The sunlight was dazzling.
If the strange object hanging high in the sky could indeed be called the sun, then its light was genuinely bright—almost painfully so. Duncan stood staring upward for what felt like an eternity, until his eyes grew sore and watering forced him to look away. Even then, the bizarre image of that luminous sphere, encircled by twisted streams of golden energy and two slowly revolving concentric rings engraved with arcane symbols, remained etched vividly into his memory.
This was wrong. The sun was not meant to look like this. No star he'd known had ever resembled the impossible construct now glaring down from above. It was a stark, inescapable reminder of just how far he'd drifted—farther, perhaps, than he had ever imagined possible.
Reluctantly, he glanced back at the simple wooden door behind him, leading to the captain's cabin.
Pushing it inward would return him to the cramped single-room apartment he once called home—a place he'd known intimately, isolated within a world obscured by unending fog. He sighed bitterly at the irony. The "home" behind the door was merely another isolated ship lost at sea. Another drifting prison.
As Duncan brooded, the goat head's voice abruptly intruded on his thoughts: "Captain, do we have a heading? Any specific plan for our voyage?"
A plan? Duncan had nothing remotely resembling a "plan." Hours earlier, he'd barely learned to steer the Forsaken. He didn't have a proper nautical chart, knew nothing of nearby lands or the societies inhabiting them. His grasp on this reality remained tenuous, his understanding of it barely scratching the surface.
Yet he mulled over possibilities before finally responding, careful not to betray his uncertainty: "That ship we encountered earlier—where was it sailing from?"
"You're considering visiting the city-states?" The goat head sounded surprised, even alarmed. "I advise against that, Captain. At least, not yet. Though you're the formidable Captain Duncan, the Forsaken isn't in peak condition these days. The coastal guards and Church fleets will mobilize immediately against you."
Duncan raised an eyebrow, momentarily speechless. What monstrous deeds had this former Captain Duncan committed, exactly, that simply approaching civilization required preparation for war? The goat head's cautious wording hinted at a grim truth—the Forsaken wasn't wandering aimlessly by choice. Rather, it seemed this ghostly vessel and its feared captain were exiled, banished from civilized lands, sailing perpetually toward the world's edges.
He groaned inwardly. If he intended to survive and unravel this world's mysteries—perhaps even find a way back to his true home—he needed to connect with this civilization. But civilization, it seemed, viewed Captain Duncan as a terror to be annihilated on sight. He was the monster lurking beyond the city gates, the shadow at the edge of the map.
Duncan sighed, frustrated. If only this cursed ship had a single book—some fragment of knowledge, a hint of this world's truths—he wouldn't be so blind. His only source of information was a maddeningly cryptic goat head he dared not fully trust.
"Why aren't there any books aboard?" Duncan muttered aloud, trying to seem casual despite genuine curiosity. "Surely even sailors read occasionally? Even a captain?"
"Reading at sea is dangerous," the goat head replied casually. "Entities from the abyss and subspace exploit any vulnerability of the mortal mind. The only safe books are holy scriptures from the Church—though they're dreadfully dull. I recall you showed little interest in such religious texts before."
Duncan frowned deeply. Reading, a risk to one's sanity? And only religious texts were safe? How utterly insane was this endless ocean? Yet again, a small bit of knowledge had raised even more disturbing questions.
Suppressing further inquiries, Duncan returned his gaze to the horizon. Sunlight danced brilliantly upon the gently rolling waves, casting golden ripples that glittered like molten gold—a beautiful scene, marred only by the unsettling reality of the grotesque "sun" overhead.
"I'd like your suggestion," Duncan finally said, carefully hiding his uncertainties. "I tire of aimless wandering. Perhaps—"
He froze mid-sentence, interrupted by an abrupt, uncomfortable sensation—a subtle warning transmitted through his newfound connection to the Forsaken. Something foreign had just touched the ship. Seconds later, a heavy thud echoed from the stern deck.
Drawing his pistol and sword instantly, Duncan sprinted toward the noise, pulse quickening. He arrived on the stern deck to find something utterly impossible awaiting him.
The ornate wooden coffin—the one he'd nailed shut and tossed into the ocean—now lay wet and dripping on the deck again.
Duncan's skin prickled with dread. The nails he'd hammered in place were nowhere to be seen, the coffin lid visibly loose.
He approached cautiously, weapons at the ready. After minutes of tense silence, gathering courage, he carefully slipped his sword under the lid and pried it open again.
The gothic doll lay perfectly still within her velvet-lined confines, exactly as before, seemingly sleeping peacefully.
Glaring at the doll, Duncan spoke sternly, authority clear in his voice: "If you're alive, wake and speak to me."
No response.
After repeating himself with no change, he nodded decisively. "Fine. Then back into the sea you go."
Resolutely, he sealed the coffin again—hammering in extra nails this time, wrapping it securely with iron chains from the storage below deck. Fully secured, he shoved the coffin decisively overboard once more, watching carefully as it bobbed gently, carried steadily away by currents.
He stood watchfully for several long moments, turning to leave only once satisfied. Yet halfway back, suspicion surged, and he spun quickly around.
The coffin still drifted far behind, safely floating toward the horizon.
Relaxing slightly, Duncan turned once more, only to whip back around again. Still floating, still safe.
"Maybe I should've put a cannonball inside," he muttered darkly, shaking his head as he returned toward the captain's quarters.
"You seem rather harsh with that young lady," the goat head remarked mildly.
"Quiet," Duncan snapped irritably. "You're calling a cursed doll a 'young lady'?"
"It might indeed be cursed," the goat head admitted pleasantly, "but what curse surpasses the Forsaken or the legendary Captain Duncan himself? Besides, she seems harmless enough—"
Duncan cut the goat head off with an exasperated glare. Why did the infernal carving sound so perversely proud whenever mentioning his supposedly horrific reputation?
Noticing Duncan's irritated silence, the goat head changed topics quickly. "Earlier, you wished for my advice, Captain. Perhaps now—"
"Later," Duncan interrupted firmly, weary now. "Navigating the Forsaken through the spirit realm drained me. I need rest. Remain quiet."
"Understood, Captain."
Returning to the captain's quarters, Duncan's eyes idly swept over the large nautical map spread across the navigation table. Immediately, he froze, startled.
The map had changed slightly. The strange, writhing gray-white patches previously obscuring most details had diminished somewhat, revealing clear ocean routes surrounding the Forsaken's current position.
Could the map be updating itself dynamically, tracking his ship's movements?
Eagerly, Duncan leaned closer, studying the map intently—only for another unwelcome sensation to interrupt sharply. Again, he sensed the Forsaken alerting him of foreign contact, swiftly followed by another heavy thud on the deck.
He groaned inwardly, recognizing the sound instantly.
Rushing irritably back onto the deck, he stared down in disbelief.
The ornate coffin rested defiantly, precisely as before, chains now mysteriously gone, nails vanished entirely.
He sighed wearily, approaching slowly. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that," he muttered grimly.
Taking a deep breath, Duncan bent forward and slowly lifted the coffin lid. The doll remained still, serene, unchanged.
He studied her expressionless face suspiciously. Then, speaking calmly, voice heavy with resignation, he addressed her directly:
"Look—I'd really prefer to avoid tossing you overboard all day. If you have anything to say, now's the time."
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then suddenly, the doll's delicate eyelids fluttered, slowly rising, revealing vivid emerald eyes shimmering brightly in the sun. Her lips parted slightly, and a soft, musical voice emerged, tinged with mild confusion:
"I'm sorry, Captain... Was I causing trouble?"
Duncan exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled to maintain composure.
"You could say that," he replied dryly. "Now—who, or rather, what exactly are you?"
The doll paused, blinking innocently up at him. Then she answered politely:
"My name is Alice. I am an Anomaly, Captain Duncan. And I seem to have become your responsibility."