The sea was calm tonight — too calm, the kind of stillness that made old sailors grip their charms and whisper prayers. The Siren's Bane cut through the black water like a blade, her sails heavy with salt and silence.

Most of the crew was below deck. Only the night watch remained above, eyes trained on the horizon, ears pricked for the sound they feared most. The sound that had turned better men than them into corpses bobbing face-down in the waves.

And then — it came.

Not a song. Not the honeyed, gut-pulling melody that dragged grown men weeping over the rails. This was different. A sound like grief itself given voice. Raw. Mournful. It rolled over the water and slipped into every cracked board and aching bone on the ship.

She'd heard a hundred siren calls. She'd seen what they did to her men. She'd killed more of those beautiful monsters than any captain alive. But never this. Never a call that felt like heartbreak instead of hunger.

The call rose again — higher, softer, like it was about to break. It curled into Ravenna's chest and made something behind her ribs ache.

She wasn't luring. She was mourning. And that was impossible.