I crouch lower, slipping toward a broken beam for cover. The beam smells of salt and decay, but it gives me a vantage point. Peering around the edge, I spot them—a trio, making their way from the opposite side of the island.
The loud one is waving his hands, a small dagger flopping around like a toy. He doesn’t know how to use it, that much is obvious. He’s weak. I could take him down before he even realizes I’m here.
Then there’s the second man. He’s different. Taller, rough around the edges, with a gun strapped to his thigh. His limp might slow him down, but the look in his eyes says he’s seen his fair share of blood. He looks like he’s no stranger to violence.
But it’s the woman that makes my grip on my blade tighten. She’s the one in charge, no doubt about it. Eyes sharp, posture tense, like a wolf waiting to strike. Her eyes scan the room, piercing and alert. She doesn’t look weak either.
“...And then I told her, ‘Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll find my father and bring him back home,’” the loud one says. “’Together with all that fortune he promised us from the islands. Took enough alcohol with him to set us up for a year.’ A year!” He laughs, a sound so jarring, so out of place here, it feels like nails scraping down my spine.
The other two aren’t amused. They’re scanning the wreck, eyes darting through every shadow, every crumbling corner, like they expect the walls themselves to attack.
“Hush, Vinicola,” the woman snaps, her tone cold. “Save your stories for later.”
Vinicola, the loud, weak one, nods, but his pout betrays the whiner beneath. He steps slowly onto the ship behind the others, practically dragging his feet. The woman leads. Then comes the other man, the one with the limp, his fingers twitching as if he’s itching to put his pistol to use. He’s on edge—ready for action. Too ready.
I stay hidden, my breath shallow, watching their every move. There’s no doubt in my mind now—they’re not here by accident. They’ve followed the same trail of breadcrumbs I did, but for what? Could they be after the same thing? Could they possibly be after the compass?
I grip the hilt of my sword tighter, the leather biting into my palm. If it comes to it, I’ll cut them down without hesitation. I don’t want to kill strangers, but that’s how it is out here—kill first, or you’re the one left bleeding on the deck.
But then something strange happens. As they draw closer, the buzzing in my head—damn it—grows worse. The relentless hum turns into a roar. My vision wavers for a second. I fight to steady myself, forcing slow breaths through my nose, willing my body to stay calm.
I force myself to breathe.
“Do you hear that?” The woman’s voice cuts through the static. It’s sharp, commanding, but there’s an edge to it. Like she’s uneasy.
My pulse quickens. Did she hear me?
“Hear what?” the weak one asks.
“That awfulbuzzing,“ she groans, pressing a hand to her temple. “It’s making me crazy.”
My blood runs cold.
She can hear it, too. She’s sensitive to the pull like Ridley and I.
Well, that confirms it, doesn’t it? They must be after the compass. There’s no other reason for a person sensitive to the unexplainable to come here.
I need to act. Now.
Every muscle in my body tenses as I straighten, careful not to make a sound. I inch forward, silent as a shadow, keeping Magnus from clinking against my belt. No sudden movements. No mistakes.
The loud one, Vinicola, is the obvious first target. He’s weak, loud, and terrified. His panic will buy me time to deal with the others.
I grab a small pebble from the floor and flick it to the far side of the room. The sound echoes off the rotten wood, and just like that, their attention snaps toward it.
“What was that?” Vinicola’s voice quivers, betraying his nerves.
Perfect. He’s already scared.
“Stay focused,” the woman commands. “It’s probably just the wind.”
But the wind doesn’t throw stones, now does it?
I don’t wait. Moving swiftly, I slip behind a rotting beam, positioning myself closer to the weak one. His back is to me now. Easy prey. With one fluid motion, I pounce. My sword glints in the dim light as I press the cold steel against his throat. He freezes, his breath catching in his throat, eyes widening in pure terror.
“Not a sound,” I hiss, tightening my grip. “Or you die.”
His body trembles under my blade, a strangled whimper escaping his lips. The woman and the man with the limp whip around, weapons drawn, their eyes locking onto me in an instant. The woman’s gaze burns with fury, her hand twitching toward her own blade. But I’ve got the upper hand. One wrong move, and Vinicola’s blood will be soaking the deck.
