One by one, he hands each of us a shell. It’s rough, strangely warm in my palm—too warm. The texture’s familiar, reminding me of the cursed compass in my pocket, and the holes lining it feel sharp, almost intentional.
Vinicola eyes his, running a finger along the edges. “You know, my mother keeps these fancy kitchen supplies back home. These things… they’re like the sea’s version of… what do you call it? A colander.”
“A colander?” I echo, arching an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?”
He blinks, surprised, and then explains, “A colander. It’s a bowl with holes. You use it to drain water from food, like pasta or vegetables. Water flows out, but the food stays inside.”
I huff, unimpressed. We don’t have time for these comparisons, not when Zayan cuts in.
“This isn’t some quaint kitchen lesson,” he growls, dropping the bottom of the stone crate with a thud. “We better get moving. Our ship’s a damn dot on the horizon.”
My pulse spikes, and I jerk my head to where Zayan’s looking. He’s right—our ship is almost nothing but a distant smudge, barely a mark against the endless stretch of sand.
This is bad. Very bad.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. The land is stretching faster than we realized. We don’t have much time.
Vinicola crouches, scooping a handful of sand onto the shell, intent on dumping it into the pillar. He barely straightens before the sand slips through, pouring out in tiny streams from the holes, leaving nothing but air.
“Okay… so much for the sand idea,” he mutters.
I shrug it off. “It was a thought.” But my mind’s already turning, trying to piece together the pattern. Think, Gypsy. What does she want us to do?
If you were a scheming, vicious creature like her… how would you force four puny humans to entertain you?
It’s all about control, isn’t it? The Lady doesn’t deal in mercy or quick escapes. She thrives on the struggle, on every last breath we waste clawing our way out. The longer we fight, the harder it becomes, the sweeter her satisfaction.
The bottom of the sea was clear and golden, just like the sand here on the island. There was no vegetation. Empty, wide, endless. No kelp or algae to offer even a sliver of hope—just a vast, sunlit prison.
Of course. She wants this to drag on, wants to savor every moment of our desperation. The realization hits me like a slap, and just as quickly, an idea claws its way into my mind. It’s half-formed, rough around the edges, but it’s something.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say, barely able to keep the apprehension from creeping into my voice. “And I really hope I’m wrong, because if I’m not, we’re in for one hell of a ride.”
Fabien’s laugh comes out sharp, a touch wild. “Don’t threaten us with a good time, Captain. By all means, lead the way.”
I don’t need any coaxing. I shoot Zayan and Vinicola a look. They’re worn down, faces streaked with exhaustion, but their nods say it all. We’re in this, every damn step of the way.
Without another thought, I take off, tearing across the shore with all the speed I can muster. Sand kicks up behind me, stinging as it hits my calves, but I grit my teeth and push harder.
Don’t look for the easy way out, Gypsy. That’s not how she plays. She wants us to suffer. She wants us at the edge.
My feet splash the still water. I clutch the seashell hard between my fingers, bend down and scoop. The seashell fills with wet sand, its weight pulling slightly against my hand as I lift it from the water. The grains cling together, a dense, heavy mass that feels completely different from the dry, loose sand we tried before.
Fuck yes.
I pivot sharply, sprinting back toward the pillar, the wet sand sloshing slightly in the shell as I run. I don’t spare Fabien, Zayan, or Vinicola more than a glance as they watch me.
“Move!” I bark, closing the distance, and without pausing, I tilt the shell in my hands, pouring the wet sand into the gouge carved into the pillar’s side.
For a moment, there’s nothing. Just silence as the sand vanishes down that hollowed-out gap, not a single sound coming from it, like the damned thing’s eating it whole. Doubt starts to twist in my gut, but just then, the pillar hums—low, resonant. The same sound I heard the day I first plunged the compass into seawater, unknowingly triggering this whole cursed trial. I set it in motion back then, and I’m setting it off again now.
The pillar sinks ever so slightly, grinding against the stone in a slow descent, a faint glow pulsing at its base.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Zayan mutters, half a laugh in his voice.
“Not yet, you won’t,” I pant, dragging in a breath. “It needs more sand. Fill that hollow till it’s spilling over.”
“Oh gods,” Vinicola moans, his face already covered with a layer of sweat. “We have to run, don’t we?”
