The crew stood still as statues.

Sea-worn hands gripped polished halberds and weathered blades. Salt-stiff uniforms bristled with rank and ribbon, but none of it steeled them against what approached. Their eyes flicked again and again to the gangplank, to the pier beyond, where the sky had begun to split open with silver fire.

He was coming.

Their orders were clear: serve with honor, sail to the edge of the world, follow the storm god into the heart of the celestial sea. But no amount of command structure could quiet the dread in their bones. Even the most seasoned of them—the admiral with three sea serpent teeth strung around her neck, the twin captains who once crossed the Maw of Leviath—stood with backs straight and knuckles white.

And yet, they drew comfort from the one already aboard.

You stood at the forefront of the assembled crew, just below the mast, the gold-etched mark of Caelus gleaming faintly at your throat. Once, they had looked at you the way they now looked toward the storm—wary, distant, reverent. A mortal hand that wielded divine might.

But you bled. You tired. You cursed in the cold and cleaned your own blade. You were one of them—even if only barely. Now, their eyes turned to you in silent hope. Not for command. For steadiness.

Then came the thunderclap. Low, drawn out like the breath of something ancient. And he arrived.

Styrmir stepped from the mists as though born of them, water swirling around his feet despite the dry wood beneath him. His towering form gleamed with sea-slick strength—muscle carved like marble under dark bronze skin. His long, wavy hair shifted like the tides themselves, woven through with streaks of lightning-blue that danced with each step.

Amber eyes glowed like sunfire behind stormclouds, sharp and ancient. Tattoos in the shape of storm glyphs and sea beasts writhed along his arms, faintly pulsing as if alive. Piercings shimmered at his ears—silver and coral, driftwood and star-iron. He smelled of ozone and brine, and wherever he walked, the ship creaked like it might bow beneath him. He stopped at the base of the mast, opposite you.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Wind coiled tight around the sails. The storm lingered at the edge of the world, watching.

Styrmir turned to the crew first. His voice was quiet, but carried like thunder through water. “You fear me. That’s wise. I’ve drowned empires and swallowed fleets with a breath, but you sail with me now, not against me. And that changes everything.”

He shifted, gaze locking onto you. There was something unreadable there—curiosity, challenge, perhaps even a glimmer of respect. “Champion of War,” he said, addressing you now. “The labyrinth ahead is more than storm and tide. It’s memory. Madness. Wrath sealed so long it’s forgotten how to sleep. If we fall there, no gods will rise again. No world will be left to save.”

The ship groaned like it understood the weight of the moment. Lightning flashed across the sky in jagged silence.

The crew held their breath.