Finnegan strode through the narrow passageway toward Captain Blackthorn's quarters, the clatter of his boots swallowed by the groaning timbers of the ship. His expression remained cold, calculated, though a flicker of amusement danced beneath his hardened facade.

When he reached the captain's door, he hesitated briefly, casting a glance back down the corridor to ensure he wasn’t being followed. Satisfied he was alone, he knocked once, hard, before pushing the door open without waiting for a response.

Inside, Captain Blackthorn was seated at a small wooden table, a map of the seas spread before him, illuminated by the soft glow of an oil lamp. His sharp eyes flicked up as Finnegan entered.

“You’re late,” Blackthorn said coolly. “punctuality matters when you’re sailing on my ship."

Finnegan chuckled, setting the tray of food down on the captain’s table with deliberate slowness. "Oh, spare me your lectures, Captain. Few mortals have the honor of having their food served by a god."

The air in the cabin thickened as Finnegan’s form began to shimmer and shift, the sailor’s grizzled face melting away like smoke in the wind. His body straightened, growing taller, more commanding. The rough-hewn features of Finnegan were replaced with the sharp, angular visage of Antioch—the Trickster God himself.

His hair was jet black, falling in tousled waves just past his shoulders. His blues eyes gleamed with a mischief that was both alluring and dangerous. His clothes, once simple and worn, were now an elegant blend of dark fabrics, rich with a texture that seemed to shimmer in the flickering lamplight.

"Much better, don’t you think?" Antioch purred, adjusting his cuffs with a casual grace that belied the power he held.

Blackthorn’s expression remained stoic, though there was a faint flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "I wouldn’t parade around in those fancy clothes outside this cabin," the captain said. "God or not, half the crew would stab you and toss you overboard just to get their hands on those pricey threads."

Antioch laughed. "It would be quite fun to see them try." He moved to the edge of the table, tapping the map with a slender finger.

Blackthorn’s gaze followed Antioch’s hand to the map, where a small, uncharted island lay circled in ink. "We’re getting close," he said, his voice a low growl. "I assume you’re ready to deal with what comes next?"

Antioch’s smile widened, a wicked gleam lighting up his features. "Oh, I’ve been ready for a long time, Captain. The real question is… are they?"

The captain leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression hard and unreadable.

"Are you talking about the Sirens," Blackthorn said slowly, his voice carrying a hint of suspicion, "or those two women you insisted on bringing aboard?"

Antioch’s smile remained, though there was a glint of something darker in his eyes now, a hint of amusement mixed with something far more dangerous. He tilted his head slightly, tapping his finger thoughtfully against his chin.

"Ah, the Sirens," Antioch mused, his tone light, almost whimsical. "Beautiful creatures, aren’t they? They do make a father proud." He trailed off, his eyes flicking toward the door, where the two women sat beyond. "Harahel and Gadriel—they are pivotal to what lies ahead. Their connection to the muses, their fractured pasts—it’s all coming to a head. And when it does..." He let the sentence hang, the implication clear.

Blackthorn’s gaze remained fixed on the Trickster God, but his mind was already racing. The Sirens were dangerous enough, but the idea that his passengers somehow even more critical to the unfolding events unsettled him, though he’d never show it.

"Will my crew and I survive what’s coming?" Blackthorn asked.

Antioch’s grin turned wicked. "Oh, I have no doubt you will survive and be richly rewarded for your efforts."

"And Harahel and Gadriel?" Blackthorn added.

"Oh, they will live," Antioch said. "The question is whether they’ll come out of it as the same women who boarded your ship."

The captain studied Antioch for a moment longer, his brow furrowed in thought. "And what about you, God of Tricks? What’s your role in all this?"

Antioch’s eyes glittered, and for the briefest moment, there was a flash of something deeper—something more ancient—beneath his playful exterior. "Oh, Captain," he said, leaning back with a chuckle, "I’m merely here to ensure the pieces fall into place. After all, every game needs its master."

Blackthorn’s fingers curled into a fist on the table, but he remained calm, his eyes fixed on the map between them. "Then I suggest you keep your tricks in check until we reach the island. I’ve no patience for games when my ship is at stake."

Antioch shrugged, his smile never faltering. "As you wish, Captain."

Blackthorn said nothing, but the air between them was thick with tension. Outside, the sea hissed against the hull, the waves rising in the darkness, as if echoing the storm brewing within the captain’s quarters.

Antioch turned to leave, but before stepping through the door, he paused, casting a final glance over his shoulder. "Oh, and Captain," he said, "You should eat your food before it gets cold."

With that, Antioch was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

Captain Blackthorn sat in the dimly lit cabin, the faint clatter of the ship’s movements filling the silence as he stared down at the untouched food Antioch had left behind. His fingers drummed against the worn wood of the table, his mind swirling with thoughts too tangled to settle.

He exhaled sharply, lifting his eyes to the carved image on the wall—a depiction of Oceanus, the god of the seas. The figure had always been a comfort to him, a reminder of the ocean’s depth, its mysteries, and the eternal balance that Oceanus maintained. The figure was calm, poised, holding a trident in one hand and the vastness of the waters in his gaze. To Blackthorn, Oceanus represented the predictability in the chaos of the sea—a kind of divine order that was dependable, much like the tides themselves.

But now, as he looked at the carving, a question gnawed at him, growing louder with each passing second.

"Why," he muttered aloud, "would Oceanus leave the seas in the hands of that mischief-loving snake?"

As Antioch stepped out of the captain’s quarters. His amusement flickered across his face as he ran his hand through his tousled black hair, feeling the familiar weight of the ship beneath his feet. The waves hummed softly against the hull, a lullaby that accompanied the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. Everything was progressing as planned—well, mostly.

Antioch slipped one hand into the folds of his cloak, fingers closing around the wooden charm nestled within. The token was warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. He rolled it between his fingers as he strolled down the corridor, his polished boots silent against the creaking boards.

As he began to make his way toward the deck, he caught sight of a figure moving under the moonlight. His sharp eyes locked onto Harahel, her silhouette unmistakable in the dim glow. She was walking along the deck, her movements graceful, yet burdened by thought.

Antioch cursed silently under his breath. He quickly tugged the collar of his shirt and concentrated, the familiar shimmer of transformation beginning to take hold once again. His features shifted back into the rugged form of Finnegan, just as Harahel glanced up and noticed him.

“Finnegan?” she called softly, her voice filled with curiosity. “Is that you?”

Antioch—now fully Finnegan—cleared his throat, adopting the gravelly tone of the old sailor. "Who else could it possibly be?" he said curtly.

Harahel tried to suppress the flicker of irritation that surged at Finnegan’s curt response, but her lips tightened slightly. She was used to dealing with difficult men, difficult gods even, but something about Finnegan’s rudeness felt personal, almost deliberate. She stepped closer, the cool night breeze tugging at her loose curls, her eyes narrowing as she studied him in the moonlight.

"Forgive me, Finnegan," she said, her voice calm but edged with subtle sharpness. "I forget that charm isn’t your strong suit."

Finnegan—or rather, Antioch behind the mask—let out a rough laugh, though his sharp eyes gleamed with amusement at her barely concealed irritation. "Charm’s for fools who have time for it," he replied, leaning casually against the ship's railing. "Out here, it’s survival that matters, lass."

Harahel’s gaze remained fixed on him, her mind whirling. Something felt off. There was always something unsettling about Finnegan, the way his presence seemed to linger too long in the shadows.

"Survival," she echoed, her tone softer as she moved closer. "Funny how survival seems to follow you, no matter where we are."

Antioch—still playing the part of Finnegan—raised a brow, intrigued by her words. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I bet you’re the type who always seems to be around when something's about to go wrong, and yet you’re never the one who ends up paying the price," Harahel said, her voice deceptively light, as if they were talking about nothing more than the weather.

Finnegan's eyes darkened, but the Trickster in him couldn't resist the bait. "You’re giving me too much credit," he said, smirking. "I’m just a man who knows when to duck."

Harahel tilted her head slightly, her annoyance melting into something colder, sharper. "Perhaps. Or maybe you’re a man who knows when to set others up to take the fall."

The air between them grew tense, the sound of the ship creaking beneath their feet the only noise cutting through the quiet night. For a moment, Antioch almost dropped the charade—his natural urge to reveal himself, to see how she would react, gnawed at him. But he kept the mask on, his grin widening as he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a gravelly whisper.

"Careful, lass. Suspicion can make you see things that aren’t really there."

Harahel’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight, the tension between them palpable. "Maybe."

With that, she turned on her heel, walking away before Finnegan—or Antioch—could say another word. She didn’t trust him, not for a second. But until she figured out what he was truly up to, she’d play along.

As Harahel disappeared into the shadows, Antioch allowed himself a moment of reflection. He wondered if she was onto his charade. He knew how furious she would be when she discovered the truth. But he liked that. It made the whole dance more thrilling.

He shook his head, pulling his coat tighter around him as he turned and made his way back toward the lower decks. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had hoped. The real game was only just beginning.

And he couldn’t wait to see how it played out.

The next morning, Harahel emerged from the cabin. The sharp salt air bit at her skin, but the fresh breeze did little to clear the weight in her chest. The sea was calm, a stark contrast to the tumultuous storm that still echoed in her mind. As she climbed the stairs to the deck, her gaze fell on Gadriel, who was already there, leaning against the rail and staring out at the endless blue.

Without turning to face her, Gadriel spoke, her voice laced with something between curiosity and certainty. "Which one was it this time?" she asked.

Harahel swallowed hard. The memory of the dream still clung to her, the feel of Aglaope’s hand around her finger, the sound of her cry, the accusation in her eyes as she disappeared into the storm. She stepped closer, gripping the wooden railing of the ship as if it could anchor her in reality.

"Aglaope," Harahel said quietly. Her voice was steady, but the name carried a weight that made it feel like a confession.

At this, Gadriel finally turned her head to look at her. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Ah," she said simply, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Of course."

From far away, Harahel began to hear a faint voice singing—a melody that carried on the wind like a distant lullaby. At first, she dismissed it, thinking it was just her imagination, a cruel trick her mind played in the wake of the dream. But as the song grew clearer, the notes more familiar, her heart tightened. The voice was unmistakable. It was Aglaope.

Harahel gripped the railing tighter, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to believe it was just the lingering remnants of her dream, but when she glanced sideways at Gadriel, she saw her looking up sharply, her expression unreadable but tense. Gadriel had heard it too.

"Do you hear that?" Harahel whispered, her voice taut with urgency.

Gadriel’s eyes narrowed, her head tilting slightly as she listened to the wind. After a long pause, she gave a slight nod. "I do," she said quietly.

Harahel staggered as the ship suddenly lurched, its bow veering sharply to the right. She rushed to the deck railing, her eyes scanning the horizon before locking onto the helmsman. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, but his eyes were glazed over, unfocused, as though he were no longer present in his own body. The melody was curling around him like invisible tendrils.

Not far from him, another crewman stood motionless, a rope slack in his hands. His expression was serene, too serene, betraying the enchantment that had taken hold. All around her, more sailors were falling into the same trance-like state, their bodies swaying to the rhythm of an unseen force, faces lost in dreamlike reverie.

Harahel's pulse quickened as she realized that they had been enthralled by the Sirens' call.