Whispers Before the Tempest

The quarters rocked with the fury of the sea, each lurch of the ship accompanied by a deep groan from the old wood. In the far corner of the cabin, two figures huddled together, cloaked in dim lantern light and the sound of chaos pressing from outside. Crumpled bedding had been hastily piled to serve as a buffer against the jarring impacts, the shifting walls, and the uncertainty that hung in the air like fog.

Mira sat rigid against the wall, one arm tightly secured around Aminthea, the other hand braced flat against the floor to keep them steady. Her face remained stoic—but the damp glint in her eyes betrayed the truth she would never utter aloud. Her lower lip bore the faintest indent, where she had bitten down, perhaps harder than she realized.

Aminthea lay half-curled against her, limp with exhaustion. Her face, already pale from seasickness, had taken on a sickly pallor, and the fine sheen of sweat across her forehead caught the lantern glow in uneven smudges. Every heave of the deck sent a pulse of nausea through her, and she gave a weak sound—a breath more than a moan—as her hand tightened around the velvet pillow clutched to her chest.

Mira’s arm remained steady, though her own shoulder had begun to ache from holding firm. Her thoughts tangled in silent protest: My lady…? Why must it be this way for your first voyage…? But of course, she said nothing.

Instead, she leaned in, her voice soft but distinct against the thunder and the distant crash of waves.

“My Lady.”

Mira pulled a small cloth bundle, its corners tied neatly. With quiet care, she unwrapped it to reveal several slices of hard, dry bread and a small nub of ginger root—simple provisions left behind by a guard who had helped stabilize the interior before fleeing to reinforce the deck. There was no warmth to the offering, no scent but that of grain and old wood.

She extended the bundle toward Aminthea.

The lady met her eyes with the briefest glance. Her fingers moved slowly, delicately taking one of the bread slices. She nibbled, not out of appetite, but to ease the nausea.

The lantern swayed again, its light trembling across the walls. Mira’s eyes lifted briefly to it, then returned to her mistress. She spoke, her tone as measured and exact as ever, but softened by the hush of the moment.

“My Lady… If I may be permitted to inquire… what redress do you intend… for the young master of Vyrilark?”

Aminthea blinked once, lips parted as if the question hadn’t quite landed. Her mind was slow to catch up, fogged with exhaustion.

Mira prompted gently, “If it is not too much… may I be a part of it?”

Understanding lit in Aminthea’s eyes, a small flicker behind the veil of fatigue. She drew a slow breath and exhaled carefully.

“I thought of getting a... formal apology,” she said.

Mira did not outwardly react, but her thoughts whispered, My lady is too kind.

After a pause, Mira adjusted the pillow under Aminthea’s arm slightly, her movement fluid, efficient, and her voice as crisp as ever.

“It is not my place to say… but you can be… a bit more forceful.”

Aminthea tilted her head, eyes narrowing faintly with consideration. Her brows creased—not in distress, but in calculation, as though revising a plan.

“…Maybe I should ask for an apology on his knees. Or… something more severe?”

Mira inclined her head. “As you say, my lady.”

Aminthea’s expression darkened, a glimmer of mischief threading through the fatigue. Her voice, still soft, carried the bite of resolve.

“No. Decided. I’ll push him into the sea. Let him get a taste of what I am feeling.”

Mira’s mouth parted slightly—an unusual, nearly imperceptible sign of surprise—but no words came. Her response stalled, caught between propriety and concern. Her Ladyship was completely serious.

And in that realization, Mira understood: I have miscalculated.

‘Who would have thought a member of Eirenhart would utter—’

Aminthea continued slowly, “As far as I see, he is either irresponsible or looks down on me.”

Mira, hearing her voice her thoughts, tried—awkwardly, cautiously—to cheer her up.

“That won’t be the case, My Lady. I still remember Elder Madam words. ”

"It was the day you were born."

Nineteen Years Ago

The massive Eirenhart mansion stood pristine in white, every brick in perfect order. Despite the quiet festivities blooming within, there was no chaos, no shouting—only precision. Every maid and steward moved with clockwork rhythm, silence forming the spine of dignity.

At the gates, a line of maids stood at attention, among them a small girl of six or seven, clad in a crisp black uniform. Her face held no expression, only solemn poise, as the hung iron gates creaked open and a pair of prestigious carriages entered.

When the door of the first carriage was opened, two men descended. One moved with refined, composed steps—every motion deliberate. The other leapt down with careless ease, his laughter booming as he landed with a thud that startled the servants, though none showed it.

“Welcome back, Master.”

“Welcome, Master Vyrilark.”

The larger man laughed heartily, eyes dancing as they settled on the child standing among the maids.

“So you’re employing children now? Where are your damn principles?” He jested as he lowered himself to Mira’s eye level. His voice was warm, teasing.

“If this mean man bullies you, tell me—I’ll take you along,” he added, rustling her hair.

Mira simply shook her head, her small frame unmoving, her expression utterly blank.

The big man gave a questioning look to the refined figure beside him, who offered a silent shrug in return. Without a word, the refined man resumed walking toward the mansion. The larger one followed, taking young Mira along by the hand.

They stopped before a grand room. The refined man knocked once before entering. Inside, the baby lay peacefully on a cushioned cradle, watched over by an older woman dressed in fine robes and several attending maids.

The men approached the child. The older woman looked up with a gentle smile.

“Severus, you are late. Did the council keep you that long?”

“Yes. We tried to end it quickly, but you know the situation, Mother,” he replied respectfully.

“I have already done the birth chart reading with the young masters of Vyrilark,” she added calmly.

“You’re still doing that?” the large man asked, sounding half-amused.

“Obviously. It’s a promise long overdue,” Severus replied.

Turning to the old woman, he asked, voice in a neutral tone, though it did not hide his lack of expectation, “And…?”

The woman smiled, looking down at the sleeping baby.

“She is an impeccable match with the youngest son of Maximus.”

Maximus blinked, and a surprised voice escaped from him. “Ooh.”

A laugh—loud and genuine, startling everyone in the room—Severus let it out. “Finally.”

Even the composed maids exchanged subtle glances. None had ever seen the master of Eirenhart break his usual solemnity.

Back in the present, Aminthea let out a quiet breath.

“Really, Father?”

“Yes,” Mira said.

Aminthea gave the smallest smile—barely there, but it was enough to ease the tightness in Mira’s chest.

It seems the diversion is working.

Outside, the storm raged unabated. Waves continued to pummel the ship from every side, the wind shrieking like a wounded beast. Men shouted to one another across the deck, their voices hoarse and half-lost beneath the howling gusts.

Somewhere high on the mast, ropes snapped. Barrels crashed across the planks, barely caught in time by scrambling deckhands who stumbled over the slick boards, soaked to the bone.

A lean deckhand braced against the rail, his eyes narrowed into the storm.

He gasped, breath catching in his throat. He coughed, slapped his chest, then shouted again, his voice barely piercing the noise.

“There—!”

A grumble passed among the nearby crew.

“Oh, not this again.”

“See, Jory, your stories got into the boy’s head.”

“Every green lad sees ghosts in the rain now.”

But the young man’s arm trembled as he pointed.

“It’s real! Look—LOOK KAIROS!”

And then they saw it.

A faint light—no flicker, no wavering—hovered low over the black sea like a candle held still by invisible hands. It did not sway; it did not dim. It simply burned, resolute, impossibly calm against the chaos.

“It is!” someone cried. “Low on the eastern horizon!”

A hush passed, quick as a breath, before the wind swallowed it again.

“…Then that means—This hell going to end ?” a sailor asked.

“They say if you see the Kairos flame, you’ll live to tell the tale,” another added.

Like kindling, a spark of belief caught in their hearts. Spines straightened. Grips steadied.

Then—

“IT’S GROWING BIG!” Jory’s voice sliced through the wind.

The flame was no longer distant.

“NO— It’s COMING CLOSER—!”

The glow bloomed with unnatural speed, splitting the rain like a blade.

“GHOST SHIP!!”

Panic erupted. Boots pounded the planks, men shouting as the vessel emerged—gliding like a wraith, sails full though the wind howled in all directions.