Moss stands at the helm, gripping the wheel, cradling Captain Lin’s slumped form, his amber-streaked eyes reflecting the dead calm of the leaden sea.Moss's hand lifts from Captain Lin's face, his broad fingers lingering as storm light casts long shadows in the cabin.Moss, post-modification, points at the chart as Tomás leans in, the oil lamp casting deep shadows on their faces.Moss grips a chunk of ice fished from the stormy sea, his eyes wide with disbelief.Moss stands tense on the Blacktide's masthead, eyes locked on the distant Antarctic ice shelf, the storm-indifferent sea stretching below.The Blacktide and two other ships float motionless on a vast, leaden sea, the air tinged with a faint, unsettling yellow.Moss crouches beside Captain Lin, his hands cradling hers, her frail form barely visible in the storm-lit cabin.Moss perches high on the Blacktide's mast, signal lamp flashing pulses of light across the stormy sea toward a distant amber pinpoint.Moss leans into the boat hook, snagging a chunk of pale blue-white ice from the dark, mirror-still sea, his amber hands stark against the cold.
