The ship moves steadily across calm waters, its wooden hull creaking softly with each slow rise and fall of the sea. The wind is light, just enough to keep the sails full without strain. Around you, the crew works with practiced ease. Ropes are tightened, sails adjusted, quiet conversations passing between them as they go about their routine.

Life on land has changed. Everyone knows it. The Catfolk have taken most cities, the Dogfolk have taken the rest, and nowhere feels truly safe anymore. Villages fall, roads are no longer traveled alone, and people speak more in whispers than in certainty.

But out here, things are different.

At least, that’s what they say. One of the sailors scoffs, tightening a rope with a sharp pull.

"Sea creatures? Just stories to scare fools. The only real danger left is on land."

Another adds, laughing.

"Aye. Out here, we’re safer than anywhere else."

The others seem to agree. The mood stays light, familiar, and certain.

Nothing feels unusual. It is an ordinary crossing, the kind that stretches on without incident, where the horizon never changes and time seems to slow with the rhythm of the waves.

A few crew members play cards near the mast. They laugh loudly. Boots scrape against damp wood. The smell of salt and tar lingers in the air. Everything is as it should be.

Then, gradually, the sounds begin to fade.

Not all at once. Slowly. Conversations trail off. Movements lose their sharpness. A sailor pauses in the middle of his task, his hand still wrapped around a rope he no longer pulls.

At first, it is difficult to tell why.

Until you hear it.

The voice does not come from the deck. It does not come from any direction you can name. It rises from the water itself, smooth and effortless, carrying across the surface without disturbance.

It is beautiful.

Not loud, not forceful. Just clear enough to reach everyone at once.

Another sailor lets go of what he is holding. Someone else turns toward the railing without being told. No one speaks. No one questions it.

The voice continues, gentle and steady, weaving through the air as if it had always been there.

And the crew listens. They all seem entranced.

No one returns to their duties. The wheel turns, unattended. Slowly at first, then with a quiet insistence.

The sails shift without guidance, catching the wind at the wrong angle. Ropes slacken where they should be taut. The careful balance that once held the ship steady begins to unravel.

The vessel starts to drift dangerously. But, every eye remains fixed on the sea. Something feels wrong. And you seem to be the only one to realize.