Maybe he believes that; I don’t. But I keep my mouth shut and turn my focus back to the crew, signaling them to keep moving. Within minutes, the four of us have loaded into the boats, rowing towards the island with a rhythm born more of necessity than ease.
The water below us is unsettling—no seaweed, no fish. Just clear, empty water over golden sand stretching out like the desert floor. Fabien is the first to step onto it, his boots sinking into the warmth of the sand, and he pauses, glancing back at us. I follow, with Zayan and Vinicola close behind, the weight of this place making the hair on my arms stand.
Something is wrong, and I don’t need to use my words for all of us to know it. We just feel it.
“This is the Trial?” Vinicola mutters, looking around as though he’s missed something grand.
“We don’t know that,” Fabien says.
He’s right. We don’t know. Even the old journals were vague about the compass—hinted it led to more than just Trials. Sometimes, it led to... well, something else. One thing’s clear, though: everything’s connected to the Lady. Always.
“Doesn’t matter what this is,” I say, voice steady. “Whether it’s the Trial or some other curse, we’re here to face it.”
Because I’ll be damned if I’m bested by some sea bitch.
We push forward toward the pillar rising ahead of us, each step pulling us deeper into the strange, thick silence that smothers everything else. The hum marking our approach fades, replaced by a weight pressing from all sides—a heat heavy with sun and salt. This place… it’s a windless dessert surrounded by salty waters.
Everything sailors hate after sailing for longer periods of time.
Vinicola mutters again, shaking his head. “Still not grand.”
I might’ve thought the same until I see the pillar up close. It’s not just standing there—it’s floating. Right above a pool of water so dark it looks like a void, swallowing every shred of light. Unnatural. The kind of grand that doesn’t sit right, the kind that watches you back.
“What is this…?” Zayan asks, edging closer to the pool and pointing at a hollow gouged into the pillar’s stone at eye level.
The hollow catches my attention. It looks like an altar niche, where healers or shamans might set candles or sacred tokens, only this one’s empty. Bare. Waiting.
“And there’s something on top,” Fabien mutters, craning his neck. I squint up, barely making out a small shape perched at the pillar’s peak, lost in the glare of the sun.
I follow Fabien’s gaze, squinting against the glare of the sun to try and see what he’s talking about. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but then I see it—a small object perched atop the pillar, barely visible from where we’re standing.
“What do you think it is?” Vinicola asks, shading his eyes, a nervous glance darting between us.
“No clue from down here,” Fabien says, voice tight with frustration. “But it’s not there by accident. Whatever that is, it’s part of some…mechanism.”
Zayan takes a step back from the pool of water beneath the pillar, his expression tense. “So, what now? Do we try to get that thing down, or do we figure out what the hollow is for?”
“We should be careful,” I say, my voice firm. “This place is a trap waiting to be sprung. Whatever we do, we need to think it through.”
Fabien nods, his eyes still locked on the pillar. “I agree. Let’s not rush into anything.”
“We should dosomething, though, right?“ Vinicola asks, glancing nervously between the rest of us.
I circle the pillar, keeping an eye out. The sand around it is dry, untouched, like it’s never even seen water—odd, given the whole island was soaked a moment ago. It feels like walking on desert sand, no hint of the sea in it.
I tighten my grip on my pistol, scanning every corner as I circle. And then I see it. A small, etched line of words scratched into the stone on the far side. “There’s something written here,”I call out, drawing everyone around. “‘What is common, yet you claim; fill me with, I’ll drop like rain.’”
Huh? A riddle?
I glance over at Zayan, who’s already started pacing, his fingers tapping against his belt as he mulls it over. “Common, yet we claim…” he repeats, like turning the words over will shake loose some answer. His expression sharpens, brow furrowed.
A part of me wants to scream. Days at sea, steering us through storms, heat, and god knows what else, and now we’re here, solving riddles in this miserable place? Really? But with the shake of my head, I force myself to ignore the frustration building in my chest.
I can’t win with the sea bitch if I can’t stand to face a riddle or two.
“‘Fill me with it, and I’ll drop like rain,’” I murmur, feeling the bitter taste of the words as they slip from my mouth. “So… something that fills this hollow, and then releases something? Or triggers something?”
“Water?” Vinicola suggests cautiously, his voice hopeful. “It’s everywhere, sure, but we… need it. We’re always claiming it.”
