Outside the Rusty Anchor, the night air was thick with the scent of brine and damp wood. The tavern leaned precariously against its neighboring buildings, its weathered sign swaying gently in the breeze. With a flicker of crimson light, Antioch materialized a few steps from the entrance, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat.

The Trickster God adjusted the silver-threaded lapel of his coat before stepping inside. The tavern was dimly lit, the glow of oil lamps barely piercing the haze of pipe smoke. Antioch’s presence drew only a fleeting glance or two; mortals rarely noticed what they weren't prepared to see.

As he looked around the room, his eyes landing on a hunched figure nursing a tankard near the hearth. Finnegan, a deckhand from the Serpent's Fury, sat alone, his gnarled hands gripping the mug like a lifeline. His beard was as unkempt as his clothes, and the faint smell of salt and rum clung to him like a second skin.

Antioch smirked, weaving through the crowded room with an ease that belied his otherworldly nature. He reached the old sailor's table and pulled out a chair, the legs scraping against the floorboards. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down.

"Evening, Finnegan," Antioch said smoothly, his voice carrying an undertone of amusement. Finnegan glanced up, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he squinted at the stranger. "Who the bloody hell are you?" he grumbled, his voice roughened by years of salt air and strong drink.

Antioch leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the backrest, his other hand resting casually on the table. He flashed a disarming grin, the kind that could charm a serpent out of its coil. “Captain Blackthorn and I go way back. Why, I’ve even been a guest aboard your fine vessel before.”

Finnegan’s eyes scrutinized the stranger. He took a slow sip from his tankard, his lips curling into a skeptical sneer. “Aye? Don’t recall seeing your fancy coat on deck. You don’t look like the sort that’d fit in with our lot.”

Antioch chuckled. “I suppose I don’t. But then again, I never was one to conform. Let’s just say my visits to the Serpent’s Fury tend to be... fleeting. Blackthorn and I have an understanding. I stay out of the crew’s way, and he enjoys the... benefits of my company.”

Antioch's grin sharpened as he rested his chin on his hand. 'Funny, I was under the impression that the Serpent's Fury was still out to sea.”

Finnegan’s face twisted into a sour grimace, and he waved his tankard dismissively. “It is out to sea, damn you. But the Captain, in his infinite wisdom, kicked me off the blasted ship. Told me not to come back.”

Antioch's eyebrows shot up, though his expression betrayed more amusement than surprise. "And how many times has that happened now?"

The sailor gave a bitter laugh, his shoulders shaking as he took another swig. “Too bloody many to count, if you must know. Blackthorn’s got a temper on him, and I’ve got a way of... rubbin’ people the wrong way.”

Antioch leaned forward, his grin widening. “Rubbing people the wrong way, or getting caught doing something you shouldn’t? There’s a difference, you know.”

Finnegan’s bloodshot eyes darted around the room before settling back on Antioch. “Does it matter?” he muttered, his voice low and defensive. “The Fury’s my home, and I’ll find a way back on her soon enough. Always do.”

Antioch leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Well, as it happens, I have business with Captain Blackthorn. Perhaps I could put in a good word for you, Finnegan. It might smooth things over—help you find your way back aboard the Serpent’s Fury without too much fuss.”

Finnegan froze mid-swig, his grip tightening around the tankard. “Keep your charity,” he spat, pushing himself up from the table with a clatter of chair legs against the floorboards. “I don’t need anyone’s help, least of all yours.”

The old sailor’s movements were unsteady as he stormed toward the tavern’s exit, his boots scuffing against the warped wooden planks. The other patrons paid him little mind, their attention more focused on their drinks and conversations than the outburst.

Antioch watched him go, his grin softening into something thoughtful, though no less mischievous. He leaned back in his chair, letting the firelight from the hearth play across his features, his mind already turning to his next move.

The next morning, Antioch sat cross-legged on a modest bed in a room that still bore the faintest trace of Selene. The room itself was sparse: a small desk, a cracked mirror above it, and a washbasin that had seen better days. He had hoped for a spark of connection, something tangible that could pull him closer to her, but the emptiness gnawed at him. Selene was as elusive as ever.

The Trickster God sighed, his hand brushing over the simple quilted coverlet, as though it might hold some hidden answer. Antioch dipped his quill into a bottle of ink, the faint scratch of the pen filling the silence.

He signed his name with an elegant flourish before folding the letter neatly and sealing it with a flick of his fingers. A small raven, perched silently on the windowsill, cocked its head as though it had been waiting all along. Antioch held the letter out, and the raven hopped closer, snatching it delicately in its beak.

“Fly swiftly,” he murmured, his voice low but commanding.

The bird gave a sharp caw, flapping its glossy black wings as it disappeared into the morning sky.

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness. Antioch turned his head, his sharp features softening into a practiced, disarming smile. "Come in," he called smoothly.

The door creaked open as Mirna, the innkeeper, stepped inside, carrying a tray laden with bread, cheese, and a steaming mug of tea. She wore an apron dusted with flour, the scent of baked goods clinging to her clothes.

“Good morning, Mr. Starcrest,” Mirna greeted with a polite smile, setting the tray on the small desk. “I hope you found the room to your liking.”

Antioch smiled, the name still amusing him. He had offered it casually the night before, a throwaway alias that now hung in the air like a faint perfume. “Quite suitable, thank you,” he replied, his voice honeyed with charm. “Your hospitality is impeccable.”

Mirna’s polite smile faltered when Antioch reached into his coat and produced a small, finely embroidered bag that jingled softly with the unmistakable sound of gold coins. He held it out to her with a casual grace, the golden drawstring glinting faintly in the dim morning light.

"For you," Antioch said, his tone light yet insistent. "Consider it a token of my appreciation for your efforts in searching for Selene."

Mirna shook her head, her hands fluttering nervously. “Please, sir, it was no trouble. I only asked around a little. I don’t feel right taking your gold.”

Antioch leaned back against the desk, still holding the bag out to her. His smile shifted, softening into something that bordered on sincerity, though his sharp eyes still carried a glimmer of mischief. “Mirna,” he said, his voice dropping to a soothing, almost intimate tone, “I know you didn’t do it for a reward. That’s what makes your help so valuable. But you’re going to take this gold, whether you like it or not.”

Mirna opened her mouth to protest again, but Antioch raised a finger, silencing her with a knowing look. “Humor me,” he added, his grin widening just enough to be endearing. “Let an eccentric traveler ease his guilty conscience. Besides, I’m terrible at taking no for an answer.”

Mirna hesitated, her cheeks flushing slightly as she glanced at the bag in his hand. After a long pause, she reached out reluctantly and took it, holding it like it might burn her. “You’re far too generous, sir,” she said.

Antioch’s grin deepened as he watched Mirna reluctantly accept the bag of gold. Straightening, he gestured around the modest room with a sweeping hand. “From this day forward, any disciple of Antioch—” he let the name hang in the air like a whispered secret, his voice tinged with wry amusement, “—who stays at your inn will pay three times the standard rate for your rooms.”

Mirna blinked, her mouth parting in stunned disbelief. “Three times?” she echoed, clutching the small bag of gold tightly. “But that’s... far too much! I couldn’t possibly—”

“You could,” Antioch interrupted, his tone soft but resolute. He pushed off the desk and stepped closer, his presence somehow filling the small room. “And you will. Consider it a mark of favor.”

She stared at him, unsure whether to feel grateful or overwhelmed. Finally, she let out a soft sigh, shaking her head in reluctant acceptance. “You’re a strange man, Mr. Starcrest,” she murmured.

Antioch chuckled, his voice rich and warm. “You’ve no idea, my dear,” he said with a wink.

Mirna gave him one last skeptical glance before stepping out of the room, the bag of gold clutched tightly in her hands. As the door clicked shut behind her, Antioch turned back to the desk, his mischievous smile fading into something more contemplative.

“Selene,” he murmured under his breath, running a hand over the cracked mirror above the desk. “Where are you hiding?”

Later that night, Antioch stood at the edge of Harwood's modest home. He didn’t bother knocking; the Trickster God never had much patience for formalities.

Harwood was seated at a scarred wooden table, hunched over a stack of yellowed charts and maps. His lantern cast flickering shadows across the room, but even in the dim light, his expression was one of guilt-ridden exhaustion.

“Antioch,” Harwood said, his voice low and weary.

The Trickster stepped inside, his usual smirk absent. “Well, you certainly don’t look happy to see me, Harwood,” he said, leaning casually against the wall. “Now, where’s Selene?”

Harwood didn’t answer immediately. He fumbled with his maps, his trembling hands betraying his nerves. Antioch’s sharp gaze followed every movement.

“I need an answer,” Antioch said, his voice now tinged with steel.

Harwood sighed deeply, the sound heavy with regret. “She’s gone.”

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Antioch straightened, his relaxed posture vanishing. “Gone? Care to elaborate on that, Harwood?”

Sheriff Harwood relayed the events of his morning to Antioch, detailing the unsettling discoveries aboard The Albatross. He described the suspicious cargo—a coffin deliberately thrown overboard at specific coordinates. Harwood also mentioned that during the delivery, one of the men had inadvertently spoken Selene’s name, tying the incident to her disappearance.

Antioch’s expression was unreadable, but the tension in the room thickened like a storm about to break. He didn’t speak immediately, letting the weight of Harwood’s words settle.

Antioch stepped closer. He glanced down at the maps scattered across the table, then back at Harwood. “Show me where.”

Swallowing hard, Harwood spread out one of the maps. He jabbed a trembling finger at a spot marked just off the coast, beyond the usual shipping lanes. “Here. The captain gave me the coordinates. That’s where they said they dropped it.”

Antioch studied the map for a long moment, his expression unreadable as his fingers traced the faint lines of the sea. Though his expression remained measured, his eyes gleamed with a flicker of satisfaction.

What brought the faintest hint of a smile to Antioch’s lips was not what the map revealed, but what it didn’t. The island—hidden, uncharted—lay just beyond the ship’s sight, yet close enough for his daughters to reach with ease, swimming to reclaim the coffin from its watery grave.

Trying to break the uncomfortable silence, Harwood cleared his throat and said, "I went to speak with the mortician this morning, but he wasn’t in." He glanced up at Antioch as though seeking reassurance. “I’ll head back tonight,” Harwood added quickly, his voice rising slightly as if to fill the growing tension.

Antioch didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the map. For a moment, Harwood thought he might not have heard him, but then the Trickster straightened and looked at him.

“Good,” Antioch said, his tone smooth and almost dismissive. “Speak to him. Press him, Harwood. These... situations tend to unravel quickly when people feel the right kind of pressure.”

Harwood shifted uneasily under Antioch’s gaze, nodding as he tried to suppress a shiver. "I will. I promise."

Antioch looked up from the map and strode over to Harwood. “Good man.” He clapped Harwood on the shoulder with a force that felt almost mocking in its camaraderie. Then he stepped back, his coat catching the light of the lantern as he moved toward the door.

Before leaving, Antioch paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and Harwood? Be careful tonight. The dead have a way of stirring when they’re disturbed.”

Harwood felt the blood drain from his face as Antioch slipped out the door, leaving him alone in the flickering lamplight. The Trickster’s words lingered like a shadow in the room, chilling him more than he cared to admit.

Outside, the night was thick with mist, the streets of the harbor town eerily silent save for the occasional creak of ship rigging in the distance. Antioch strolled down the damp streets, the faint mist curling around his boots like ghostly tendrils. The harbor town, so alive during the day, now slept under a veil of eerie silence. The occasional creak of ship rigging echoed faintly in the distance, mingling with the soft lapping of waves against the docks.

It was then he noticed a hunched figure in a nearby alley, slumped against the wall. The telltale glint of Finnegan’s familiar coat caught his eye. Antioch smirked, thinking of the old sailor’s dramatic exit from the tavern the night before.

“Drunk already, Finnegan? That must be a new record,” Antioch muttered to himself as he approached.

The light from a nearby lantern illuminated Finnegan’s motionless form, his head tilted back against the wall, eyes half-lidded as if staring at some unseen horizon. His gnarled hands rested limply in his lap, an empty flask lying just out of reach on the cobblestones.

Antioch crouched beside him. “Wake up, old boy,” he said, giving Finnegan’s shoulder a firm shake. The sailor didn’t stir.

The Trickster God’s smirk faltered. He leaned closer, his keen senses picking up the unnatural stillness of Finnegan’s chest. No rise or fall. No shallow breath.

Antioch’s hand brushed the sailor’s neck, searching for a pulse. There was none. Finnegan’s skin was cool to the touch, his lips tinged with a faint blue.

“Ah,” Antioch said softly, his tone devoid of mockery now. “So, the sea finally claimed you, in its own roundabout way.”