The sun’s still got an hour or two left before it drops entirely. That gives us time. We might have wasted half the day on this cursed gateway, but we still have time of day.
We reach the deck just as the sky is painted in fading colors of fire, the sun low. The crew’s still in high spirits, laughter rolling across the ship, and Ridley, on his second drink, raises his bottle in silent toast as I pass, but I don’t return the gesture.
I walk straight to the bow, where the last of the sunlight cuts sharp and clear, and hold the hourglass up to the light. Vinicola’s at my elbow, almost vibrating with anticipation, eyes fixed on the glass.
For a moment, nothing happens. The hourglass glimmers faintly, catching the light, but the strange signs inside remain as incomprehensible as ever. My heart sinks, frustration bubbling up. Was this another dead end?
But then, as the sun dips lower, the angle of the light changes, and suddenly, the hourglass flares with a brilliant glow. The inscriptions inside begin to shift, rearranging themselves into a coherent pattern. It’s like watching a puzzle piece itself together in mid-air.
Vinicola lets out a gasp. “It’s… it’s working!”
I don’t respond, too focused on the hourglass as the symbols morph into something readable. The letters align, forming words that had eluded me for the past couple of hours. My breath catches in my throat as the message becomes clear:
“The sun warms me, but it doesn’t move me. Keep looking, little champions.”
I could laugh. Hell, I could almost break something right now. That bitch...
All the years I’ve searched for a way to defy her, and the Lady has spoken to me only once—right after I crawled out of the gateway as kid, exhausted and alone.
She marooned me on an empty island after my parents died, with nothing but coconuts and one miserable type of fish for ten years. I was her toy, and she watched, silent and smug. Then, one day, she spoke right inside my skull:I free you, she said, like I should thank her for it.
Now, I might not be hearing her voice directly in my head, but I know it’s her message alright. The bile rises in my throat as I imagine her whispering the words the hourglass spells out.Littlechampions. I grit my teeth against the disgust, fighting the urge to smash the damn thing.
“The sun isn’t the answer,” I finally manage, my voice thick with rage.
“What do you mean? The sun made the hourglass react—“
“But it didn’t reveal anything useful, did it?” I cut him off, unable to keep the fury from my tone. This message is just another one of her twisted games, meant to lead us in circles, to toy with us. This is exactly how she operates. “She says the sun doesn’t move her. Does that sound like the sun’s the key? No.”
“Oh. Okay,” he mutters, glancing down, his hand drifting through his blond hair. “No need to get worked up, though, right? I mean, the sun doesn’t move the Lady. It’s just… a fact. And we got something out of it—another piece of the clue.”
The dull ache in my jaw reminds me to unclench my teeth. He doesn’t get it—none of them do. They’re not the ones she’s spent years torturing.
“Yeah, some clue,” I snort. The bitterness claws its way out. “What a fucking joke. I didn’t need her words to know what moves her, Vinicola. I’ve known all along. It’s cruelty. She doesn’t move for anything but that. She feeds on human suffering.”
Vinicola’s gaze lifts, his eyes holding something unreadable. He crosses to the railing, leans against it, and lets silence fill the space between us. After a beat, he mutters under his breath, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Cruelty moves most who can feel pain.”
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicion sparking. “What are you? Empathizing with her?”
He shrugs, his gaze lost somewhere on the horizon. “I’m just saying, if pain resonates with her, it means she knows what it is. And if she’s felt pain before, it means she can feel it again.” Heturns slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Isn’t that what you want?”
The question hangs there, hovering between us. The words settle, twisting, and before I can stop myself, I let out a low, harsh laugh.
A cold spark flickers to life.
“Of course, I want her to feel pain,” I admit, the bitterness raw. I’ve wanted it a thousand times over, imagined it in ways that would make even the darkest hell blush.
He nods as if he understands, a ridiculous notion in itself. “Then, maybe her cruelty works in your favor,” he says quietly. “If she’s that twisted, maybe she’ll hand you what you want.”
I narrow my eyes. “You think so?”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Why do you even think the message was personal? Anyone could’ve read it. Sounds more like praise—‘Keep looking, little champions.’ We tried something she expected, which means we’re close.”
I scoff, trying to gather my thoughts, but they scatter like ashes in the wind.
He gives me a look, softened, like he thinks we’re in this together. “Maybe we both need to step back,” he says, tone maddeningly gentle. “We could ask the others what they think. My mother always said, ‘When in doubt, ask your neighbor.’ Four heads might be better than two, don’t you think?”
I just stare, biting back the words at the tip of my tongue.
