The Harvest of Hollow Skies

The golden seedling inclined toward the shattered sun, its stem trembling as if haunted by the specters of what it might someday become. Sera knelt beside it, her silver-veined hands immersed in soil that drank more light than it reflected. The garden had expanded—a fragile oasis within the Argent Whisper's skeletal hull—but its beauty was an illusion. Every root, every petal, trembled with the laughter of the Old Ones. She felt them in the thorns now, their voices whispering in her bone marrow like smoke serpents. They whispered deeper. Let the roots remember you.

Zmey's shadow loomed over her, his scales muted by a layer of stardust. The dragon's three heads scoured the horizon, nostrils wide at the scent of unborn tempests. "They're coming," he rumbled, his voice like shifting tectonic plates. "The Veil's closing infuriated appetites older than the Talasüm. The storm eaters won't pardon your theft."

Sera did not lift her head. She placed her hand on the ground, allowing the pulse of the garden to merge with her own. "Let them come. The thorns have not forgotten how to bite.".

"These are not thorns they fear." The Zmey's middle head leaned in, showing a fresh crack in its obsidian horn—a wound from their previous encounter. "It's the seed. They scent its potential—to grow beyond your control. To become a bridge even the Old Ones cannot cross."

A cold wind slithered through the garden, carrying the salt-sting of a distant sea. Somewhere beyond the hull's ribs, waves crashed in a rhythm that mirrored the Old Ones' taunting chorus. Sera stood, soil falling from her hands like ash. "Then we prune it first."

They came at moonset—a ship with sails of flayed starlight, its hull bristling with spines of frozen time. The crew walked like puppets, joints creaking, eyes sunken. At the bow stood a figure wrapped in storm cloth, face obscured by a mask of screaming visages. Bulgarian mythology had a name for these creatures: Viharnitsi, storm eaters who sailed the winds of dead worlds. Legends said they were spawned from the first captain who ever ventured into the Veil, his ambition souring into hunger that consumed stars.

Lysandra appeared at Sera's elbow, storm-marbles already alight in her hands. The once-bright orbs now churned with the same silver webbing that inscribed Sera's skin. "Garvin's gone to bring the others. We'll hold them off."

"No." Sera caught her arm, roots below them pulling back from her fervor. "The garden's what they're after. Take the crew down. Seal the hatches."

And allow you to play martyr once more?" Lysandra's eyes blazed, petals swirling in her irises like hurricanes imprisoned. "Kael's ghost would throttle us both. You're not the only one who made vows, Sera.".

Viharnitsi's voice tore the silence—a cacophony of hurricanes, jarring and earsplitting. "We've come for the seed, Starweaver." The shrieking faces on the mask contorted, mouths rending into grins. "Give it, and your crew keeps their stories. Withhold… and we'll offer them to the Veil's hunger."

Sera stepped forward, the garden's roots writhing around her ankles like loyal hounds. "Take it, and you'll wish you'd been drowned in the Veil."

The battle was chaos given rhythm.

Lysandra's storm-marbles detonated against the invaders, shredding puppet-flesh into confetti that dissolved into smoke. Garvin roared, his thornvine axe carving through spines of frozen time, each strike spraying shards that cut his bark-skin to sap. But the Viharnitsi merely laughed, their ship spewing fresh puppets with every wave—soldiers stitched from stolen memories, their faces flickering between friend and foe.

Sera wove through the battle, her fingers tracing paths of silver light. Wherever she touched the garden, roots erupted—obsidian serpents that dragged puppets into the earth, their screams muffled by soil. But with every surge of power, the whispers of the Old Ones increased: Deeper, they whispered. Let the roots remember you.

Zmey looped overhead, his flames searing patches of the enemy vessel. "The storm eater's heart!" he roared. "Shatter the mask! It's the anchor!"

Sera dived for the Viharnitsi, roots whipping out in spear-like scythes. The creature spun, tempest cloth tearing open to show a lash of molten lightning. It bit into Sera's shoulder, burning through flesh and bone. She crashed down, silver blood welling as the garden cried out in unison.

Pathetic, snarled the storm eater. "You hold a god's tools in mortal fingers."

Sera clenched her teeth. "And you talk too much."

She slammed her hand on the deck. The roots reacted—not with rage, but with recall.

The garden taught her what the storm eater was saying about himself.

It had once been a captain, Vihra, a woman who'd crossed the Veil to find a cure for her dying world. She'd found the Talasüm instead. They'd offered her a bargain: the lives of her crew for her service. She'd accepted, having no idea their gift would drain her into a vessel for their hunger.

Sera saw it all—the first betrayal, the first feast, the mask grafted on Vihra's face as her screams became Talasüm's song.

"You're just like me," Vihra's voice whispered through the roots. "A gardener of ruin."

Sera's resolve hardened. "No. I'm what you could've been."

She tore the mask away.

The mask broke, and a face Sera knew—a face from Malakai's journals—

Elara.

Or a grotesque mimicry. The storm eater's flesh writhed, features cycling through every person Sera had failed: Malakai's hollow gaze, Kael's rusted grin, Verin's cracked smile, even her own reflection, silver-eyed and feral.

"You can't kill regret, Starweaver," it hissed, voice splintering into a chorus. "We are the echoes of your failures."

Sera drove a root through its chest. "Then I'll bury them."

The storm eater dispersed, its last shriek blending with the laughter of the Old Ones.

Victory was ashes.

The puppet ship disintegrated, its crew falling apart into sand. The garden, engorged with stolen power, now beat like a second heart. Lysandra nursed the injured, her storm-eyes dulled by fatigue. Garvin leaned against the helm, bark-skin scorched and oozing sap.

Zmey fell crashing, his breath rent. "A temporary reprieve. The storm eater was a scout. The hollow fleet is coming."

Sera crouched alongside the golden seedling. It had grown thorns in the night—twisted, ravenous spines that glittered like broken vows. "What did you see in the Veil?"

The dragon hesitated. "Armadas. Ships forged from dead stars, captained by things even the Old Ones fear. They're coming to take back what you stole."

"Then we sail beyond them."

"To where?"

She touched the seedling. Its song vibrated in her teeth, a melody that made the roots sway. "Where the seed leads."

At dawn, the crew gathered on the deck, their hybrid forms silhouetted against a sky bleeding dawnlight. The Argent Whisper's remains creaked as Sera planted the seedling in the helm's splintered wood.

"This isn't a ship anymore," Garvin muttered, eyeing the writhing roots.

"No," Sera concurred. "It's a compass."

The seedling burst forth. Roots exploded, tangled with the hull. Planks re-grew—not wood, but living vines with thorns. Sails unfolded, golden petals opening to the wind like a hundred small suns. The crew breathed in wonder as the garden transformed, ship becoming vessel and weapon both, its rhythm syncopated with Sera's own.

Zmey's laughter rattled the air, half fear, half awe. "A ship that charts its own course. Even the Dawn Pirates would be impressed."

Lysandra's frown turned quizzical. "Who?"

Sera smiled, not quite to her eyes. "A tale for another time."

In the ship's new center—a room sewn together by roots and starlight—Sera found a carving in the wood. A skull with eight thorn-vine arms curled like tentacles, smiling. Malakai's handiwork, perhaps. Or Kael's final joke.

She traced the symbol, warmth igniting in her chest. The mark of the Dawn Pirates. A legacy of the original crew who'd risen up against the Old Ones, their tales lost to time.

"To the edges," she whispered, the roots humming in harmony. "And beyond, whatever may be."