The Phantom at the Helm

Some time before the storm struck Aminthea’s vessel, far across the same treacherous sea, another ship sliced through the waters—sleek, dark-hulled, with sails trimmed like sharpened blades. Its deck glinted faintly beneath the starlight, the ocean calm, rippling silver beneath the moon’s indifferent eye.

At the helm stood a man clad in black—his coat long, fitted, devoid of ornament, the edges stiffened from sea salt and use. One hand rested lightly on the wheel, the other tucked behind his back. His face was pale in the moonlight, eyes fixed on the eastern horizon, unblinking.

Then he spoke, voice cool and even:

“Storm’s coming. Make preparations.”

The words slid out like ice on steel—calm, clear, and utterly final.

Around him, the crew paused. There was no thunder, no flash of light—only the sound of waves gently lapping and a pleasant breeze that tugged at their hair like a lazy child.

The sky glittered. The ocean gleamed.

Still, no one questioned him.

Without a shout or command from any officer, the crew leapt into motion. Boots thudded against wood. Ropes were pulled, knots checked and redone. Loose crates were clamped down, barrels lashed in crisscrossing patterns to the lower deck. High above, figures swung from mast to mast like shadows on the wind, reefing sails, shifting angles, preparing for a war the sky had not yet declared.

It took only minutes—mere minutes—before it began.

First, silence. The wind dropped as if the world itself held its breath. Then came the howl—feral, sudden, a predator’s roar.

Clouds surged across the sky like spilled ink, devouring stars in one hungry gulp. The sea began to churn. Waves rose like waking giants, slamming into the hull with bone-rattling weight.

Still, the ship glided—unnervingly smooth.

At the helm, Ellan stood unmoved. His gaze swept the chaos as though reading scripture, each gust of wind a sacred verse.

“Wind will shift north by east,” he said. “Foresail six degrees starboard. Cut drag on the mizzen.”

No shout. No drama.

The crew simply obeyed.

He didn’t command like a man—he guided like the sea itself whispered in his ear.

“Are his eyes the same as ours, or do they see something else?” one sailor muttered, pulling tight a line, eyes on the clouds.

“Feels like the wind listens to him first, then comes for the rest of us,” another replied, grinning around a loop of rigging between his teeth.

“Oi! Bet time!” shouted a younger sailor, braced near the stern. “Who’s gonna be the first to spill their guts this round?”

“Why’s that even a question?” came a voice from the rigging. “It’s always Berel. Man goes green just lookin’ at a puddle!”

“Hey!” Berel barked indignantly from below, already pale. “Least I don’t scream like a baby when the deck tips!”

“Oh, I scream with style, thank you very much.”

Laughter burst between lightning cracks. Even as the storm deepened, the crew’s humor rose with it.

“Here comes the thrill,” another groaned, tightening a sail.

“Well, say that when the boss ain’t on watch,” someone snorted, nodding toward the helm.

“No one can, if boss is not steering,” another added. “He’s the only one who can turn a storm into a bloody ballroom dance.”

“That may be, but tomorrow’s gonna be worse,” muttered an older sailor. “Storm hangover’s worse than rum-sick.”

“Aye,” another said with mock solemnity. “And with Lord Anders yanking our chains again, we’re cursed with his fancy errands.”

“Didn’t this one screw up Ellan ’s plan?”

“Yeah,” someone confirmed, grinning. “Saw it on his face earlier—the ‘my soul left without me’ look.”

Despite the banter, their hands were swift. Their eyes sharp. The sea rolled, but Ellan adjusted the wheel with the precision of a painter’s brushstroke.

“Lower ballast portside,” he called. “Ride the curl. Cresting wave in six—five—four…”

The ship responded like it lived and breathed his intent. It rose with the wave, surfed its peak, then glided down the other side like silk drawn over marble.

Spray lashed the deck. Sails groaned. But no line broke. No man fell.

Lightning tore across the sky, and in that split second of light, Ellan ’s eyes caught a shape in the distance.

A mast. Tattered sails.

A ship, barely afloat.

“A ship caught in the storm.”

His voice rang out—firm, unshaken. Every head turned.

The crew didn’t pause.

They moved in tandem as the wind picked up. Waves slapped the sides harder now. The rigging creaked. But the atmosphere aboard wasn’t one of panic.

“She’s growling now,” one said, coiling a line. “Must be the captain smiling.”

Another chuckled. “He’ll probably dance her through, like always.”

Ellan guided the ship with careful intention, watching the wave crests like a map. When a large sea hump rose up ahead—one of the short, steep waves that can break a ship if hit wrong—he spoke clearly.

“Bow starboard, six points. Let her shoulder it.”

The ship turned just enough to hit the swell at an angle. The bow lifted, sliced through it, and rolled smoothly down the other side. The water crashed behind them, missed its mark.

They approached the damaged ship slowly. Ellan didn’t want to appear threatening. He ordered a sea anchor deployed—a drag device that slowed them just enough to stay steady alongside.

From the broken ship came a high-pitched cry:

“GHOST SHIP!!”

Laughter erupted from Ellan ’s crew.

“Every damn time,” one chuckled.

“We really should paint this thing white.”

“Better yet—skull sails. Let’s lean in next time.”

“Shut it and throw the line!”

Ellan had no intention of towing them in the usual way. In these waters, that would be suicide. Instead, he ordered a bridle—a triangular harness of two ropes that distributed the force of a pull more gently. A grappling line was tossed to the damaged ship with precision, and the bridle followed.

The towline sailed through the air, caught by a large man on the other vessel. He tied it fast, shouting something inaudible through the gale.

The crew aboard the crippled vessel moved with shaky relief. Some stumbled, others shouted into the wind. One older man stared openly at Ellan ’s ship like he’d just seen a ghost sail in from legend.

“Contact made!” someone called.

Ellan ’s voice followed, louder than the wind. “Reinforce. Drag ratio three-two. Keep starboard lean balanced.”

The crew moved as one—adjusting sails, tightening lines, positioning the hull just so.

The storm didn’t slow. But Ellan ’s ship—towing another through chaos—sailed like it was born for this.

On the wrecked vessel, the rescued crew stood in awe. They didn’t understand the commands. They didn’t know how this ghost ship was pulling them from death. They saw shadows moving with unnatural speed. The helm figure never wavered. Never stumbled.

One man whispered, “That ship… it can’t be real.”

Another murmured, “They’re not people. They’re probably storm spirits.”

Still, they obeyed the shouted orders. Ellan ’s voice made them move even when they didn’t understand the words.

Time melted. Wind shrieked. The sea raged.

But Ellan ’s ship held steady.

And then—calm.

The boundary came like a breath after drowning. Waves softened. Wind dipped. The sea returned to a gentle roll.

The towline snapped free.

Ellan ’s voice, final and clear, cut through the quiet.

“You can reach Atheria Port from here. Due northwest. Keep steady.”

And without ceremony, his ship turned—slipping silently back into the storm.

Silent as it had arrived. Sails full. Lanterns dimming. The black hull melted into the mist, vanishing like a dream half-remembered.

The rescued crew stood in dazed quiet.

“What… was that ship?” someone asked.

“I don’t think it was a ship.”

Then, from Ellan ’s own deck, as the black vessel slipped back into the storm, one sailor squinted toward the fading silhouette of the rescued ship.

“Boss?” he asked. “Why Atheria Port? Verimouth’s closer.”

At the helm, Ellan did not look back. His voice, as always, was calm, cold, and final.

“Ember Moon Pie.”

The words fell like a stone into a still pond.

Silence.

“…What?” another sailor asked, blinking.

“Did he just say… pie?”

“Moon pie,” repeated someone, now thoroughly confused. “Is that… a dessert or a code?”

“Knowing him? Probably both.”

The ship rocked gently as the sea rose again, the storm welcoming them home. And at the helm, Ellan narrowed his eyes, read the next verse of the wind, and turned the wheel once more.

Back into the storm, as always.