Surprisingly, getting to the rocks itself is easy. For a place that doesn’t exist on any maps—talked about only in whispered legends and drunken tales—it should feel more dangerous, more treacherous. But the waters remain eerily still, no giant squid legs unfurling from the depths to drag me under. No siren songsbeckoning me to my doom. Just the steady lapping of the waves and that damn buzz in my ears.
Nothing’s tried to kill me. Not yet.
“Hopefully, that’s not a bad sign,” I mutter, pushing harder with the oars, watching as the jagged rocks loom closer. After years of chasing this place, I’m not sure what I want more—to finally reach the end of this cursed quest or die trying.
Part of me wouldn’t mind if a monstrosity rose from the deep to greet me. It would be proof—proof that this place isn’t just another ghost story. It would mean I was right, that all the rumors, all the whispers, were true. It would quench at least a fraction of that fire inside me that’s been burning too long.
These hopes die just like the rest of them.
The sea hisses as I reach the rocks, the skiff bobbing as I tie it to a jagged outcrop. My hands work fast, securing the rope as tightly as I can. I’ll need it to get back.
I look up at the shipwreck, half-shrouded in mist and decay. It’s a twisted silhouette against the black sky, broken and forgotten, yet still clinging to the rocks like a corpse refusing to sink. My pulse quickens. This is what I’ve been searching for.
The climb isn’t easy. The rocks are slick with algae and salt, jagged enough to slice open your hand if you’re not careful, but I keep moving, fingers gripping the weathered stone, boots finding purchase where they can. Every haul upward sends a jolt through my body—muscles straining, skin burning from the salt and cold.
The stench hits me first. Rot, decay, the scent of death mingling with the salt in the air. The closer I get, the more I taste it, and it turns my stomach. But I push through, swallowing the nausea, focusing on the wreck above me.
Finally, I reach the top. I haul myself over the edge and stand before the shattered remains of the ship. Up close, it’s even more cursed than I imagined—timbers half-rotted, splintered openlike bones picked clean by scavengers, the sails barely clinging to the mast, torn and flapping uselessly in the wind.
I unsheathe one of my swords, the metal glinting coldly in the weak light filtering through the heavy clouds overhead. The storm’s been teasing the horizon all morning, but it hasn’t broken yet. Not that I need more water to deal with.
I move closer to the gaping hole in the hull, the sound of my boots crunching over debris echoing through the shattered silence. The wind howls through the wreck, making the wood groan as if the ship itself remembers the weight of the ocean swallowing it whole. Each step I take, Magnus clinks against my belt.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound makes me feel too damn obvious, but I focus on it regardless. On Magnus. On the weight of the jar hanging at my side. Anything to drown out that buzz—that vibration creeping through the air, slipping into my bones like a swarm of bees caught inside a glass jar. Amplified a hundredfold. It rattles in my skull, blurring the edges of my vision.
Focus on Magnus.
Clink. Clink.
Focus on the jar.
Clink.
I need to get to the captain’s cabin.
The inside of the ship is dark, with only thin shafts of dim, grey light piercing through cracks in the hull. It’s a maze of broken beams and twisted metal. The air reeks of mildew and salt-soaked wood, thick enough to turn my stomach, but the scent of the sea clings to everything—pungent, inescapable. It wraps around me, drowning out any sense of comfort. I grind my teeth to keep from gagging.
The captain’s cabin is at the far end, shrouded in shadow. I weave my way through the ship’s carcass, ducking under beamsthat hang like ribs from a dead whale, sidestepping piles of debris that could trap me if I’m not careful. The wood is slick underfoot, mold growing thick in patches, and I can’t afford a slip.
Finally, I reach the door to the captain’s cabin. It’s barely hanging onto its hinges, creaking with each gust of wind that tears through the wreck. One hard shove, and the door groans open, wood splintering beneath my palm. I step inside.
The room is almost untouched. It’s like stepping into a ghost’s memory—everything decayed, covered in mold and seaweed, but... intact.
“Thank fuck,” I mutter, taking in the sight.
Maps and charts are strewn across a massive wooden desk, their edges curling with age, some stained with salt water, others with ink. A massive chest sits in the corner, its ornate lock rusted but still sealed. There’s a wardrobe, chairs, even clothes strewn about like someone left in a hurry. The inkpad on the desk still has a dark, dried-up blotch where ink must have spilled out.
Dust clings to everything, thick and undisturbed, like the wreck was frozen in time. It’s unsettling—almost too clean for a ship that’s been left to rot.
This has to be it. Whatever answers I’m after, they’re here.
I move toward the desk, my fingers brushing over the faded parchment. The paper crinkles under my touch, brittle and fragile. I spread out the maps, scanning each one, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
“Just the eight seas,” I mutter, frustration bubbling up. “Nothing new here…”
The desk groans as I yank open its barely working drawers, the wood swollen and cracked. I have to wrench them open, hard enough to feel the strain in my arm. Inside, it’s the same as always—trinkets, letters, and a half-empty bottle of alcohol that smells like it could peel paint.
