The Crown's Secret

The salt-crusted lantern in Captain Silas’s cabin swung with the ship’s gentle roll, casting long, wavering shadows across the warped oak table. Barnaby sat opposite the spectral captain, his fingers pressed flat against the wood as if he could anchor himself to something solid. The air was thick with the smell of brine and decay, a reminder that this ship belonged to the dead.

Silas leaned forward, his skeletal hands folded before him. The tattered remains of his coat hung from his shoulders like funeral shrouds, and his eyes—two points of pale light in the hollow sockets—held a weight that pressed against Barnaby’s chest.

“You want to know the truth of the Crown,” Silas said, his voice a low rasp that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the ship itself.