stared, astonished but unafraid, as the brilliant fire spread rapidly across his skin. Strangely, it brought neither heat nor pain. Instead, it felt cool, almost soothing, even as his body transformed before his eyes. His flesh turned translucent, ghostly. His captain's coat frayed instantly, becoming tattered and ancient as though aged centuries underwater.
He glimpsed his bones beneath transparent flesh—now luminous, jade-like, alive with the green fire racing through his veins. Yet the terrifying transformation was oddly painless, even comforting, as if it were natural, meant to be.
As Duncan stood engulfed in this ghostly inferno, his awareness expanded outward rapidly. His mind stretched, merging seamlessly with the ship itself. He felt its massive hull, every deck plank, every mast, every line and rigging. He became the Forsaken, and the Forsaken became him—bound together by this eldritch flame.
The green fire surged across the deck, flowed over railings, wrapped around masts, and billowed upward. Where moments before had stood barren masts, shimmering sails of emerald fire now unfurled majestically. They caught a nonexistent breeze, filling proudly as though ready to voyage into eternity.
The Forsaken had raised its sails at last, moments before reality itself crumbled ahead.