The Captain’s Return

To be perfectly honest, Duncan quickly realized something unfortunate: it was very hard to maintain a dignified stride with a pigeon hollering cryptic marketing slogans from his shoulder.

At that moment, he would've traded a crate of cursed compasses just to have a proper pirate's parrot—or even a monkey. But it was too late to turn back now. He had already pushed open the door leading to the charting room.

Inside, the talking goat head was halfway through the twelfth legendary method for braising deep-sea fish. The creak of the door cut him off mid-sentence.

The carved wooden head immediately swiveled in Duncan's direction, obsidian eyes gleaming with a kind of unnatural joy. "Ah! Captain! At last! I must tell you, Miss Alice is a remarkable conversationalist. I haven't had such stimulating discourse in years. Did you know—"

Duncan ignored him completely. His attention went to the true victim across the room.

Alice, the gothic porcelain doll with a cursed soul and a tragically expressive face, was sitting very straight in her chair—cradling her own detached head in both hands, and pressing her fingers tightly against her porcelain ears.

Her wide, glassy eyes were vacant. Not even Duncan's arrival stirred her.

"..."

"She took her head off herself," the goat offered helpfully. "I have no idea why."

Duncan stared. This was a cursed entity so powerful her very presence could warp perception, and yet the goat's relentless babble had driven her to decapitate herself to escape the noise.

He wasn't even surprised.

At that moment, the goat finally noticed something else.

"Captain... what is that on your shoulder?"

Duncan didn't miss a beat. "Her name is I.A. She's my pet."

The goat head blinked slowly. Then his voice dropped into something that could only be described as a "hushed reverence laced with wild speculation."

"Ahh… of course. Of course! Just moments ago the Vanished registered your absence. You've been… spirit walking, haven't you? This creature is your prize from the ethereal realms."

Spirit walking?

Duncan paused. His thoughts darted back to the brass compass in his cabin, the scrawled notes left by the original Captain Duncan, and the experience of projecting his soul into a corpse beneath a city-state called Pland. The label… fit, in a strange and haunting way.

He gave a subtle nod. "Just stretching my legs."

The goat's reaction was as expected—eager praise, wrapped in barely veiled curiosity.

"Ah, brilliant! Only the great Captain Duncan could treat a mere stroll through the spirit world as a casual exercise. And this… this pigeon—she must be something truly exceptional! To earn your favor! You've even entrusted her with your compass! Why, surely that means—oh, forgive me, of course it must mean… unless…?"

Duncan could hear the subtle caution behind the goat's rambling. He knew—knew—what the compass meant. It was never supposed to leave the captain's grasp.

But Duncan had no way of correcting the issue.

Because right now, that compass was the pigeon.

And from the fire's feedback… it might even be more accurate to say the pigeon was now the compass.

He kept his face blank.

Then, just as he was gathering a response, I.A. leapt from his shoulder with a flap of her wings. She landed squarely in front of the goat head, puffed out her chest, and pecked him between the eyes.

"Would you like to top up your Q-credits?" she asked cheerfully.

Duncan: "..."

The goat blinked. "An intelligent anomaly?! This pigeon talks?!"

"You talk," Duncan reminded him flatly.

The bird strolled across the desk, muttering to herself: "Sounds fair, sounds fair, sounds fair…"

Duncan snapped his fingers, and with a flicker of green fire, I.A. vanished—reappearing a heartbeat later on his shoulder.

"Yes," Duncan said, calm and cold. "She's sentient. And under my control. Is that a problem?"

"Absolutely not!" the goat said quickly. "No problem at all. Everything is clearly within the parameters of your… grand plan."

Duncan turned his attention to Alice.

She was still cradling her own head like a traumatized toddler, and frankly, Duncan had grown so used to it that it barely registered as creepy anymore.

He tapped her gently on the shoulder. "Wake up."

She jolted like she'd been shocked, her eyes slowly focusing.

"M-M-Mister Captain Sir—"

"Put your head on."

Click. With a neat twist, the head locked into place. Alice blinked rapidly and sat upright.

"You're back? Did… did the goat finally stop talking?"

"No," the goat said instantly. "We were just getting to seaweed stew—"

"Silence," Duncan said.

"Oh."

Alice flinched at the sound of the goat's voice. Her haunted expression said enough: she would not willingly return to this room for a long time.

Duncan looked at her with faint curiosity. "What did you come to see me for?"

She hesitated, frowning like someone who'd just remembered they left the oven on five days ago.

"Ah—yes! I… I wanted to ask if there's a place on board where I can bathe. My box got soaked with seawater, and… my joints are a little… stiff."

She looked embarrassed. Understandably. Duncan had thrown her box overboard. Several times, in fact.

He kept his face neutral. "That's it?"

"That's it," she said quickly, shrinking in her seat.

"On most long-range vessels," Duncan said, adopting a tone of educational authority, "freshwater is a luxury. Bathing is reserved for emergencies. But this is the Vanished. Freshwater's not a problem. Follow me. The bathing chamber's below mid-deck."

Alice stood up immediately. She didn't even glance back at the goat.

As they left the room, Duncan called over his shoulder, "Keep the helm, will you?"

"Always, Captain."

He led Alice up toward the deck.

And there—just as they emerged from below—he stopped.

The Pale Scar

The night sky had cleared.

For the first time in many days, the sky above the endless sea was calm and open. And what Duncan saw when he looked upward stole the breath from his lungs.

There were no stars.

No moon.

Nothing but a vast, black void—and a single, colossal tear in the heavens. A gash of pale light stretched across the sky, jagged and raw like a wound torn through flesh. It flickered faintly, bleeding grey and white radiance that poured across the deck and glistened on the ocean's dark surface like milk in black ink.

It looked like the sky itself had been ripped open—and the universe had never bothered to stitch it closed.

Duncan didn't move.

He simply stared at that endless scar and felt a strange tension settle in his spine.

That wound was not part of any natural sky. That was not an aurora. It was damage.

It was evidence.

Of what?

He had no idea.

But for the first time since setting foot aboard this haunted ship, he realized something: he was not sailing through a world he recognized.

And this sky?

This sky was screaming.