The ship creaked and groaned, shifting with the gentle push and pull of the tide. But it wasn’t the sea that had set the crew on edge.

It was the boy.

Cassian felt it in the way the men moved—shoulders hunched, eyes flicking toward the brig whenever they thought no one was watching. The tension in the air was thick, coiling like a rope drawn too tight.

"A storm brought him," muttered an older sailor, his voice rough as sandpaper. He spat over the rail, watching the dark horizon. "Marked by the sea, that one."

Others weren’t as poetic.

"Should’ve left him to drown."

Cassian didn’t stop walking. Didn’t acknowledge them. But the words curled in his gut, sharp as a blade.

He wasn’t blind to the superstition creeping through The Red Wind like a living thing. He had seen it before—that heavy, creeping dread, the way it settled in men’s bones when something unnatural touched their world.

And maybe, this time, they weren’t wrong to be afraid.

The wreck had come out of nowhere. No warning, no survivors—except one.

A boy, dragged from the water, his clothes soaked and clinging, his skin pale as the moonlight that shimmered on the waves. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d pulled him aboard.

Mute. Strange. A raven circling above him like an omen.

Cassian’s gaze flicked toward the brig.

The more time passed, the more the whispers grew. And the more the whispers grew, the closer fear turned to violence.

And fear, among men like these, could be deadly.

Cassian wasn’t asleep when he heard the footsteps.

He had been lying in his hammock, arms crossed, staring at the wooden beams above him as the ship breathed around him. Sleep wouldn’t come. Not with his thoughts running restless circles in his mind.

And then—

A creak.

Soft. Purposeful.

A hesitation that did not belong to the night.

Cassian exhaled slowly, silent as he moved. The corridors of the ship were dark, only the faintest slivers of lantern-light spilling from beneath the doors. The air smelled of salt, wood, and something colder.

He followed the sound, steps light, controlled.

The brig was dimly lit, the lanterns burning low, casting flickering gold against the damp wooden walls. The scent of brine and rust hung thick in the air.

The boy sat in the corner of the cell, knees drawn to his chest, unmoving. But he wasn’t asleep.

Cassian felt it—the shift in his breathing. The tension in his small frame.

Because he wasn’t alone.

A figure stood inside the cell.

A glint of steel caught the low light.

"Nothing personal," the sailor whispered, voice thick with unease. "But I’m not sailing with a damn ghost."

The knife gleamed, poised to strike.

Cassian moved.

The scuffle was fast, brutal.

The sailor had a weapon, but Cassian had rage. His fist collided with the man’s jaw, sending him stumbling back with a grunt.

The blade swung—Cassian barely ducked in time, the steel slicing through the air just past his cheek.

He caught the sailor’s wrist, twisting hard. The knife clattered to the floor.

The boy pressed himself tighter against the wall, silent, small.

The raven screeched, wings flaring, sending a flurry of black feathers into the air.

Cassian didn’t let go. He slammed the sailor into the bars, forcing him against the cold iron.

The man struggled, panting, but Cassian was stronger.

"I ever see you down here again," Cassian growled, voice low, dangerous, "you’ll be swimming home."

The sailor spat blood, breath ragged. His eyes flicked toward the boy—sharp, full of something ugly—before he wrenched himself free and disappeared into the dark corridors of the ship.

Silence.

Cassian turned.

The boy hadn’t moved.

His eyes, too-bright and unreadable, watched Cassian from the dim corner of the cell.

And something inside Cassian twisted.

For a moment, it wasn’t the boy sitting there at all.

It was Matthias.

Younger. Pressed against a wooden post, arms raised to shield his face as a group of older boys closed in around him.

Cassian had been smaller back then, but he hadn’t cared.

He had thrown himself into the fight without thinking—bruised knuckles, split lip, taking every hit meant for his brother.

Later, sitting together on the docks, Matthias laughing through his bloody nose.

"You didn’t have to do that," Matthias had said.

"Yes, I did," Cassian had answered without hesitation.

That weight settled heavy over his chest now.

Matthias wasn’t here.

But this boy was.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite name—Cassian couldn’t turn his back on him.

Cassian exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.

"You should say something."

The boy blinked at him.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he lifted his hands.

And began to sign.

Cassian stilled.

The movements were fluid, practiced. A language made of hands and silence.

Cassian didn’t understand a single thing.

Then—

The raven clicked its beak.

And in a clear, human voice, it spoke:

"You didn’t have to do that."

Cassian’s stomach dropped.

His eyes flicked to the bird, then back to the boy.

Another sign. Small. Careful.

The raven tilted its head. Then, slowly—hesitantly—it spoke again:

"He wants to know your name."

Cassian narrowed his gaze, studying them both. "Cassian."

A pause.

The boy watched him, thoughtful. Then, carefully, his hands moved again.

The raven hesitated. Then—

"He says... his name is Hypnos."

Cassian let the name settle on his tongue, in his mind.

The boy—Hypnos—held his gaze, quiet and waiting.

For the first time since pulling him from the sea, Cassian wasn’t sure if he had saved the boy.

Or if he had just let something else onto this ship.