The sea at night was a thing that breathed.

Not in the way living things did — not gentle, not warm — but like something vast and ancient drawing in through unseen lungs. The water stretched black and endless, unbroken except for the sliver of moonlight trembling across its skin. The Aster’s Mercy groaned with each roll of the current, her ropes whispering, her sails heavy with damp.

You’d grown used to the sounds of the ocean. The creak of the mast, the hiss of waves against the hull, the soft, rhythmic beating of the rigging in the wind. But tonight, there was something else beneath it all — a second rhythm, deeper and wrong, a pulse hiding under the surface.

The air hung thick with brine. Lanterns swung in slow arcs across the deck, their glow too fragile to reach the edges of the ship. The crew had gone quiet over the last hour, their laughter and sea songs fading into murmured talk and wary glances toward the water. Men who’d faced storms without flinching now stood still at the rails, squinting into the dark.

“Current’s changed again,” one muttered, his voice nearly lost to the wind. “We’re not movin’ right.”

You stepped closer to the side of the ship, the boards slick beneath your boots. The water churned softly below, dark as ink — too dark. Every so often, something stirred just beneath the surface, and the reflection of the moon broke apart.

Your father would’ve told you not to stare. He’d said the sea liked to look back.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

The crewman near the bow leaned over the railing with a spyglass, his knuckles white. Another adjusted the lantern, trying to pierce the gloom. But the light only made it worse — it caught on the mist rolling low over the waves, turning the world into a gray haze.

You could almost hear the water moving differently there — not the steady lap of waves, but something deliberate. Like something circling.

At first, you told yourself it was just driftwood caught in a current, maybe a pod of dolphins keeping their distance. The mind always rushed to familiar shapes. But this was slower, steadier. Each time the ship shifted, the sound followed — a faint rush and ripple, never far, never near.

One of the deckhands swore under his breath. “It’s been tailin’ us since the last bell.”

“That’s nonsense,” the first mate snapped, though he didn’t look convinced. He was watching the water too closely. “There’s nothing out there but the tide.”

You tried to look away, but the pull was magnetic. The sea had that kind of hold — dangerous, mesmerizing. You leaned forward a little, scanning the black water, straining your eyes for movement.

Something flashed — quick as a knife — just beneath the surface. Silver, or maybe green, catching the lantern’s edge before vanishing again. Then the sound came: a hollow thud against the hull, deep enough to feel in your bones.

You froze unsure whether to speak up or stay silent, not sure if any of your crew saw what you saw.