(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man leaned forward, the firelight carving deep shadows into his weathered face. "The sea is a liar. It promises freedom, but it delivers only isolation. We sailed for the Weeping Grove with a fleet of Norse longships and a cargo of fragile allegiances. Every wave was a test; every silence, a threat."
He turned a page in Gerald's journal. The sketch showed a dozen ships under a bruised sky, their dragon prows cutting through white-capped water. Below the hulls, a darker shape coiled; a serpent with its tail in its mouth.
"Gerald called this 'The Serpent's Wake.' He did not know how prophetic that title would become."
— Memory —
The sea was not kind to them. It was a grey, churning expanse that seemed to swallow the horizon. The Norse ships, sleek and hungry, cut through the waves with a predator's grace, but the atmosphere aboard the flagship was anything but smooth.
Aurelio stood at the prow, the salt spray stinging his face. Behind him, the deck was a study in tension. The Danes, under Rurik's brooding command, kept to the port side; the Norwegians, under Gunnar's calculating gaze, held the starboard. Between them, Gerald moved like a man walking a tightrope.
"You are thinking too loud," Liam said, appearing at Aurelio's shoulder. The swordsman's voice was calm, but his eyes never stopped scanning the horizon.
"I am thinking we are sailing into a trap," Aurelio replied, his voice low. "The Cabal knows we are coming. They want us at the Grove."
"Then we disappoint them by arriving alive."
Gerald approached, his face set in a mask of forced confidence. "The captains grow restless. Rurik wants blood before we land; Gunnar wants to circle the coast for a better position. They are like two roosters in a pit, and I am the only fence between them."
"Then stop being a fence," Aurelio said, turning to face him. "Be a wall. They swore to follow you; now make them."
Gerald's jaw tightened. "You make it sound simple."
"It is not simple. It is war." Aurelio placed a hand on the Viking's shoulder. "But you are not the boy who charged me at the Crow's Nest anymore. You are their Skald King. Act like it."
A moment passed; a silent understanding. Then Gerald gave a curt nod and strode back to the center of the deck.
"You are learning to lead," Liam observed.
"I am learning to survive," Aurelio corrected.
Below deck, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, brine, and fear. Riccio sat sharpening his arrows, his young face pale. Beside him, Benito stared at nothing, his mind still trapped in the Cathedral's horror.
"We are going to die," Benito whispered. "All of us. The Grove will be our grave."
"Then we die standing," Riccio said, though his voice wavered. "Better than kneeling."
From the shadows, a new voice spoke; smooth, educated, and distinctly French. A figure emerged, a man they had picked up from a wrecked fishing boat two days prior. He called himself Philippe, a merchant fleeing the Cabal's reach. His clothes were torn, but his bearing was noble.
"Your pessimism is charming, my friend," Philippe said, adjusting a frayed cuff. "But the dead do not write histories. The living do. So let us endeavor to remain among the latter, yes?"
"And why should we trust you?" Benito spat.
Philippe placed a hand over his heart. "Because I have nowhere else to go, and you have the only ships heading away from the madness. Self interest is the purest form of honesty."
Aurelio descended the ladder, his eyes on the newcomer. "You speak of self interest. What do you want?"
"To see the Cabal burn," Philippe replied, his French accent curling around each word like smoke. "They killed my brother. They took my home. I have information; maps, supply routes, the location of their secondary vaults. In exchange, I ask only for a blade when the time comes."
Aurelio studied him. The man's eyes held a grief that mirrored his own.
"Then earn your blade," Aurelio said. "Show us what you know."
That night, as the fleet sailed under a moonless sky, a cry went up from the lookout.
"Ship! Dead ahead! No flags!"
The vessel was a dark silhouette, larger than the Norse longships, its sails furled. It drifted, lifeless.
"A ghost ship," one of the Norsemen muttered, crossing his fingers in an old sign.
"Or a trap," Gunnar growled, his hand on his axe.
Gerald held up a fist. "Hold. We do not engage. We go around."
But as they began to turn, the dead ship's hull groaned, and from its shadowed decks, figures emerged. They moved with that same jerky, unnatural grace; the Echo Walkers.
"The Cabal found us," Rurik snarled, drawing his blade.
"No," Aurelio said, his pre-cognitive gift screaming. "They were waiting."
The first volley of arrows arced through the darkness; not at the men, but at the water between the ships. The arrows burst into greenish flame on contact, creating a ring of eerie fire that cut off their escape.
From the ghost ship's prow, a figure stepped into the light. It was not the Ashen Shade. It was a man in cardinal's red, his smile as cold as the deep water.
Cardinal Vittorio Moretti.
"Did you think the Serpent would let its prey swim free?" he called out, his voice carrying over the waves. "The Grove awaits, little hounds. But first; a test of faith."
The Echo Walkers leaped, not into the water, but across it; their feet skimming the surface as if the sea itself obeyed them.
The battle for the fleet had begun.
— Present —
Aurelio drained his cup, the firelight reflecting in his old, tired eyes.
"We lost good men that night," he said. "And we learned a harder truth: the Cabal was not just waiting for us. They were herding us. Every step we took toward the Grove was a step into their snare. But we had no choice. The Grove was the only battlefield that mattered."
He looked at the Scholar.
"And so we sailed on. Into the serpent's wake."