Chapter 3: Echoes in the Flame
After the death of Red Gorran, the sea held its breath.
Far from any coast, veiled in cursed fog, a ghost ship drifted silently across black water. Its hull was cracked and splintered, yet it moved with unnatural grace, guided by eerie green fire that danced across the sails like whispering spirits.
On the captain's throne sat a scorched skeleton—still as death itself.
One bone hand, wreathed in flickering emerald flame, lay on the armrest.
A silver ring encircled its finger—a perfect match to the one Mikael wore.
Its skull was lowered, face hidden in shadow. Until—
Crack… crack…
The brittle fingers twitched, moving in an old, deliberate sequence. Runes flared briefly beneath the skinless joints. The figure raised its head, still seated, still burning. Inside the black hollows of its eyes, two green lights sparked to life.
Beside it, a bone parrot sat perched, unmoving—until its jaw clicked twice.
Then, the captain spoke, voice dry and hollow like wind over graves.
"The game resets. The tide turns again."
He turned his skull toward the helm.
"Set course north… to Gabin-Jaba."
The fire howled across the deck as the ship creaked and groaned, ancient wood resisting—but obeying.
The vessel shifted direction, cutting through mist and water, glowing like a wound in the sea.
And so the Green Flame, captain of silence and ruin, began to move.
---
Scene Shift: Mikael & Elhaan
Back in Gabin-Jaba, under a storm-kissed sky, Mikael and Elhaan stood before a detachment of Royal Knights. Red Gorran's corpse had already been taken. The whispers of his curse lingered like fog.
The knight commander, face weathered and armor gilded in blue, looked between the two men.
"You claim Gorran died from… a mark?"
Elhaan's tone was cool, but sharp.
"I don't claim anything. I witnessed it."
Another knight stepped forward, arms folded. His voice dripped suspicion.
"Men like Gorran don't die empty-handed. Did he leave anything behind?"
Elhaan didn't even blink.
"If he did, it was already claimed by the sea."
The commander studied them for a long moment. Then nodded once.
"We'll verify that ourselves."
He turned and marched away, the knights following behind.
Mikael leaned in, low.
"They're not buying it."
Elhaan's voice slipped into his mind.
"Let them look. They won't find what's already hidden in shadow."
---
Later That Night
The knights gathered at the gate, ready to move out.
One of the younger guards leaned toward the commander.
"Red Gorran? Nothing on him? That can't be. Man had a bounty high enough to buy a country. No one dies that clean."
The commander smirked beneath his helm.
"I didn't say they were clean. I said they were watched."
His eyes glinted as he gestured to the rooftops.
There, in the rafters of the warehouse nearby, a shadow clung to the beams—watching.
But what they didn't know… was that Elhaan had sensed him from the first night.
Inside the inn, Elhaan sipped tea and spoke to Mikael through the mind-link.
"We've a ghost on our heels. Cloaked. Skilled. Watching us every day."
"Should we confront him?" Mikael asked.
"No. We'll give him what he wants: silence and routine. Let him think he's winning."
For seven days, the spy lurked.
He followed them. Watched their every move. Waited for a slip.
But Mikael and Elhaan remained calm. Unchanged. Uninterested.
They never touched the hidden chest, never unfolded the map etched in silver, never went near the rune-sealed box that pulsed beneath the inn floor.
Until the spy grew bold.
On the seventh night, he slipped into the alley behind the inn and picked the basement lock. Step by step, he crept toward the floorboards.
He reached for the trapdoor.
And then—
FLASH.
A sigil ignited in the air—silent, blinding.
The spy was hurled backward, crashing into crates. He fled into the darkness, rattled.
Elhaan stood behind the curtain, watching.
"Clever little rat," he whispered. "Now he knows we're not so easy."
---
Scene Shift: The Sea
Elsewhere on the sea, wreckage floated like driftwood in a graveyard.
Barrels. Planks. Blood.
An entire ship, obliterated—not by nature, but by something deliberate.
A splintered figurehead drifted upside down, bearing the crest of a merchant fleet. Nothing survived.
The camera rises.
Mist thickens.
And there—gliding silently through the fog—came the ghost ship, bathed in emerald fire.
It passed through the floating debris like it was parting the past.
On the deck, the Green Flame sat unmoving, staring forward.
The glowing green sparks in his eyes brightened—not with thought, but with purpose.
The flames around him pulsed as if excited.
He had found a trail.
And he was closing in.
To be continued°°°