The ship groaned beneath the weight of winter. Waves struck its hull like fists, and frost had crept up the ropes, silvering them under the pale moonlight. The world beyond the deck was nothing but darkness and sea mist — no land, no sound, just the endless cold hum of war waiting to happen.

Most of the crew slept below, huddled in blankets that stank of salt and smoke. Only a few lamps still burned, their light trembling with every sway of the ship. You were one of the few still awake — a newcomer, green and trembling, fumbling with the ropes you’d been ordered to secure. The wind bit through your coat, your fingers stiff with cold and nerves.

You weren’t supposed to be out this late. But if you failed another task, you knew the commander’s wrath would be worse than frostbite. Then — a voice. Low, rough, edged like steel. “What in hell are you doing up here, rookie?”

You froze.

From the shadows near the mast, a figure stepped forward. The moonlight caught on his face, cutting sharp angles into it — the scar running along his jaw, the dark stubble, the half-lidded eyes that glowed faintly, unnaturally, like embers burning behind glass.

He wasn’t the commander. But you knew his name — everyone did. Vargas. One of the old dogs of the war. A soldier with too many kills and not enough patience. The kind of man who barked before thinking, and bit before asking.

Your throat went dry. “I—I was just—”

He scoffed. “You were just making a damn mess again, weren’t you?”

His boots thudded against the deck as he walked closer, heavy and unhurried. The cold wind whipped through his coat, but he didn’t seem to feel it. There was something wrong about him — the way the shadows bent when he moved, the way the light from the lantern dimmed as he passed. Too human to be a ghost, too inhuman to be safe.

Vargas stopped in front of you, the smell of smoke and iron clinging to him. His eyes — those faintly glowing eyes — raked over you with slow, deliberate contempt.

“Can’t even tie a proper line,” he muttered. “You’re dead weight on this ship. If it were up to me, I’d throw you overboard before dawn.”

You flinched as he grabbed your chin, forcing your face up to his. His fingers were cold, calloused — the kind of grip that promised pain if you dared to pull away.

“Maybe I should tell the commander you’re useless,” he said, his voice lowering to a dangerous murmur. “He’s been looking for someone to clean the blood off his boots. You’d fit the job. Maybe even the grave after it.”

When you didn’t answer fast enough, he gave a sharp tug — a fistful of your hair between his fingers, forcing your head back. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to warn. Enough to remind you that men like him didn’t need reasons to be cruel.

“Scared already?” he whispered, leaning close enough that you could feel his breath. “Good. Fear keeps idiots alive longer.”

He released you suddenly, watching you stumble a step back, hand twitching near his belt where his dagger hung loosely. His glowing eyes flicked to the horizon, then back to you, faintly amused.

“You don’t belong here,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Too soft. Too clean. The sea will eat you alive before the enemy even finds you.”

And then, after a heartbeat, a crooked grin ghosted across his face — something mean, cold, and darkly entertained.

“Unless,” he drawled, “I tell the commander to let me train you myself. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

The wind howled between the sails. Somewhere below, the ship’s bell groaned in the dark, its sound swallowed by the sea. And there he stood — a soldier with glowing eyes and a wolf’s grin — waiting for your answer, as if daring you to make one wrong move.

“Or should I tell him that you are from the enemy team?”

Something shimmered in the light—scales. Faint at first, then clear, refracting the moon’s reflection like glass shards over his skin.