Icarus had learned how to fish.
He didn't particularly like fishing—or fish—
but at least he knew how to do it.
He sat on Agatha's boat, rod in hand, the sun beating down on the back of his neck.
Waiting.
For something.
Anything.
Sigh.
How wonderful.
He glanced up at Agatha.
She, on the other hand, was thriving.
In the span of eleven minutes, she had already caught twelve fish—and was lowering her line again like it was nothing.
Is that even possible?
Icarus looked back at his own unmoving line and scowled.
Then his gaze drifted outward.
To the horizon.
To the place where the sea met the sky—
a clean, endless line where two worlds touched.
He paused.
What is that?
A shape.
Far in the distance.
A ship.
It cut through the water slowly, steadily, growing larger with every passing second.
Icarus narrowed his eyes.
That… didn't look like a fishing boat.
He had seen fishing boats.
They were small.
Wooden.
Harmless.
This—
was not.
As it drew closer, details emerged.
Black.
The ship was made of some kind of dark metal, swallowing the sunlight instead of reflecting it.
A white flag snapped sharply in the wind.
Marked with a black symbol.
Icarus' breath hitched.
Crossed swords.
Morvane.
They had come for war.
Icarus froze.
Memories surged.
Uninvited.
Unrelenting.
A kingdom rotting from within.
Bodies turning to mould.
His mother—
gone.
His father—
dead.
Altheis—
blood staining the sea red.
No…
No. No. No.
He lurched forward and grabbed Agatha's arm, shaking her.
"Look—look at that ship!"
He pointed, his hand trembling.
Agatha squinted, raising a hand to shield her eyes.
"I see it."
Panic clawed at his chest.
"Doesn't it look like a battleship?"
Agatha glanced at him.
"I've never seen one before."
Icarus turned back.
The ship was closer now.
Too close.
"They're coming."