Two days had passed since the negotiation inside the Necropolis chamber. The Naga Queen had made good on her word. At dawn, one of her smaller, stolen warships slithered through the mists and docked at the rocky shore near from the coasts of the Spirit Towers. Unlike traditional vessels, this ship bore no sails—its hull was shaped like the body of a deep-sea leviathan, enchanted to glide across the waves with unnatural grace.
Vanthelis stood on the jagged rocks, his cloak flapping behind him as he observed the vessel with mild approval. Beside him, Ishlar adjusted the strap of his sword.
"Bane. Haben," Vanthelis called, turning to the two acolytes standing at attention behind him. "You two will take charge during my absence."
Bane stepped forward, his bony fingers twitching with habitual nervousness. "Of course, my lord. The towers and graveyard are secured. We'll maintain patrol rotations as planned."
"I'm leaving ten ghouls under your command," Vanthelis continued. "Do not use them unless absolutely necessary. If the Naga Queen changes her mind... stall her. But do not engage unless provoked."
"Yes, my lord," Haben said, nodding with more confidence than Bane.
Vanthelis gave them both a final look. "Protect the altar. Guard each other."
Without another word, he stepped aboard the waiting vessel. Ishlar followed, the wooden gangplank creaking under his armored boots. Behind them, three dozen ghouls moved in eerie silence, climbing aboard like a tide of death. These were not mindless creatures—they obeyed with precision, their glowing eyes dimmed beneath sea-weathered cloaks to avoid attention.
The ship began to move, gliding away from the necrotic island like a phantom. As the sea wind rose, Vanthelis walked to the bow and leaned against the edge, watching the horizon slowly stretch into a gray-blue line.
"You alright?" Ishlar asked as he approached, his voice quiet. "You haven't spoken much since we left."
Vanthelis didn't turn to face him. "I'm... remembering."
"Your parents?"
Vanthelis nodded once. "And the day I first awoke on this cursed island. How weak I was. How lost. Now look at me—negotiating with sea queens and planning raids on pirate islands."
There was a small silence between them. Ishlar placed a hand on the railing beside him. "You've come far. But not far enough, right?"
"No," Vanthelis replied. "Not yet. Not until I find the ones who ordered our destruction. Not until I become strong enough that no one dares touch what is mine."
The wind blew colder.
"Do you trust the Naga Queen?" Ishlar asked after a pause.
"I trust her greed," Vanthelis said. "She won't betray me until she thinks she doesn't need me anymore. But until then... we're allies."
"And after that?"
Vanthelis smirked faintly. "Then she will learn the price of underestimating the dead."
They stood in silence for a while, letting the waves carry their thoughts. Below deck, the ghouls remained still, lined up like statues in the belly of the ship, swaying gently with the sea.
Two days passed.
The skies cleared slightly as the Pirate Island came into view. It was a rough, jagged landmass with towering cliffs and sun-bleached ports. From the distance, Vanthelis could already see ships docked in the harbor, smoke rising from taverns, and seagulls circling over the masts like vultures.
"They're here," Ishlar muttered, gripping his weapon.
Vanthelis's eyes narrowed as he leaned over the railing. "I see the dock. The naga will take care of the escapees. No one leaves alive. That's the deal."
He turned to the assembled ghouls standing in formation. Their rotten bodies were cloaked in damp cloth, the scent of brine mixing with undeath.
"Do not leave the ship until I command," he said coldly. "And if anyone steps here in this ship, kill without mercy."
The ghouls let out a quiet hiss in unison.
"Ishlar. Put on your robe. We walk the docks as travelers. Let them see two men. Not an adventurer who was ready to fight."
Ishlar pulled the dark hood over his head. "Understood."
Vanthelis did the same, his Wraith Pact helm concealed beneath the heavy black cowl. Though his identity was hidden, the oppressive energy of the helm still faintly lingered like the scent of smoke after a fire.
They walked to the edge of the deck as the ship slowly docked at the rickety wooden port. The place reeked of salt, sweat, and sin. Farther inland, drunken shouting echoed from the taverns while old sailors haggled over crates of cargo and suspicious goods.
"This place stinks of desperation," Ishlar muttered.
"That's because it is desperate," Vanthelis replied. "Pirate Island is where broken oaths come to hide and dreamers come to die."
A faint breeze carried the sound of laughter—and something else. A word. A name.
Maxis.
Vanthelis's eyes snapped toward the direction of the voice. Somewhere in those taverns, Maxis was there. The one who stole the orb. The one who had once served the queen and betrayed her.
"Ishlar," he said coldly, "Lets find him."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He stepped off the ship, boots hitting the dock with a heavy thud. Ishlar followed, glancing back at the ship one last time.
"Let's find him," Vanthelis said with a smile in his face.