Chapter Six: Blaze in Bloom

At this moment, the composure that the boy and girl once displayed had vanished completely. Anyone could see that they had been thoroughly frightened. Curious onlookers watched from nearby, and even a familiar restaurant waiter approached to inquire about their condition. But the two of them huddled in the corner by the door, faces pale, hands clamped over their ears, giving incoherent answers.

“The sound, the sound is terrifying!”

“I’m scared! It’s coming again, so close, so close!”

A waiter from a nearby restaurant, bewildered by the scene, crouched down and touched the boy’s forehead. He felt only a slick of cold sweat, but no fever.

“What sound? Are you two feeling unwell?” Unlike the curious onlookers, this waiter actually cared about the boy and girl—a rare genuine concern among the crowd. He was about to say more when a voice, cutting through the general murmur, called out from the edge of the gathering.

“Is it singing that you hear?” The voice belonged to Mullan, who was approaching. He had quietly apologized to those he passed and now stood before the frightened pair, handing the waiter a banknote bearing the king’s portrait.

“Please settle my bill. That’s for my meal.”

“Ah, yes, sir.” The waiter took the note automatically, and Mullan was already crouched in front of the boy and girl, meeting their panicked gaze as he asked again,

“Is it without words? Just a kind of humming?”

Their pupils widened, attention finally drawn to Mullan, their voices agitated.

“You heard it too? You heard it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, it’s singing!”

Mullan nodded. “A beautiful melody, but with a chilling undertone. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Though Mullan addressed the boy and girl, his voice was not so soft as to escape the ears of the crowd. Those standing near heard everything.

“Singing? Where is there singing?”

“I don’t hear anything.” “Nor do I.”

People muttered among themselves, some cocking their heads to listen. After all, the earlier ramblings of the children might be dismissed, but coming from someone like Mullan, the claim carried a different weight. Yet, clearly, except for the usual bustle of the restaurant and the storm and waves outside, no one heard anything else.

One passenger, after a while, spoke up hesitantly, as if struck by a memory. “No, I don’t hear any singing, but it does remind me of a certain rumor.”

Mullan, who had been quietly questioning the boy and girl—who only shook their heads in distress—immediately turned to the speaker.

“What rumor? Please, tell us.”

The passenger glanced at the storm raging beyond the porthole before speaking. “Half a year ago, the Higgins was lost in a storm. It was meant for Maryport, but when it reappeared, it had veered far off course toward the Glen Peninsula. Almost half the crew and passengers were missing. Officially, it was blamed on the storm, but some survivors claimed in the newspapers that they heard haunting melodies in the midst of the tempest…”

He hadn’t finished when a burly man in a deerstalker hat interjected, “Are you suggesting it was a sea siren?”

“That’s what the newspaper reported, not me. But honestly, it’s hard not to think of that, especially at sea in this kind of weather.”

It was like telling ghost stories in the dead of night, the atmosphere thick with unease.

Some of the passengers listening nearby felt a chill creep over them, while even the din of the restaurant seemed to subside in reaction. Those closest rubbed their hands uneasily, and those further away, noticing the sudden hush, stopped speaking to watch. Gradually, the entire restaurant fell silent.

Of course, while most felt a prickle of fear, a few of the younger passengers were more intrigued than frightened. After all, though tales of sea sirens were grim, legends claimed they were unearthly beautiful.

“Sea sirens?”

Mullan seemed unaffected by this, likely having paid little heed to such stories before. But now, a sudden realization dawned on him. He removed the coat from his shoulders and laid it across his knees, then fished a circular metal object from his inner pocket, resembling a pocket watch. He pressed a button, causing the cover to spring open.

It was a compass—an officer’s standard issue in the Dierga army, used for navigation during wartime.

At that moment, the compass needle pointed directly toward the bar, which was aligned with the ship’s bow.

Anyone who understood compasses and navigation felt their scalp tingle.

“Our ship has veered off course. We should be heading northeast along the Bodhiar Bay!”

“When did this happen?” “Where are we headed now?”

“I don’t know. It’s going due north!”

“What’s ahead? What’s to the north?”

Panic spread among the passengers. The singing seemed to echo their fear, another clear humming drifted to Mullan’s ears.

He drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Thanks to battle-hardened training, he remained far calmer than the others, able to suppress the interference of fear.

His instincts screamed that this was an extraordinary event, and one that could threaten their safety.

As he finished exhaling, Mullan slipped the sling from his neck and tossed it aside, flexed his bandaged left hand, then stood, shrugging on his coat.

“I’m going to the bridge. Who’s coming with me?”

At first, the others only exchanged uneasy glances. It was a moment before anyone answered.

“I’ll go with you.”

“So will I!” “Count me in!”

One was a young man in a sweater and suspenders, another a man in a knit cap, and the third was the burly gentleman in the deerstalker.

“Who knows the way to the bridge?”

“I do.” “We’ll come too!”

The boy and girl, now shaken fully conscious, both spoke up. Mullan didn’t hesitate. He seized them, one under each arm, and turned to the rest.

“Anyone who wants to come, follow me. The rest of you, stay together and don’t wander. Who knows the bridge?”

Those who had volunteered hurried to keep up. The bearded gentleman snatched up his silver-capped cane from his table and hurried after them.

If the threat was real, they were in grave danger. Even if not, the ship was undeniably off course; it was only right to confirm matters at the bridge.

With the boy and girl in tow, Mullan led the way down the corridor, the rest close behind—eight or nine in all. Some parts of the ship were quiet, others still alive with music and voices from the lounges.

They made no effort to inform everyone they passed, telling only those they encountered in the corridors about the ship’s deviation. By the time they reached the upper decks, their party had grown to over a dozen.

The bridge was just ahead.

The bridge of the Princess Nysheliel was located high on the navigation deck. Here, the howling storm was ever more pronounced, but within the corridor leading to the bridge, there was a heavy silence.

Everyone, including Mullan, felt a knot of tension. Mullan braced himself and reached for the door handle, but before he could, the bearded gentleman offered him his cane.

“Sir, you’re an officer, aren’t you? Take this. There’s a silver stiletto hidden inside—just twist the handle.”

Mullan gave him a glance and accepted the cane without protest, gripping it in his left hand as his right twisted the handle and opened the door.

They peered inside. The room was quiet, lit dimly by a kerosene lamp, with only flashes of lightning illuminating the space. The bridge appeared empty, save for a single helmsman gripping the wheel.

As Mullan stepped forward, a flash of lightning cast a long shadow across the doorway to his left. Instantly, a warning surged through him.

Someone was lurking by the door!

A shadow darted out, but Mullan was quicker. Before his assailant could even raise a hand, Mullan’s boot landed hard, sending the man airborne and crashing into the controls with a heavy thud.

The moment the attacker hit the controls, drawing everyone’s attention, Mullan surged into the bridge, catching the attacker’s dropped pistol.

With only a split-second glance, his battlefield instincts took over. He raised the gun and fired at the shadow lurking on the far side of the door.

Bang. Bang. Bang—

Three shots rang out, louder than thunder, sending the crowd outside crouching for cover. Inside, Mullan dropped low, scanning his surroundings and keeping an eye on the man he’d kicked, who now lay clutching his stomach in agony.

Adrenaline surged through Mullan. As a seasoned officer, confident in his marksmanship, he had no doubt about those three bullets.

Yet, on the wall where he’d fired, only three bullet holes marked the surface. There had been nothing but a shadow. No one?

No, impossible. I couldn’t have been mistaken!

A haunting melody rose again. Mullan’s hair stood on end as he turned toward the source. Outside the bridge’s glass, a female figure pressed against the window, fixing her gaze on him.

She was wreathed in mist, her body blurred by rain—yet even so, it was clear she was utterly naked, her face and form breathtakingly lovely.

If only there weren’t five gaping wounds bleeding steadily down her body…

The blood seeped out, webbing across the glass and staining it crimson.

She parted her lips and sang a lilting, beautiful melody, echoed by the sea itself.

A sea siren?

Mullan’s pupils dilated, then shrank to pinpoints. The woman stretched a hand toward him in a gesture so intense it felt as though she would seize him at any moment. In a flash, he leapt backward, discarding the pistol and drawing his service revolver.

A wave of searing heat—iron and blood—coursed through him.

I grant you, death!

Bang—

As the shot rang out, a blossom of fire erupted.