But that leaves the front slot.
Fabien digs into his pouch and pulls out an hourglass. “It fits here,” he says, staring at it. He lines it up, and as he brings the hourglass toward the slot, the sunlight and moonlight catch the glass, bouncing wildly across the stone.
It doesn’t sit in the slot the way it should; the angle of the light keeps slipping.
“Something’s off,” Zayan mutters, jaw clenched.
“Let me see it.” I hold out my hand, and Fabien passes the hourglass over without a word.
I don’t have time to waste. The tide’s rising, and we’re stretching higher in the boat with every minute. I shift to my knees, then stand to reach the gouge as Zayan grabs my legs, steadying me against the lurch of the boat.
Flipping the hourglass, I run my fingers along the edges, feeling for anything the others might’ve missed. Then I feel it—tiny, recessed compartments, barely noticeable. “Wait,” I murmur, prying one open. Inside is just enough space for the scales. Clever little death trap.
No way Fabien overlooked this. They couldn’t have been here before. But fuck this. Now isn’t the time to wonder. Without a second’s hesitation, I press the scales into each compartment until they click, melding with the glass like they were never separate pieces.
As I lift the hourglass back up, the light cuts through it perfectly this time, a single beam piercing the darkness and streaming down into the pillar.
Another deep, resonant hum echoes through the air, vibrating up from the depths.
“Hold on tight,” I say, barely above a whisper.
The water drains faster than I can brace for, and the seabed jolts up beneath us, rough enough to knock the curse right out of me. My hand grips Zayan’s shoulder, steadying myself before I can go sprawling.
“Look at that…” Vinicola breathes out, pointing at something up ahead.
Where the water once shielded it, a vast, dark rift gapes open in the seabed—a cave entrance with jagged, raw edges, untouched by the usual smooth lines of a cave wall. Above it, a faintly glowing carving, the same mark I’ve seen etched into that whalebone before.
“The mark of The Lady,” I say, my voice tight. “That’s where we’re headed.”
Without a second thought, I step off the skiff, boots hitting the seabed with a crunch. Zayan, Vinicola, and Fabien follow, a beat behind me.
There’s maybe two, three cannon shots’ distance between us and the cave. We press on, picking our way over patches of dead coral, bleached bones, and what’s left of sea creatures, all splayed out like offerings to whatever divine thing lies here. Every step crunches or squelches—anemones waving in thinpockets of water, small fish flopping in the pools, desperate as the sea retreats, taking their last breaths with it.
Fabien curses under his breath, yanking his foot from a tangle of seaweed. Zayan grips Vinicola’s shoulder, half-hauling him along, while I keep my eyes locked on that damned cave.
It’s… too calm. The kind of calm that leaves your gut twisted. And then I hear it—a low, distant roar, the kind that makes your blood go cold.
A wave.
I whip around just to see a monstrous wall of water, towering and dark, racing to reclaim the seabed with a fury that doesn’t care who or what’s in its way. It’s coming fast, too fast, curling high and hungry.
“Run!” I shout.
We bolt, stumbling and half-falling over the rough seabed as we scramble forward. There’s no smooth escape, no graceful dash—just frantic, desperate movement. Zayan pulls Vinicola forward, and Fabien and I push forward, breaths coming in sharp, panicked bursts. The roar is deafening now, the ground vibrating under the wave’s crushing shadow.
We reach the mouth of the cave, and I throw myself inside, hitting the stone floor hard.
But it’s far from over. If that wave crashes, it’ll flood this cave and trap us inside. The force of it…
I push myself up, every instinctscreaming.There is no time for fear. Only survival.
“We keep moving!” My voice is rough, every nerve bracing for the crush of water that could grind my bones into sea sludge. The wave’s not a maybe—it’s a goddamn certainty if we don’t get out of here.
“But how? Where?” Vinicola cries, wide-eyed and pale. “It’s a dead end!”
I grit my teeth, palms against the stone, feeling the rough, jagged walls. Then—just barely—I catch it: a faint draft, brushing past my fingers. I look up, squinting, and see it—a narrow opening way up, hidden in shadow. Small, tight, but our only shot.
“There,” I shout, pointing. “We climb. It’s that or drown.”
