Aren woke before dawn.

It was mostly dark in the room, a single slice of white light from He’an piercing through the crack in the wooden shutters. Aren lay there for a moment, his eyes gradually adjusting to the mixture of darkness and moonlight. A slow grin spread across his face and his stomach fluttered madly, as though he had just swallowed a swarm of fireflies.

Today’s the day.

As he lay there, he could hear his da’s breathing, slow in sleep and interrupted by the occasional rumbling snore. The stench of stale beer lingered in the air. Da’d been drinking again last night.

Aren slid out of bed, dancing a little from foot to foot on the cold wooden floor. He crept to the old dresser in the half-light, tugging out some warm clothes and thick socks. He froze with half a sock on as he da let out another grumbling snore. Then, his da rolled over, mumbling something that might have been a name. Aren stayed still a moment longer, balancing on one leg, until he was sure that his da would not wake up.

He yanked on the rest of his clothes, pausing between every item to glance at the dark lump on the other side of the room. His da did not sir. Letting out a soft, relieved breath, Aren inched out of the small bedroom to the main room of the shack.

It didn’t take him long to gather what he needed. Grabbing his father’s oilcloth bag from beside the door, he stowed half a loaf of bread and a couple of apples inside. He doubted his da would need it that day; he would sleep in late, have a fierce hangover, and not bother to go to the docks to look for work. Bag over his shoulder, he shoved his feet into his shoes and snuck out of the shack as the sky began to lighten.

The wooden dock that connected their home to the other shacks in the Hidden Shores was slick and damp. Aren walked quickly and carefully, ever fearful of slipping and plunging into the black, cold water below. The early morning air held a touch of ice and Aren wrapped his arms around himself to ward off the chill. As he went, he kept his head down and avoided making eye contact with anyone he passed. There were few people out at this hour, and those that were tended to be shady, drunk, or both.

It was a little over an hour’s walk to the Harbour District where he planned on meeting his friends, even though he could move faster now his feet were on solid stone. He didn’t mind the trek, especially as the sky turned from an inky dark blue to smudged shades of pink and gold. Though his breath escaped his mouth in plumes of white mist and the coldness bit at his face, he felt calmer and happier than he ever did at home.

At one point, he had to duck into an alleyway to avoid a rowdy bunch of drunkards who were wending their way home from the tavern. The alleyway stank of old piss, and he remained there just long enough for the men’s voices to dwindle before he continued.

The meeting place was at a long wooden dock with a shabby-looking steamboat tied up at its end. Quinn and Jez were already there. Jez stood on the dock, munching on a hunk of bread, and he lifted a hand to wave at Aren when he saw him. Quinn was on the deck of the boat, doing something with a pair of ropes.

Jez swallowed his bread. “You made it! I was afraid your da’d catch you.”

“Nah, he’s out cold.” Aren hauled himself over the side of the boat onto the deck. It moved under his feet, swaying faintly with the water. “Drinking again.”

“Lucky for you,” Jez said.

Aren pulled a face. “I beat Rafe?”

This was surprising as, of the four of them, Rafe lived closest to the docks and - as he liked to remind them - he had the longest legs.

“Yeah,” Quinn said, flinging the roped he had been working on to one side. “Probably overslept, knowing him.”

“Well, if he’s not here soon, we’ll have to leave without him.”

As he said that, Jez attempted to pull himself up onto the boat to join Aren and Quinn. Short as he was, he struggled a little, and the two of them had to scramble forward and grab him by the arms before he fell. They hauled him up onto the deck and he sat with his back against the taffrail, breathing heavily and his face red with embarrassment.

“I could’ve done it,” he told them.

Neither Aren nor Quinn argued.

Aren was watching Quinn shovel coal into the engine when Rafe ran up along the dock. He was panting, as though he had run all the way from his home.

“Sorry,” he gasped between gulps of air. “I fell back asleep.”

Quinn gave Aren an ‘I told you so’ look and went back to shovelling coal, as Jez helped Rafe aboard.

“I can’t believe your da actually gave you permission to use his boat,” Rafe said, once he had caught his breath.

Quinn grinned; there was a smudge of coal dust smeared across his cheek. “I didn’t exactly get permission, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Jez laughed. “You mean your backside is forfeit when he finds out.”

Quinn shrugged. “He won’t find out.”

Rafe moved up to help Quinn with the boat’s engine, and Aren slipped away to the bow, looking out to see. The sun had almost risen now, and the sky was fading from a blush pink to an ashen grey. Near the horizon, the God-husk Sharenskus wandered his perpetual circling path. Even from the shore, he seemed impossibly tall and intimidating. His great katana glinted in the weak morning sun.

Doubts started to creep in.

It had only been a week since the four of them had decided to split the stride - that is, sail between the God-husk’s legs as he continued on his way.

‘Decided’ was probably the wrong word.

They had been goaded into boasting that they could by a group of older boys, boys from the more affluent part of Russin. They were fifteen or sixteen years old, stronger, and evidently much more well-fed. One of them had pushed Quinn into a puddle as they’d passed, laughing, leaving him dripping with stinking mud. Jez had lost his temper and tried to punch them, but they had swept his feet out from under him. Aren had entreated them to leave them alone, whilst Rafe snarled that they should fight fair. The boys just jeered and said that they didn’t play fair with babies who hadn’t even split the stride.

Angry and humiliated, both Jez and Rafe claimed they could do it. Would do it. The boys had merely laughed again and left.

For the past week, it had been all the four of them could talk about. Quinn had pointed out that none of them had heard of someone succeeding at splitting the stride, though it was a common subject of drunken tales. Jez insisted it must be possible, and that they would prove it to those older boys.

A loud, piercing whistle startled Aren so much that he almost lost his footing. He span to scowl at Quinn, who grinned with his hand up on the whistle cord and laughed when Aren made a rude gesture.

“We’re ready to cast off.”

The boat began to sail out of the harbour, its bow pointed towards the hulking form of the God-husk as he continued his never-ending walk. The sharp scent of coalsmoke and steam hit Aren’s nose as he turned to lean his elbows on the rail, his stomach twisting in knots.

Today’s the day.

It took the small boat almost an hour to sail out far enough for them to feel the effects of the God-husk’s wake. Each step that Sharenskus took stirred up the ocean, forming waves that rippled out from his legs, and then sucked and pulled the sea back in towards him. At first, the boys barely noticed the bump in the water, or the subtle drag on their vessel. Then, the waves got steadily more powerful, spilling over the bulwark and covering the deck with foam.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Quinn shouted over the sound of the engine.

“We’ll be fine!” Jez called back, though he looked rather uneasy to Aren’s eyes. “We can’t turn back now!”

“Are you sure?” Rafe asked, sounding as though he was rather quickly losing his taste for adventure. “We’ll probably never see those guys again.”

Aren leant on the rail and looked back out at the hulking form of Sharenskus, closer than he had ever seen him. His two heads, seawater pouring from each of his ever-screaming mouths, looked more agonised than any of the depictions Aren had ever seen before. For a moment, he wanted to beg Quinn to turn back towards shore, to ignore Jez, and to forget the stupid boys and their mocking.

But...

He didn’t want to look like a baby in front of his friends. He was almost thirteen, after all - older than both Jez and Rafe.

The next wave rushed over the bulwark, crashing over his body and knocking him off his feet onto his arse. The salt burned his eyes, and he coughed, spitting seawater out onto the deck. When the wave had passed, his struggled to his feet and made his way from the bow to the engine room, where his friends were sheltering from the worst of the waves.

“The engine’s out,” Quinn muttered as he walked in. He was kneeling in front of the coal stove, the iron door open. “Water’s got in. It’s all wet.”

“Can you relight it?” demanded Jez.

“Not with that.” Quinn gestured at the coal scuttle. The last wave had knocked it over and strewn coal across the damp floor.

“So, we’re stuck?” Rafe’s voice wavered.

“Seems so.” Quinn scrubbed his hands over his damp face. “Da is going to be furious.”

“We at least got to see the God-husk closer than ever before?” ventured Aren, trying to find a positive to their current predicament.

It secretly pleased him that the engine had failed. At least he didn’t have to look like a coward begging Quinn and the others to turn back, and the danger of Sharenskus’s stride would soon pass them by.

“Guess so.” Jez sounded a little pissed off, but then he sighed. “I guess those idiots wouldn’t have believed us anyway.”

“Definitely not,” Quinn agreed.

Rafe picked up one of the wet chunks of coal, turning it over in his hand and watching as the blackness spread over his damp skin.

“What do we do now?” he asked. “If we can’t get back?”

“Another ship will see us and come help.”

Quinn’s voice sounded confident enough that the other three boys accepted this as the truth, and they hunkered down in the covered engine room to wait for rescue.

It took about half an hour for Aren to notice that things were changing. The waves were still rolling over the sides of the boat, racing over the deck and soaking their skin and clothing, but they seemed to be getting worse. He got to his feet so that he could see, and he noticed Sharenskus looked much larger now than he had before. He must have let out a yelp, because the others scrambled to their feet beside him.

“What is it?” Jez asked.

Aren pointed, his arm shaking as he did so. The four of them looked up at the towering form of Sharenskus with a mixture of horror and awe. They were close enough now to see the veins spidering under his white skin, to see his muscles tensing and twitching as he dragged his katana behind him, to see the glowing, empty white eyes far above them.

With every step Sharenskus took, he was dragging their small boat closer and closer, straight into his path.

“What are we going to do?” Rafe’s voice was barely a squeak.

“We can make it.” Jez sounded hopeful. “There’s no way we can fail.”

“What are you talking about?” Rafe burst out. “He’s going to crush us!”

Jez chewed his lip, his face pale. For the first time, Aren saw real fear flicker in his eyes. “We could swim?”

“What, with these waves?” Quinn’s words were scathing. “There’s no way.”

Jez shoved him in the chest. “Then what do you suggest?”

Quinn shook his head. “All we can do is hope that we get pushed out by a wave and, if not, that we don’t get smashed to pieces.”

Rafe let out a sound that sounded somewhat like a sob and sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his face in his knees. At that moment, an enormous wave breached the boat, tilting it violently on its side and sending the other three boys crashing into the wall of the engine room. Pain exploded as a stray elbow slammed against the side of Aren’s head. The taste of blood and saltwater flooded his mouth, and he could feel hands grabbing at him as he reached out in response.

Metal screamed as the boat righted itself. Aren found himself in a tangle with the other boys, his head swimming. He watched as Quinn tried to get up, then fall back down as his legs collapsed under him.

Fear thundered in Aren’s chest. He wanted to both scramble away from his friends and clutch them tighter. He wished more than anything to be back in his bed, listening to his father’s drunken snores.

The next wave overwhelmed them, a wall of water swallowing their cries. Suddenly, everything was ocean.

Unexpectedly floating, Aren could not tell which way was up and which way was down. The world was dark, frigid water, and all around him the boat groaned and cracked. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath and waiting for the moment to pass.

It took several heartbeats to realise that the boat was not righting itself. Panic surged through him as he thrashed in the water. His flailing foot collided with something soft - one of the others. He forced his eyes open, trying to see them, but he could only make out shadows in the gloom. Someone grabbed him, yanked helplessly at his clothes, and then their grip disappeared. Aren tried to reach out to find him again, but his fingers closed on empty water.

The need to breathe was urgent. He twisted, trying to find his way out of the engine room. Metal scraped his arm as he pushed himself through the doorway, and he cried out, bubbles escaping from his mouth. His chest burned as he kicked his way out from under the boat. Sunlight glittered somewhere above him. Salt stung his eyes.

He could make it.

Then another wave hit and Aren found himself spinning through the water like flotsam. His lungs were screaming as he tried to orient himself in the dizzying whirl of bubbles. He clawed in what he thought was the direction of the sky, fighting against the drag of the tide.

He needed to breathe.

Da, he thought, as his limbs grew heavier and fell uselessly to his sides.

The sun seemed so far away.

It was fading.

Fading.

Gone.