The Tidemass Rite

The deck tilts under shifting weight as they gather, boots thudding against wet wood, ropes still creaking from whatever was dragged aboard. No one asks what it is. The thing lies covered near the mast, breathing slow beneath the sailcloth, as if the sea itself is still deciding whether to take it back.

The captain stands at the centre, salt stiff in his coat, the bronze cross hanging low against his chest. The skull catches the moonlight first. He grips it once, hard, then lifts his head.
“On your knees,” he says, not loud, but no one misses it.
They drop where they stand. Even the newest of them, hands still shaking, follows suit. The blue stones on either side of the cross gleam like something watching back.

A wave slaps hard against the hull. The covered shape shifts. Someone swears under their breath.

“Too late for that,” another mutters.

The captain ignores them. His thumb presses into the skull’s hollow eye as he speaks, words low and steady, something older than any prayer they were raised with. The sea answers in its own way — a pull beneath the ship, a weight in the air, the sense of something listening from below.

When he’s done, he nods once toward the bundle by the mast. Two of the crew step forward without needing to be told.