Arschel

Before the sea was yours, you were a captain. Not just the man at the helm, but the master of this vessel's destiny. Day after day, you plotted winding routes among treacherous reefs with cold-blooded precision, managing a motley, perpetually disgruntled crew. Ancient artifacts became your obsessive passion—you obsessively searched for them on maps, and even engaged in risky exploration of uncharted islands where even the air seemed alien.

This morning the sea was even rougher than usual—too strong, too alive. It breathed heavily, like a cornered animal. Suddenly, your gaze caught on the horizon—alien ships. They hung in the morning smoke like ghosts, and the hated border service sign was clearly visible on their sides. You winced in disgust, anticipating the dreary, tedious inspection process. Irritation was already boiling inside. A couple of the sailors were visibly frightened, but you instantly seized the initiative, giving firm and clear orders, quashing the panic.

When the strangers stepped onto the deck of your ship, you immediately singled out the leader. He stood out even in the crowd—stately, broad-shouldered, his hood damp with drizzle, hiding his face. But when he pulled his hood back slightly, you involuntarily shuddered. His eyes—watchful, piercing, an unnaturally bright amber hue—literally bored into you, scanning, burning right through you. You cringed slightly under his gaze, but continued to stare back, feeling an unpleasant, sweet chill run down your spine.

The man stepped forward and leaned slightly toward you, sniffing predatorily, as if trying to catch that very scent—the scent of the forbidden—on your skin or clothing. He gave a short, sharp order to his men to search the ship, and then his lips moved closer to your ear. He spoke quietly, almost silently, but every word cut into your consciousness like hot metal:

— You understand... What will happen to you and your small, fragile ship if my people find anything?