The insistent thudding on his cabin door tore Cadoc from a fitful sleep. It wasn’t a polite knock, but a frantic assault of fist and palm, desperate and raw. He dragged himself from the cot, the chill of the unheated room clinging to his bare arms. Moonlight, fractured by the Vesswater mist, silvered the windowpanes. He knew that sound. It was the sound of a life just broken, rattling against his own. He knew the Vess had claimed another. He pulled on his thick wool tunic, the rough fabric scratching against his skin, a minor discomfort compared to the gnawing dread already settling in his gut. The pounding intensified, punctuated by a thin, reedy cry he recognized as Mara Thorne’s. Maeve Thorne’s sister, then. Elara. The name formed unspoken on his lips, a bitter premonition. He’d seen the girl skipping stones by the river’s edge just yesterday, her bright yellow scarf a flash of defiance against the valley’s grey. He wished he’d told her to stay away, wished he’d done something, anything, other than simply watch her small, carefree figure disappear into the winding path. Cadoc unlatched the heavy timber door, the hinges groaning like an old man's knees. Mara stood on his stoop, a hunched, trembling figure, her face a ravaged mask of grief. Her hair, usually neat, was wild and plastered to her cheeks, slick with river water and tears. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed on him with an animalistic terror. She wore a stained, threadbare nightdress, heedless of the cold or the damp earth beneath her bare feet. “Cadoc,” she choked, her voice a raw rasp, barely audible above the distant murmur of the Vess. “Elara. She’s… gone.” He didn't need her to finish the sentence. The river always took. Always. His jaw tightened, a familiar ache blooming behind his eyes. He could already feel the Vess, a cold, insidious presence coiling within his own blood, demanding its due. He knew the choice was never his. It never had been. “She went down to the river to look for her lost doll,” Mara whispered, her words tumbling out in a broken flood. “The little wooden one I carved for her. She loved it so much. I told her not to, Cadoc, I swear I did, but she was always so headstrong. Always chasing after something, always.” Her hands, pale and trembling, reached for his arms, clutching the thick wool with surprising strength. Her nails dug into his skin through the fabric, desperate anchors. “Please, Cadoc. You have to bring her back. Please. She’s just a child.” Her grip tightened, her fingers like iron bands. Her eyes pleaded, not just for Elara, but for a chance, any chance, at reversing the irreversible. He saw his own past reflected in their depths, the raw, unyielding agony of loss that had driven him to this cursed path. He saw the Vess’s hunger, mirrored in her desperation. He looked away, his gaze sweeping over the dark, indistinct shapes of the valley, the heavy fog obscuring the familiar landmarks. He thought of Elias, Maeve’s husband, returned but hollow, a ghost in his own home. He thought of Olav Allwood, the first abomination he’d locked in the shed. More would come. The Vess had promised it. Always more. And each time, he was the one who opened the door. “Please, Ferryman,” Mara whimpered, her voice breaking completely now, a sound that ripped through his stoicism like a jagged blade. “I’ll pay anything. Everything. Just bring my little girl home.” He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Elara’s bright smile, the way she used to wave at him when he passed her cottage. A child. A vessel too pure for the river’s cold touch, yet it had taken her anyway. The thought was a searing brand. He swallowed, the taste of ash in his mouth. He knew the cost. He always knew the cost. His complicity was a suffocating cloak he could never shed. He looked at Mara, her face streaked with tears, her lower lip trembling. Her hope, fragile and terrible, was pinned on him. He could not refuse. He never could. It was his curse, his penance. His gaze drifted to the Vess, the grey ribbon of it barely visible through the mist, a silent, predatory presence. It had already won. “Get some dry clothes,” Cadoc said, his voice a low rumble, rough with disuse and resignation. “Meet me at the landing. Bring a lantern.” He didn’t wait for her reply, simply turned and walked back into the darkness of his cabin, the heavy door thudding shut behind him, sealing away the raw grief, but not the burden. --- The small skiff cut through the Vess, the ancient wood groaning softly with each dip and pull of Cadoc’s oars. The river was a restless, churning beast tonight, its surface roiling with unseen currents, reflecting the bruised purple of the pre-dawn sky. A thick, pervasive fog snaked across the water, clinging to the skeletal branches of the willow trees that lined the banks, transforming the familiar valley into a distorted, menacing landscape. The air tasted of damp earth and something metallic, a cold, vital tang that was uniquely the Vess. His breath plumed in the frigid air, each exhale a momentary white cloud swallowed by the encroaching mist. Cadoc moved with a grim efficiency, his calloused hands gripping the worn oars, pushing against the river’s relentless pull. He knew this river intimately, every eddy, every hidden snag, every whispered secret. He’d navigated its treacherous depths countless times, always with the same leaden weight in his chest, the same bitter taste of complicity. He thought of Elara, her small, bright presence extinguished by this cold, indifferent force. A child. It always felt worse when it was a child. The Vess, however, did not discriminate. It took what it wanted, leaving behind only echoes, broken reflections. The river whispered to him, a low, sibilant hum beneath the lapping of the water, a familiar chorus of 'more will come, always more,' a promise and a threat woven into the very fabric of his existence. He remembered the dull, milky eyes of Elias Thorne, the unnatural stillness in his movements. Maeve’s quiet despair had been a fresh wound, still bleeding. Now, Mara’s grief. Each demand, each plea, chipped away at whatever remained of Cadoc’s own soul, another piece willingly surrendered to the Vess. He hated himself for it, for his weakness, for his inability to turn away from the desperate, weeping faces. He hated the memory of his own loss, the raw, gaping hole that the Vess had exploited, twisting his grief into this unholy duty. The skiff drifted past the gnarled roots of an ancient sycamore, its branches shrouded in mist, reaching like skeletal fingers into the grey expanse. Cadoc peered into the swirling fog, his eyes, accustomed to the gloom, scanning the dark water. The Vess currents were tricky here, known for snagging debris, for holding things close before dragging them down into deeper, colder reaches. He listened, not just with his ears, but with something deeper, an instinct honed by years on this river, a connection to the Vess itself, however unwilling. A glint of yellow caught his eye, a faint splash of color against the pervasive grey. He steered the skiff silently towards it, his heart pounding a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. It was the little wooden doll, its painted face staring blankly up from a small eddy, caught among a tangle of river weeds. It bobbed gently, a silent sentinel. And just beyond it, partially obscured by a submerged branch, was Elara. He felt the familiar cold dread spread through his limbs, a premonition of the insidious change already at work. The Vess had held her. It had already begun its subtle, terrifying work. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, steeling himself, before he reached for his grappling hook, the cold iron a stark contrast to the small, delicate life he was about to disturb. --- Cadoc guided the skiff closer to the hidden eddy, the small wooden doll spinning gently on the surface, a macabre marker. Elara’s body lay partially submerged, tangled in the gnarled roots of a fallen alder. Her bright yellow scarf, the one she’d worn yesterday, was now a sodden, dark mass around her neck, weighed down by the river’s grip. Her small face was turned towards the muddy bank, a pale, porcelain mask in the dim light, almost serene, save for the faint smudges of river silt on her cheek. He extended the grappling hook, its three prongs glinting dully in the reflected light, and carefully maneuvered it. He knew better than to simply pull; the Vess held its claims with a possessive strength. He had to be gentle, respectful, as if coaxing a shy creature from its lair. Each movement was deliberate, a practiced choreography of dread. The river tugged at his skiff, a subtle current trying to pull him away, a silent protest from the Vess. The hook found purchase on the thick fabric of her dress, just below her shoulder. Cadoc braced himself, his muscles tensing. He pulled, slowly, steadily, feeling the resistance of the water, the drag of the riverbed. Elara’s body shifted, then rose, dripping, from the cold embrace of the Vess. Water streamed from her clothes, from her hair, from the deep folds of her dress, a continuous cascade that splattered onto the floor of the skiff. He reached out, his hand shaking imperceptibly, and carefully dislodged the grappling hook. Her skin was impossibly cold, colder than the river itself, a deep, bone-chilling cold that seemed to seep into his own flesh. He lifted her, cradling her small, limp form against his chest, the wet fabric of her dress soaking through his tunic. She felt impossibly heavy, weighted not just by water, but by the Vess, by the terrible knowledge of what she had become, and what she was about to become again. Her hair, dark brown and tangled with river weed, clung to her forehead. Her lips were a faint, bruised blue. He remembered her laughter, a bright, clear sound that once echoed through the valley. Now, only the quiet gurgle of the Vess answered him. He laid her gently on the narrow bench in the bow of the skiff, arranging her small limbs, trying to restore some semblance of dignity to her small, violated form. Her tiny, waterlogged hand fell against his own, chilling him to the core. It was small and unyielding, a child’s hand, but it felt like stone. He could almost feel the Vess pulsing within her, a cold, alien beat beneath the surface. He pulled a canvas tarp from beneath the bench and draped it over her, covering her face. A small mercy, for both of them. He could still see the shape of her beneath the canvas, a small mound that spoke of profound wrongness. He looked up at the grey sky, at the indistinct line of the distant hills. The sun would rise soon, bringing with it the harsh light of a new day, a day that should not have begun like this. He gripped the oars once more, the wood slick beneath his palms, and began the slow, heavy row back towards the landing, towards Mara, towards the unavoidable ritual that awaited them both. --- Back at the landing, the air was sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. Mara waited, huddled beside a flickering oil lantern she’d brought from her cottage, its weak light casting long, dancing shadows on the riverbank. Her face was still tear-streaked, but a desperate, fragile hope had replaced the raw terror. She rushed forward as Cadoc brought the skiff silently to shore, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the canvas-shrouded form. “Elara?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. Cadoc nodded, a curt, grim movement. He stepped from the skiff, his boots sinking into the soft mud. He lifted Elara’s body, the canvas shifting, revealing a small, pale foot. Mara gasped, a sound of profound pain and burgeoning expectation. She reached out, her hand hovering, not quite daring to touch. Cadoc carried Elara back into the skiff, laying her carefully on the floorboards in the center. He didn’t look at Mara. He couldn’t. Her hope was a poisoned chalice, and he was the one forcing her to drink. He retrieved a small leather pouch from beneath the bow seat, its contents rattling softly. Chalk, river clay, and dried herbs. The tools of his accursed trade. He worked methodically, his movements precise and practiced, each action a grim sacrament. First, he secured Elara’s small, lifeless ankles with lengths of thick hemp rope, binding them together. Then her wrists, crossing them gently over her still chest, securing them with another tight knot. It was to hold the nascent spirit, to contain the Vess’s insidious tendrils, to guide what was left back into the hollow form. Next, he uncorked a small ceramic jar, its contents a thick, dark river clay mixed with crushed roots. He smeared a thick line of it across Elara’s forehead, then drew the familiar spiral symbol, intertwining lines of ancient power, directly over the clay. The symbols carved into the boat's ancient wood seemed to hum, absorbing the cold moonlight, pulsing with a faint, unseen energy. Mara watched, mesmerized, her lantern clutched tight, her face pale in its flickering glow. Cadoc knelt beside the small body, his shadow looming over her, a dark silhouette against the grey dawn. He reached into the pouch once more, pulling out a handful of dried river reeds, brittle and brown. He arranged them carefully around Elara’s head, forming a rough wreath, a crown for the dead, a lure for the returning. His fingers brushed her cold skin. He could feel the latent power of the Vess, a chilling hum beneath his fingertips. He was merely an instrument, a conduit for its will, and the knowledge stoked the familiar fire of self-loathing in his gut. He began the incantation, his voice a low, guttural murmur, ancient words that seemed to rise from the very mist of the Vess. They were not words of life, but words of summoning, of binding, of exchange. The air grew heavy, thick with unseen energies. The river’s murmur intensified, a hungry whisper. He felt the familiar surge of cold through his veins, the Vess reaching through him, seeking its new vessel. He poured his focus, his will, his unwilling complicity, into the ritual, feeling the strain, the terrible drain on his own spirit. He felt the river clay begin to warm beneath his palm, then vibrate. A subtle tremor ran through Elara’s small form, a shiver that rippled outward from the point of contact. Mara gasped, a choked sob of hope and terror. Cadoc kept his gaze fixed on the symbol, on the clay, on the precise point of re-entry. He felt the resistance, the Vess fighting, then yielding, releasing its hold on one piece of its collection, only to tighten its grip on another. The air crackled. The reeds around Elara’s head began to crackle, then glow with a faint, sickly green light. Then, with a sudden, horrifying jolt, Elara’s chest heaved. A small, ragged breath escaped her lips, a whisper of air that held no warmth, no life. Her body convulsed once, a sudden, violent spasm. The bindings held. Her head lolled to the side. And then, slowly, unsettlingly, her eyelids fluttered open. As Elara’s eyes snap open, they are not the soft blue Cadoc remembered, but a startling, luminescent green that seems to gaze right through him, an ancient hunger flickering within their depths.

Chapter 3: A Plea From the Deep