Nothing.
But then, something catches my eye. A journal, half-buried beneath a pile of tattered papers, bound in worn leather that’s soft and pliable from years of neglect. My breath stills in my chest as I pull it free, my fingers tracing the faded cover.
I flip it open, and there it is—familiar scrawl, jagged and rough. My grandfather’s handwriting.
My chest tightens. The entries are dated. Two months before he disappeared without a trace.
I skim the first few lines, my eyes darting over the words, faster and faster as the words sink in.
“The trials before us are certain to be deadly, for it is said such peril is what pleases Her. She, who commands the salt in our blood as if it were Hers to govern, craves the very essence of our being, the brine that courses through our veins. The salt feeds Her hunger.”
The woman who brought forth the cursed compass warned us gravely—none may walk away unscathed, and some, perhaps, not at all. Where she draws such grim knowledge, I cannot say, yet her every word has rung true so far, and it chills me to my core.
I have a son waiting for me at home. Little Terrance, no more than seven summers, looks to me with hope. How can I fall to some fool’s errand and leave him fatherless, alone in a world that cares naught for the innocent? I cannot, I will not perish on this wretched quest and abandon my boy...”
My grip on the pages tightens until my knuckles whiten, the paper crinkling beneath my fingers.Terrance. My father. He lost his own father when he was seven.
I keep on reading.
“The sea itself seems to plot our downfall, the waves thrashing with a wicked intent, as though She commands them. Nay, it is not mere fancy—Sheiswatching. There is no denying it. Every move we make, every breath we take, falls beneath Her gaze. Our lives, it seems, are but pieces in Her cruel game. She longs to see us stumble, to revel in our despair.
Yet onward we must go. For if She does not get what She craves, Her wrath will be upon us once more, and we have already felt the sting of Her anger. We dare not provoke Her again, not after what has passed.
If these words are read, then it means I did not return. Forgive me, Terrance. I beg of you, forgive your father for leaving you behind. Believe me, I wished to stop. Truly, I did. But it was far too late. The moment that cursed compass stirred, the madness began, and there was no turning back.
We are bound to Her will now. Whatever becomes of me, I pray you never lay eyes upon that wretched compass, as the woman who cursed us did. Had she never found it, none of this would have come to pass.
And, my son, heed this well: do not follow in your father’s footsteps. Do not seek to tame the sea. It is a wild, unforgiving mistress. She is never to be tamed.”
I close the journal, my hands trembling. My grandfather’s last entry. There’s more before it, but I can’t keep reading. The words dig too deep.
His fear… It echoes in my bones. He died hoping the curse would end with him. He didn’t know what would happen to my father. He had no idea that the Lady would claim him and my mother, just as she did him.
Well… the curse didn’t end. It never fucking ends.
All these years, all this loss—all of it because of this cursed compass and the Lady he feared. A generational fucking tragedy clawing at my very being.
“You knew this,” I mutter to myself, dragging a hand across my face. “None of this is news.”
But reading his words? It’s different. His desperation bleeds off the page, like it’s trying to warn me from beyond the grave. Still, I take a deep breath, my resolve hardening. I’m going to find that compass. Even if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll use it—turn it against Her, against the goddess, and get my revenge.
My grandfather wouldn’t have wanted that. It’s clear he wanted the curse buried, forgotten. But he didn’t know me. He didn’t know my parents. And they sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to them.
I stand there, fists clenched so tight my knuckles go white. I don’t even notice the buzzing in my head until it swells, a sound from outside the cabin jolting me back to reality. Voices—two male, one female.
Shit. Someone’s here.
The buzzing intensifies, digging into my skull, vibrating through my bones. I shove the journal into my coat and tighten the grip on my sword.
Who else could’ve found this place? I spent months tracking it, following half-baked songs and riddles like breadcrumbs. It was supposed to be hidden, unreachable. Astrology, chemistry, biology—I used all my knowledge given to me by my father to find this place beyond all the maps sold by men.
It shouldn’t be found, not on purpose. And those who do stumble on it? They don’t leave. Not according to legend, anyway.
That begs a question, though, doesn’t it? If everyone who sees it dies, how does the tale of this place even spread? Who’s left to sing the songs?
It makes no sense. None of it does. Just another piece of the Lady’s mess that I have tried to untangle and have not yet succeeded.
I press against the wall, muscles tense, straining to hear the voices better. They’re getting closer. One of them—male—is loud. Too loud. Cheerful, even. Playful. Melodic.
