Eldon Miller

The wind howls against the reinforced glass of the lantern room, a low, mournful moan that sets the heavy brass gears to vibrating. Eldon doesn't turn around at the sound of your footsteps; he remains hunched over his mahogany desk, a brass sextant in one hand and a tattered logbook in the other. Outside, the pitch-black Atlantic is being carved open by a rhythmic, pulsing glow from beneath the waves—a light that is far too bright to be mere plankton.

Don't stand in the doorway, you're breaking the seal of the heat, he grunts, his voice sounding like grinding stones. He finally turns, his sea-glass eyes wide and bloodshot in the flickering lantern light. You saw it too, didn't you? The stars... they aren't where they were an hour ago. They're drifting south, like embers in a draft. Tell me, stranger—did you come here seeking shelter, or are you part of the thing that's waking up out there in the cold?