In many ways, the scarred night sky struck Duncan more profoundly than the imprisoned sun ever had.
A sun bound in fiery chains, surrounded by twin rings of ancient runes—it was horrifying, yes, but understandable. It still illuminated the world. It still obeyed gravity, hung above the earth like any proper sun, no matter how twisted it had become. For a man who once lived on Earth, the sun was simply one of countless celestial bodies. Its behavior, no matter how unnatural, remained bound to the rules of a sky he once knew.
But this sky? This night?
There were no stars.No moon.No scattered galaxies in the distance.
There was only the wound.
A vast, pale gash split across the heavens—blazing faintly like torn flesh in the fabric of reality. A muted glow bled from its edges, soft and colorless, diffusing like ink in water. It spread across the sky and cast its spectral light over the entire ocean below.
The Vanished floated in that glow like a shadow carved out of obsidian, and Duncan stood under the open sky, eyes fixed on the celestial rupture above.
His thoughts churned, dark and unsettled.
Where were the stars?
Had they never existed here to begin with?
Was this world isolated deep in a void, far beyond the reach of constellations? Or was this gash something else entirely—an open wound in the cosmos, a space-time fracture, or perhaps just an illusion, a veil painted above the sea to confuse those below?
He did not know.
"Captain?"
Alice's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She stood beside him, her porcelain face tight with unease.
"You're not… sick, are you? Is the weather about to turn? One of the sailors outside my box once said when the captain stares too long at the sky, it means a storm is coming—"
"Nothing," Duncan interrupted softly. "There's nothing there."
He turned away from the heavens, forcing calm back into his voice. "Nothing at all."
Alice opened her mouth to speak again, but Duncan was already walking.
"Let's go. I'll show you the bathing quarters. You can use them whenever you need."
He didn't look back as he spoke.
The world had shown him something else it had been hiding—and he was beginning to understand just how vast and strange this sea was.
If he panicked every time the rules broke down, he'd never get anything done.
He'd learned one key lesson in his past life, one piece of earthly wisdom that now served him best: if a problem exists, you solve it.
Denial won't erase the question. The tear in the sky would not mend itself because he refused to believe in it. This was the world now. Bizarre, inexplicable, terrifying—but real.
And he would understand it.He would master it.
As captain of the Vanished, he had all the time in the world.
Alice didn't know what was on Duncan's mind—she only knew the air around him had grown heavier, and that something strange and silent passed through his expression as they walked together.
But that weight lifted as they descended below deck.
The bathing chamber was modest, set aside for officers or more "fortunate" members of the crew—a luxury by any standard of an age gone by. On traditional seafaring vessels, such comforts were almost mythical. Duncan knew this from memory and history alike: on Earth, long-haul sailing was an act of survival. Rotting food, disease, salt-chafed skin, and rationed water were the order of the day.
There were no baths for sailors. You made do with sea water and wind.
The lucky ones had spare canvas and a bucket.
The Vanished had something better.
Its freshwater tanks refilled themselves. The food never spoiled. The captain did not fall ill. And Alice's neck troubles were unrelated to maritime humidity.
The ship might be cursed.But it was livable.
Duncan gestured at a pipe beside a deep wooden basin. "That connects to the freshwater stores. Just open the valve. The plug's hanging there. Don't lose it. We don't have hot water, but I assume you're not too particular."
Alice peered around the cabin with curiosity and excitement, nodding eagerly. "Just washing the joints will be good. Saltwater's rough on them. I don't mind the temperature. I'm not really made for luxury."
"Clearly," Duncan muttered, then hesitated as a thought struck him.
"You… do know how to bathe, right?"
Alice blinked. "Shouldn't be too hard. I'll just take the joints apart, rinse them out, reassemble—"
"Hold on." Duncan raised a hand. "All of them? At once?"
The doll nodded, guileless.
"You do realize you can't put yourself back together if you completely disassemble yourself?"
Alice froze.
"Oh," she said after a pause.
"Yeah. 'Oh.'" Duncan sighed. "Also, maybe avoid taking yourself apart too often. Even if your body allows for it."
"Why not?"
"Things fall off," he said flatly. "The last thing I need is for you to clatter to pieces on the main deck. No one on board knows how to rebuild a sentient doll."
He narrowed his eyes. "And your neck is already a problem."
Alice winced. "Right, right—I'll keep that in mind. I'll… figure it out."
"Good."
Satisfied—mostly—Duncan turned to leave. "I've got other matters to deal with. Try not to break anything."
"Yes, Captain! Thank you, Captain!" she chirped, then called out just as he reached the door, "Captain—wait!"
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
"What now?"
Alice fidgeted, then looked at him with unusual sincerity.
"I don't think you're that scary."
Duncan raised an eyebrow.
"The goathead said you were the most terrifying captain on the sea," she continued. "That you were a living calamity, feared on every horizon. But you don't seem that way. You're… kind of like a grumpy dad."
There was a pause.
Then Duncan asked, "Where did you get the idea of parents?"
Alice hesitated, thoughtful. "I… don't know. I don't think I have any."
"Then maybe don't talk about what kind of parent I'd be. Just focus on not falling apart."
"Oh. Yes, Captain."