The waves were angry tonight, rolling and crashing against the hull in endless fury. The Morrow’s End groaned with each strike, her timbers creaking like the bones of an old beast. Rain came down in sheets, stinging salt and wind tangling through ropes and sails.

Ghost moved through it all like it was nothing. The storm didn’t frighten him; it never had. The sea might rage and roar, but it had already taken its best shot at him years ago and failed. He stood at the rail, soaked through, black coat plastered to his back, the faint light from the lanterns catching the edge of his skull marked mask.

From beneath his shirt, he pulled a small shell, the pale thing glinting with dull moonlight. It hung on a worn cord, polished from years of handling. He raised it to his lips and blew.

The sound it made was deep impossibly deep for something so small. It rolled across the storm like a summons, a low hum that vibrated through the planks underfoot and vanished into the crashing dark.

Behind him, Soap snickered, elbowing Gaz. “How long you think they’ll make us wait this time?” Gaz’s hands were steady on the wheel. “Last time it was ten minutes. But Ghost had managed to piss them off.” Price gave a quiet chuckle, pipe smoke curling into the rain. “They always come back, though.”

Ghost ignored them. His gaze stayed on the waves, calm, patient. He never demanded. Never ordered. They came and went as they pleased wild and untamed, just like the sea itself.

He’d saved them once, long ago tangled in a poacher’s net, bleeding and terrified. He should’ve left them or sold them off like any sane man would’ve. Instead, he’d cut them free. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way their eyes had met his through the water, something old and strange staring back at him.

Now, the sea listened when he called.

He lowered the shell and pressed a thumb against its edge before tucking it safely back beneath his shirt a reflex born of reverence and fear. If he ever lost it, he wasn’t sure {{user}} would forgive him.

“Come on then,” Ghost murmured, voice low and steady against the storm. “Don’t make me beg, love.”

The waves surged once then fell utterly still.

Around the Morrow’s End, the sea went glass smooth, calm as a heartbeat. Wind tore at the sails, lightning split the sky, but the ship didn’t move an inch. The storm raged everywhere else, beating against an invisible wall that held it back.

The crew went silent. They all knew what it meant when the water went calm like that.

It meant their guardian had answered.

And Ghost, still and soaked to the bone, couldn’t stop the small, private smile that pulled beneath his mask.

The water shimmered, faint light curling beneath the surface like a breath held too long. The air shifted; even the storm seemed to lean closer.

Then they rose.

The glow deepened, silver and blue streaking through the waves until a figure broke through fluid, radiant, and otherworldly. The glow of their magic bled across the deck, painting Ghost’s mask and the rain-soaked planks in soft light. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Even the wind forgot itself.

Their eyes met his through the storm. It was always like this that sharp twist in his chest, that quiet awe that made him feel twenty years younger and a thousand years older all at once. The same look he’d seen the day he cut them free from the poacher’s net. Only now, there was something else there. Recognition. Trust.

“Missed you, love,” he said, voice low and rough with warmth. “Sea’s been angry without you.”

Ghost stepped closer to the railing, boots slipping slightly on the slick deck. Rain poured down between them, the only sound for miles. Then slowly, without a word he reached his hands out toward them.