Aurora - Part 3

Glenn had lived on the towering limestone stalagmite—now a thriving fishing village—for nearly a decade.

When her fishing boat started taking on water, she had made a split-second decision. Instead of turning back to shore, she had steered toward the rock formation jutting out of the Sunless Sea. The massive limestone column tilted at an angle, its base partially submerged, creating a sloped ledge above the waterline. She had run her boat aground there, beaching it against the stone's surface.

By morning, another fishing vessel had spotted her—this rock had always been a common waypoint for passing ships. As she sat on the deck of the boat that ferried her back to land, a thought struck her.

The next day, she returned to the wreck of her own vessel, this time with tools.

She had no savings left to buy a new boat, not even enough to have hers hauled back and repaired. Worse, she had lost her rented quarters in New Marrakesh, having failed to pay her overdue rent for two months.

So, with nothing but a hammer and crowbar, Glenn had dismantled her boat plank by plank. She laid down the foundation, drove wooden beams into the rocky surface to serve as supports, and began raising walls and a roof. She salvaged her bunk from the wreck and dragged it inside.

And with that, she had built herself a home.

At first, the place was nothing more than a rest stop for passing fishermen—a convenient place to dock when needed. But for Glenn, it became something more. She was no longer a wanderer on the sea; she was the first permanent resident of this newfound sanctuary.

And eventually, she turned it into a community.

With the last of her remaining planks, she built a proper dock, just big enough for two to four fishing boats to moor at once. That was when the change began. Passing sailors started stopping by more often, pulling in to rest, share a meal, or trade stories. She welcomed them, joining their gatherings when she wasn't busy hammering away at her growing homestead.

And then, more ships came.

Not just lone fishermen, but crews with supplies—lumber, nails, and tools in hand.

And together, they expanded the docks, broadening its reach until it could accommodate cargo ships, and even submarines.

The drifting men of the sea had found their port.

Brick by brick, plank by plank, they built something more than just another fishing village.

They built a station.

Some built temporary shelters to house their crew while docking, while others sought to settle permanently. The space around the towering limestone formation was quickly consumed, yet it still wasn't enough.

Five years passed.

With the influx of cargo ships bringing much-needed materials, the settlers expanded upward. They constructed wooden stairways and platforms, connecting them into what became the "second level" of the village. They agreed upon a system—permanent residents would live above, while the first level remained a resting place for transient sailors.

For most sailors, the shore was a temporary reprieve—a place to return home, forget the relentless vastness of the Sunless Sea, and spend time with their families.

But for Glenn, this place was home.

She found life at sea to be simpler, more honest.

Her days followed a predictable rhythm.

Mornings were spent fishing. Dried fish and salted seaweed made up her midday meal. Afternoons were for gutting, scaling, and preserving the day's catch. By evening, she traded her surplus at the merchant ships that stopped by. And at night, she drank by the fire, swapping stories with regular fishing crews who chose to anchor at the village for the night.

She had friends.

Skye, a sharp-witted woman in her forties, was one of them. Beautiful, intelligent, and with a youthful fire despite years at sea.

Then there was Knuckle, a fishing boat captain who often sat beside her, challenging her to fishing competitions while finding excuses to chat. Glenn had long suspected that he might harbor feelings for her, though she had never asked.

Life on the Sunless Sea was good.

Even when whispers spread about the attack on New Marrakesh—

A single night. A mysterious force. An entire city wiped off the map.

The rumors chilled her, but she reassured herself that she was safer out at sea than she ever would be on land.

Then the refugees came.

Survivors steered their ships toward the outpost, bringing their families, whatever belongings they could carry, and tales of the horror that had unfolded.

The once-small village swelled with people.

Hastily built wooden lodges, makeshift dormitories, and communal kitchens rose to accommodate them. There were struggles—food shortages, rationing—but the sea provided.

The village endured.

And still, Glenn was happy.

Until that ship arrived.

Out of nowhere, a massive cargo ship appeared at the village's docks. It approached silently, gliding through the dark waters of the Sunless Sea.

The faded letters on its hull read: AURORA.

Glenn had been standing by the pier when it arrived. She saw two men descend the rope ladder, and their voices carried clearly across the still air.

"What the hell are you doing, Wasaru!? Are you trying to kill your own son!?"

The furious voice belonged to a burly man—a soldier, Glenn immediately assumed. She didn't even need to look at his military stance, his cropped hair, or the faint outline of a uniform. The way he spoke, the command in his tone—it was obvious.

"My son is already dying, Genzo. I'm trying to save him."

The second man's voice was calm, deliberate. Unlike the first, he was slender and bespectacled, his disheveled black hair nearly covering his strikingly blue eyes. His face bore the lines of a man in his forties or fifties, worn but composed.

Glenn recognized their accents—they were from the Saipan Archipelago.

Good thing she spoke Zen, along with five other languages picked up from her years among sailors.

"But what you're asking me to do—" Genzo's voice faltered as he turned and caught sight of Glenn.

The bespectacled man, Wasaru, merely dusted off his hands and said, "Don't worry. Mainland folk don't speak our language."

Then he straightened, his voice dropping into a cold, authoritative tone.

"Do as I say, Genzo. In the name of the Eternal Dawn Empire."

Glenn watched as the soldier's jaw tightened, veins pulsing at his temple. He clenched his fists, his face twisted in frustration, anger, and resignation.

Then, at last, he exhaled.

Switching to the Hieroglyphic dialect, he turned to Glenn with a carefully measured voice.

"Apologies, ma'am. I am Genzo. My people wish to resettle refugees from your village onto the Saipan Islands. Could you inform your leader?"

Glenn crossed her arms.

"We don't have a leader."

"Attention, everyone!"

Before she could say another word, Wasaru vaulted onto a nearby wooden crate and bellowed across the pier.

"The Saipan Empire is here to help! We've come to rescue refugees fleeing from the horrors of the Abyssal Beasts! We will provide you with homes and work on the islands. If you are interested, please come forward! However, due to space constraints, we can only take fifty people!"

The crowd stirred. Whispers turned into murmurs, murmurs into hurried conversations.

Then, one by one, they ran toward the line.

In minutes, the queue grew longer and longer.

"That's all! We're full!" Wasaru called out, beaming as he led the chosen refugees up the ship's ramp.

Glenn watched them go.

Most of them were shell-shocked survivors, sailors who had lost everything in the attack on New Marrakesh.

Not a single one looked back. Not even to retrieve their belongings.

And that should have been the end of it.

But the next morning, Aurora was still there.

And Wasaru was still standing at the docks, shouting.

"We've reorganized the ship's layout! We can now take another twenty people!"

Again, people lined up. Again, the same process repeated.

When they reached the new limit, Wasaru smiled and reassured the crowd.

"If you weren't chosen today, don't worry! Come back tomorrow! There may be last-minute cancellations!"

That evening, Glenn joined the rest of the sailors at the tavern—a wooden hall built specifically for drinking and revelry in the second tier of the settlement.

A long communal table stretched through the center of the room, large enough to seat nearly thirty people at once.

But tonight, half the seats were empty.

Glenn smiled as she spotted Skye sitting in the far corner.

"Still haven't left for Saipan?" she teased, sliding onto the stool beside her.

"And you're not interested?" Skye shot back.

Glenn shrugged, pouring herself a drink.

"Nah. My home is here."

Skye stared into her untouched glass.

"I don't have a home anymore."

There was no bitterness in her voice. Just a quiet, empty certainty.

Glenn's chest tightened.

"Skye… a home is just a place. It's not your whole life."

Skye let out a dry chuckle, swirling her drink.

"Everyone I knew—my family, my friends… they're all gone. Vanished when the Abyssal Beast attacked New Marrakesh. You don't get it, Glenn. I have nothing left."

You still have me.

Glenn thought it but didn't say it.

"So… you're really going, then?"

Skye nodded.

"Maybe it's a second chance. A real home. A place where I can start a family, build something stable, live an easy, peaceful life."

"And you can't do that here?" Glenn found herself growing irritated. She knew she should be happy for Skye, encourage her, support her. But the thought of losing her made it unbearable.

Skye sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.

"You really don't understand, do you? I hate the Sunless Sea. I hate the constant danger, the endless uncertainty. I became a sailor to earn enough money to leave this life behind, not because I enjoy it. Every time I bring my ship back to land, I feel relieved that I survived another day."

She finally lifted the glass and took a sip, her expression distant.

"I'm sorry."

Glenn swallowed, unsure what to say next.

In the end, she forced a grin and lifted her glass high.

"If tonight's your last night here, then quit looking so damn miserable! We should send you off with a proper toast!"

Skye blinked, then let out a small, reluctant laugh.

Glenn smirked.

"To home."

Skye hesitated for a moment, then finally lifted her glass, a weak but genuine smile on her lips.

"To home."

They drank together for a long time.

And in that moment, Glenn had never felt more happy.

Or more heartbroken.

When Glenn woke the next afternoon, she immediately sensed something was off.

The fishing village—normally alive with the hum of conversation and the rhythmic creak of wooden planks—was eerily silent.

She rubbed her eyes and stepped outside, where she found groups of villagers packing their belongings. Many were preparing to leave for Saipan.

Skye is probably one of them.

The thought left a hollow ache in her chest.

As she turned to head home, a familiar voice drifted from the stairway leading to the second tier of the village.

Glenn instinctively ducked into a narrow alley between two wooden houses, pressing herself against the shadows. She recognized the voices. The two men from the cargo ship.

"What have you done?"

The deep, rough voice was hushed—laced with fear.

"I… I only wanted to save my son," the bespectacled man replied, his tone wavering with uncertainty and hesitation. "My son will come back to me when that egg hatches. We just need… a few more people."

Glenn felt a chill crawl up her spine.

"Whatever comes out of that egg won't be your son! It'll be a monster! Wake up, Wasaru! The Empire still needs you!"

The bespectacled man—Wasaru—was silent for a long moment.

"I don't need the Empire," he finally murmured. "I only need my son."

"Then how many more lives will it take?" The deep voice spat, filled with desperation. "Tell me, Wasaru—how many more must die before your son returns?"

Wasaru did not answer.

From her hiding spot, Glenn could see them now—two figures standing on the wooden landing. The shadows concealed her presence, but she dared not move.

"What should I do, then?" Wasaru whispered.

"Destroy it," the deep voice replied. "That's what you should do."

Wasaru lowered his head slightly.

"Even you would have me abandon my own child?"

Something in his voice turned cold.

"You, of all people, should understand me best."

"Wasa—"

Before the other man—Genzo—could finish his sentence, Wasaru's hand flashed beneath his coat.

The blade struck deep into Genzo's abdomen.

The sickening sound of metal piercing flesh made Glenn's breath catch in her throat.

Both she and Genzo stared in utter disbelief as the older man twisted the knife.

"Don't tell me to abandon my son again."

Wasaru spoke calmly, coldly, as he placed his other hand on Genzo's chest and shoved.

With a ragged gasp, Genzo toppled backward—his body crashing down the stairs before vanishing into the dark waters below.

His blood splattered across the wooden steps.

Wasaru stood there for a moment, watching the last ripples of red spreading in the water, then turned and walked down to the docks.

Glenn remained frozen in place long after he was gone.

Her mind reeled with questions.

What the hell was he talking about?

A terrible realization settled in her gut.

They weren't here to resettle refugees in Saipan.

And worse—

Skye was in danger.

Glenn broke into a sprint, her boots pounding against the wooden planks as she raced down the pier.

Ahead, a long line of villagers was forming at the base of the ship's ladder, waiting to board Aurora.

Amid the crowd, she saw her.

Skye's reddish-brown hair stood out against the sea of weary travelers. A small duffel bag rested at her feet—lightly packed, as if she wasn't expecting to take much.

"Skye!"

Glenn's voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, drawing glances as she shoved past people, pushing her way forward.

Skye turned, startled.

"Glenn…?"

There was confusion in her gaze, but no alarm, no hesitation.

"What's wrong?"

Glenn grasped Skye's shoulders, panting.

"You can't get on that ship!" she blurted, her voice urgent, her breath ragged. "Something is wrong—"

"Is there something wrong with my ship?"

A calm, collected voice interrupted.

Glenn froze.

Turning, she saw him approaching from the front of the line. Wasaru.

And he wasn't alone.

Five or six armed men flanked him, their hands resting on holstered weapons.

They weren't aiming. Not yet.

But their presence was a silent warning.

Glenn swallowed, forcing herself to steady her voice.

"Skye, you have to believe me." She turned back to her friend. "They're not taking you to Saipan."

Skye's brow furrowed.

"What are you talking about?"

Glenn tightened her grip.

"Why do they keep taking more people every day? They said the ship was full of refugees—but has anyone actually seen them?

"That ship is massive, but it's silent. Where are the crew? Don't you think that's strange?"

Her voice rose higher than she intended, drawing the attention of those nearby.

For the first time, doubt flickered across Skye's face.

But it was brief.

"Glenn…" Skye's expression softened, but there was a deep sadness behind her eyes.

"I'm old. I've spent too long in the Sunless Sea. I don't want to die out here."

Skye exhaled slowly, her hands closing over Glenn's.

"I want to die in a real bed. In a real home. Surrounded by family. My children."

And then, she turned away. "I'm sorry."

Glenn barely noticed as strong hands grabbed her, pulling her back, forcing her away from the pier.

She didn't resist.

She barely felt anything at all.

Her gaze remained locked on Skye's retreating figure, watching as she climbed Aurora's ladder and disappeared into its silent depths.

…

When Glenn came to, she was bound to a chair.

Her wrists lashed behind her back, her ankles tied to the chair's legs.

The air was thick with the scent of spilled liquor and salt.

She was inside the tavern, the same place she had spent last night drinking with Skye.

But now, the windows were shut.

The only light came from a single candle flickering atop the long wooden table.

Beyond its reach, the darkness was absolute.

Glenn didn't struggle.

She simply sat there, staring.

Because it didn't matter anymore.

She had lost everything.

It was just as she had once said—a home was just a place. The people who mattered were what truly made life worth living.

And she had no one left.

A voice broke the silence.

"You and I… we are more alike than you think."

Glenn didn't react.

She didn't care.

"I lost someone precious to me too."

The voice was deep, familiar, laced with sorrow.

Glenn wondered if it was genuine.

"Do you know what I did?" A quiet chuckle. "The same thing you did. I tried to bring him back."

The clink of glass, followed by the sharp shatter of it breaking against the floor.

"And we both failed, didn't we?"

The voice wavered now, trembling with something between regret and madness.

"I tried so hard. But what came back to me wasn't my son. It looked like him. It spoke like him. But I knew. Deep down, I knew. That thing inside him… it wasn't my boy."

The sound of labored breathing.

"And I… I don't even know what it wants."

The voice cracked—a sob escaping through clenched teeth.

"I was terrified."

Glenn remained still, her gaze empty.

She didn't care.

"I tried to kill him."

The voice hardened, shifting from grief to rage.

"But I couldn't."

A pause.

"By the time I realized my mistake… it was too late. That thing had already started killing the people on the ship."

"It wasn't my fault!"

The voice rose in desperation.

"How was I supposed to know this would happen!?"

Then, a violent snarl.

"Shut up, Genzo! No, listen—those worthless soldiers couldn't even kill a single child. And you… you were just as useless as them. Because of people like you, the Saipan Empire will never defeat the Soviets."

The room fell silent.

Glenn stared at the void before her, unblinking.

Then, footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Approaching.

"Only you and I understand this kind of grief."

A figure stepped into the candlelight.

Wasaru.

His once brilliant blue eyes were obscured by blood-soaked hair, the fractured lens of his glasses catching the dim flicker of the flame.

Half of his face was gone.

A great, jagged wound had carved through his cheek, exposing raw, torn flesh beneath. Blood dripped freely from the ruin of his skin, staining his neck, his collar, pooling dark at the tips of his fingers.

He looked like something dragged out of a nightmare.

He stepped closer until he was towering over her, his gaze sinking into hers. A drop of blood from his wound dripped onto her face.

"You understand why I did it, don't you?"

Wasaru pulled out a knife.

And then, he cut the ropes that bound her.

"You are the only one who truly understands me."

Glenn didn't know how she had walked away from there.

She only became aware of herself again when someone grabbed her by the arm, stopping her in the middle of the street outside the tavern.

"Excuse me, miss. Do you know where I can buy fuel?"

She turned to see a stranger she had never met before—a man with wavy hair and dull, storm-gray eyes. His face bore an expression of weariness, as if the world itself had exhausted him. A crimson-red scarf was wrapped around his neck, its color rich like freshly spilled blood.

She barely registered his presence.

Lifting a hand, she pointed vaguely toward the tavern and walked away without a word. Not even sparing him a glance when he muttered his thanks.

When Glenn reached home, she collapsed onto her bed.

And cried herself to sleep.

…

When she woke again, three days had passed.

Aurora had long since departed.

The remaining sailors told her that twenty more people had boarded before it left. Altogether, over ninety souls had vanished into the depths of the Sunless Sea.

Knuckle, one of the few still left in the village, told her the rest.

Not long after Aurora's departure, Wasaru had returned.

With five men in tow.

They looked like they had crawled straight out of a battlefield—bloodied, battered, carrying the stench of death. Without a word to anyone, they seized the tavern, claiming it as their stronghold.

No one dared question them.

No one dared to resist.

Armed to the teeth, they forced the villagers to hand over food, fuel, liquor.

Everything.

Then, they shut themselves inside and never came out.

Life, in a strange way, returned to normal.

With so few people left, there were fewer mouths to feed. Fishing became easier. The village, once bursting with voices, had turned into a ghost town, barely thirty souls lingering in its shadow.

Glenn went through the motions.

She woke up. She fished. She ate.

She worked. She drank. She slept.

She did it again the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

She was alive.

But there was no life left in her.

Nothing mattered anymore.

So, on one quiet morning, Glenn snuck onto Knuckle's boat while he was asleep.

She stole an old flintlock pistol.

She checked it—packed the gunpowder, loaded the bullet.

And then, she made her way toward the tavern.

The place where she and her only friend had once laughed together.

Just one shot. That's all it would take.

It would have been easier to turn the gun on herself.

But he had said it himself—she was the only one who understood him.

And she understood what it meant to endure.

What it meant to keep breathing when there was no longer a reason to.

That was why he had let her go.

And that was why she would put an end to it.

The tavern stood before her.

She took a deep breath and stepped forward.

And then—

A hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Excuse me, miss."

A voice—calm, detached.

"I have urgent business with the people inside. Please wait out here."

Glenn turned, about to protest—

But then, he walked past her.

A man wrapped in a deep red scarf that fluttered in the wind, his wavy grey hair tousled by the breeze. A revolver rested in his right hand, its barrel catching the dim light.

Beside him, a young boy with soft green hair followed in silence.

They stepped inside the tavern.

Glenn did not follow.

She stood motionless for ten whole minutes.

Until—

Bang!

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

A pause.

Then, a final shot.

Silence fell.

Not long after, the man reemerged.

The revolver in his grasp was still warm, thin wisps of smoke curling from its muzzle.

He flicked open the cylinder, ejecting six spent casings onto the ground.

Then, without hesitation, he turned to her and said—

"I'd like to buy some diesel. Five hundred gallons, if possible. Name your price."

Glenn shook her head.

"Take it. No charge."

That night, the village came alive once more.

With Glenn leading the effort, the remaining sailors rallied together, hauling barrels of diesel down the docks.

It took little time.

Soon, they watched as the submarine departed, slipping into the endless dark horizon.

"We owe them, huh?" Knuckle murmured beside her.

Glenn didn't reply.

"Where do you think they're headed next?"

"No idea."

Knuckle was silent for a moment. Then—

"Do you think Skye will like Saipan?"

Glenn's gaze drifted to the waves, watching as lantern light shimmered upon the restless sea. Droplets of seawater clung to the wooden pier, reflecting iridescent hues.

"She'll be happy," Glenn murmured.

"Wherever she is."

Then, she turned—

And walked away.

"Hey—where are you going?"

Glenn didn't stop.

"Saipan," she said.

She wanted to see the home that Skye had dreamed of.

Maybe—

Maybe it could be hers too.