The door closed softly behind him, shutting out the goat-head's hollow gaze.
But even now, Duncan could feel the Forsaken—sense every creak of timber, every shift in the air across her decks. In that near-symbiotic awareness, it was as though the ship's limbs extended from his own body. He could see the sails adjusting subtly to the wind, could feel the ship's black helm slowly turning under an invisible hand, stabilizing the Forsaken as she pressed forward across the waves.
As expected, the goat-head had taken over the helm without protest, dutifully performing the duties of a first mate. Duncan, of course, could wrest control back at any time.
Under the goat-head's guidance, the ship was less agile, slower even—but Duncan didn't mind. He had no fixed course, no destination in mind. For now, simply dispelling the fog from the sea chart was enough.
After confirming that there were no odd fluctuations from the helm and that Alice, down below, remained quietly in her cabin, Duncan exhaled and turned his attention to the room around him.
This was the captain's quarters—his private retreat. It was the most comfortable, most carefully appointed space on the Forsaken. In addition to a soft bed and the wardrobe built into the far wall, the room held a shelf full of strange, arcane items. A sturdy, dark wooden desk stood across from the bed, though there were no books atop it—only a few scattered implements for writing and sketching.
To one side of the desk was a small porthole that looked out over the open sea, and beside the window hung a few iron hooks—the very ones from which his flintlock and cutlass had once hung.
Duncan approached the desk, placing his sword and gun within easy reach. He opened a drawer and checked on his supply of gunpowder and bullets, both neatly stored in wooden cases. Resting beside them was a small brass compass.
He picked it up.
Beneath its glass cover, the needle spun erratically—like it was drunk or caught in a storm of invisible chaos. Inscribed at the base, in tiny, etched script, were the words:
We are all the lost.
Duncan toyed with the compass in his hand, watching the needle spin madly. He'd gone over everything in this cabin during his initial exploration—these items, he was certain, had once belonged to the real Captain Duncan. That inscription, too, was likely the ghostly captain's own handwriting.
After mentally reviewing everything he'd learned so far, Duncan exhaled again and rubbed his fingers together. A small green flame ignited at his fingertip.
Under its ghostly glow, his hand took on that same translucent, spirit-like quality he'd grown accustomed to. But this time, under his conscious control, the fire remained contained—no longer spreading wildly as before. It hovered gently above his fingers, flickering like a candle.
He brought his other hand closer to the flame, feeling no heat. Then he reached for a nearby quill and passed it through the fire.
No scorching, no charring. The quill didn't burn—just glowed faintly green where the flame brushed against it. And more importantly, Duncan felt nothing from the flame's interaction with the quill—no feedback at all.
Unlike when he touched the ship's wheel or the sea chart.
He noted this carefully.
The "spirit flame" had no temperature. It didn't ignite objects. And, perhaps most crucially—it only reacted to abnormalities onboard the Forsaken. Normal items, like this quill, seemed entirely inert in its presence.
But what about external abnormalities? Could the flame interact with objects from outside the ship?
Almost instinctively, an image flashed through Duncan's mind: a gothic doll with silver hair and an elegant black dress.
Alice.
She came from beyond the Forsaken. She was an "anomaly"—Anomaly 099. Would the spirit flame respond to her?
The idea passed in a blink, and Duncan pushed it aside.
Even if she wasn't human—even if she was technically a cursed item—Alice walked, talked, and clearly had a mind of her own. She was a person in his eyes now… and a member of his crew.
Testing his power on her? No. That crossed a line he wasn't prepared to cross.
Besides, he didn't know what kind of harm the flame might cause.
He resumed his tests, checking the room piece by piece, testing whether anything here might conceal supernatural properties. And eventually, his attention returned to the brass compass.
It lay silently on the desk, its needle still spinning wildly.
But as his glowing, flame-wreathed fingers hovered near it—his gaze growing slightly… suspicious—he saw the needle suddenly pause.
Just for a second.
Then it resumed spinning.
Duncan narrowed his eyes.
That thing just reacted.
He'd been wary of the compass before, mostly because of its personal connection to the real Captain Duncan. What if it held some trap—some spectral safeguard against thieves? He had intentionally avoided testing it with the spirit flame.
But now?
Now he was done hesitating.
He picked it up.
The cold brass pressed against his palm as he watched the needle whirl. Then he shifted it to his right hand—the one cloaked in green fire—and slowly closed his fingers around it.
The flame flowed instantly, like molten wax through his grip.
The compass ignited with a ghostly glow, and shadows flickered across its surface—faint illusions rising and falling within the flame. Then, with a sudden jolt, the spinning needle snapped still.
It pointed, unwaveringly, toward some unknown direction across the endless sea.
Duncan's pulse jumped.
There was feedback.
A clear response from the flame.
No doubt about it—this compass was an abnormal item. But before he could analyze it further, before he could delve deeper into the strange sensation trickling up his arm, a pull slammed into him like a tidal wave.
His body swayed. His vision blurred.
In the next heartbeat, the captain's quarters shattered.
Walls dissolved into snowfall. Ceiling and floor scattered like ash. In the swirl of collapsing light, Duncan found himself surrounded by an endless twilight.
He stood alone in the dimness, stunned.
His first instinct was to reach for his sword—his pistol—but both were gone.
Only the compass remained in his hand.
He blinked.
And then… the light came.
Thin threads of pale brilliance unspooled from the compass, drifting outward like spider silk. They wove into a vast, radiant network, illuminating the darkness. More points of light flickered into existence—some floating alone, others clustering in starry rivers.
A constellation. A galaxy.
Duncan stared at the spectacle, part wary, part awestruck. And strangely… not afraid.
Despite everything, despite the unnatural setting and the disorienting shift, he felt calm.
Almost comforted.
Then something changed.
A star among the web dimmed—flickered, trembled, as if about to fall.
Drawn to it, Duncan reached out.
And the pull returned.
A massive force surged through him, dragging his soul forward. He was no longer standing—he was flying, hurtling toward that fading star. The compass flared and vanished from his hand. Stars spun past in a blur. The web twisted and warped around him.
Out of the corner of his eye, just before impact, he saw it—
A shadow forming in the dark.
It emerged with eerie familiarity, as though it had always been there beside him: a silhouette, unmistakably avian, wings outstretched as it dove beside him.
A bird.
And then everything went black.
Weight returned. Pain followed.
The smell of decay assaulted his senses.
Chains scraped across stone.
And the real world slammed back into him.