And then, amidst the storm, a voice. Not Miss Captain’s, not Zayan’s, and definitely not mine. A woman’s voice, soft but insistent, echoing inside my head.
“Take out the key,”she whispers, her words like a gentle melody weaving through my thoughts.“Start the trial.”
I freeze, the world narrowing to the sound of her voice. Everything else—the storm, the screams, the relentless hum—fades into the background, muffled, distant. Time stretches unnaturally, like I’ve been caught in some strange, warped bubble where nothing else exists but her voice.
“Start the trial,”she urges again, more insistent now, though her tone remains soothing, almost...comforting. A warmth blooms in my chest, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, and for a moment, it’s as if everything will be alright. She’s coaxing me forward, guiding me with calm reassurance. I feel... safe.
But then I remember the chaos outside this strange bubble. Miss Captain is on her knees, her face contorted in agony, hands clutching her head as though trying to tear the pain away. The madman lies prone, groaning like a beast about to die, his body convulsing with each wave of pain. And Zayan—of course, Zayan is limping forward, his eyes locked on Miss Captain, as if nothing else exists.
“Start the trial,”she whispers again, but this time, there’s a sense of urgency. The warmth grows, but it’s laced with something else now, something more... expectant.
“Will this end if I start it?” I whisper aloud, though I have no idea who I’m asking. There’s no answer, just the steady pulse of warmth from the voice—like she’ssmilingat me, amused by my question.
Well… that’s gotta be a good sign, right?
My hands tremble as I pull out the compass. The patterns engraved on it swirl in intricate designs, delicate and ancient, as if they were meant for someone else, someone much more capable than me. Yet here I am. My thumb grazes the small, hidden button on the side of the compass, and somehow, without even thinking, I press it. A soft click echoes, and somehow, I hear it just fine.
Inside, the needle spins wildly before settling, pointing directly at the jar.
“Good, Vinicola,” the voice inside my head praises. “Now, insert the key.”
Key? What key?
My mind races, spinning as fast as the compass needle did moments ago. My eyes dart around frantically, searching for anything that could be a clue. Panic bubbles up inside me until—there. I see it.
At the base of the compass are four small slots, barely visible in the low light.
One of them, the first one on the left, seems to tug at something inside me—like it’s calling to me.
My fingers twitch, still slick with the rain. Somehow, my attention flips to the jar. It’s just a simple jar, right? Glass, dirt, a cactus—nothing extraordinary. But something about it sends a shiver down my spine. My hand trembles as I unscrew the lid. Inside, the cactus sits nestled in the soil, its spines sharp and menacing.
I hesitate, the voice urging me forward, coaxing me. I know, in the pit of my gut, that I have to push through. My fingers graze the cactus, and pain flares up immediately as the spines pierce my skin, drawing thin trails of blood. I flinch, but I don’t stop.
Keep going, the voice whispers.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I dig through the soil beneath the cactus, my fingers grazing something cool and metallic. I pull it free—a small, ornate key, no bigger than a coin, but intricate and delicate, like it was crafted by the same hands that created the compass. As soon as it touches my palm, I feel another soft hum.
Buzzing, I realize. The metal is buzzing.
“Good,“ the voice in my head croons again, as though it’s pleased with my discovery. “Now, insert it into the compass. It will lead you to the first clue.”
The first clue? My thoughts stumble over the words.Clue to what?
My pulse quickens. I fumble with the key, the metal slippery between my bloodied fingers as I fit it into the small slot on the compass. For a moment, nothing happens. I hold my breath, heart thudding in my ears. Then, with a soft, almost inaudible click, the compass springs to life.
The needle, which had been spinning aimlessly before, snaps into focus, pointing sharply toward the starboard side of the ship. I follow its path with my eyes, but all I see is the black void of the storm-tossed sea.
“Good luck,“ the voice murmurs one last time, the words lingering like a soft kiss on my mind before it fades away, leaving me standing there, clutching the compass and key, utterly alone.
But the world around me is no longer the same. The storm—raging and relentless just seconds before—stops dead in its tracks. The eerie red rain ceases, the air no longer vibrating with the crack of thunder.
And then, as if that wasn’t bizarre enough, Miss Captain’s screams—raw, desperate, the kind that could pierce hearts—just… stop. Her voice cuts off mid-shout, leaving behind this thick, suffocating silence that presses hard against my ears.
I whip around, my pulse hammering in my throat, to see the angry man, the one who was writhing on the deck in pain a moment ago, now standing as still as a bloody statue.
Their gazes shift to me, two pairs of eyes—sharp and wide, brimming with a mix of confusion and suspicion.
“Vini,” Miss Captain says. “What did you do?”
