“No,” he breathes, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “Stop it!”
He lunges again, but this time I’m ready. I sidestep, narrowly dodging his grasp, my heart hammering in my chest. Panic-fueled breaths escape me as I dart toward the starboard side.
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” he shouts after me.
For once, he’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing. Not even a little bit. I’m winging it with every step and hoping I don’t meet an untimely end in the process.
“Not Magnus!” he yells, and it’s only then that the word registers. Magnus?
I glance down at the jar in my hands, and my eyes widen. Well, that’s not what I expected.
Inside the jar is a cactus. A cactus. I know this because my father brought one home, and it promptly turned my mother’s fingers into pin cushions.
What in the name of all things spiky is going on?
The chase was grand, the chase was bloody,
The bard reached for the prize, quick and ruddy.
A jar it was, clinking at the man’s side,
He knew it was the key to turn the tide.
.
With wits and guile, he tricked the madman,
He ducked and weaved, and stole the plan.
But when he gazed at his hard-won loot,
A cactus in the glass, his hopes refute.
.
Surely there had to be a reason for that,
Why such a scary man feared a mere plant.
The bard wanted to ask, the bard wanted to pry,
But the glass started shaking, as if it were alive.
I stare at the jar in my hands, its smooth glass surface catching the dim light. Surely, there has to be more to this than a simple plant. Why would a man as terrifying ashimcarry a jar like it’s the crown jewel of his loot?
Before I can ponder further, the jar begins to tremble. At first, I think it’s my hands shaking—nerves, fear, the usual—but no. This isn’t just me. The jar itself hums, faint and low, vibrating like a plucked string, as if something inside iswaking up. My pulse quickens, and I tighten my grip instinctively, but it doesn’t stop.
“Oh, gods, fuck!” A scream shreds the air—no, not one scream—two, in perfect dissonance. Miss Captain and the madman collapse at the same time, writhing on the deck like fish pulled from the sea. Their hands claw at their ears, their faces twisting in pain.
What in the gods’ names is going on?
The hum grows louder, crawling up my arms like a swarm of insects, rattling my bones with each tremor. It’s not just sound anymore—it’s something alive, pulsating through the jar, through me. And then, right in the middle of this nightmare, I feel it:warmth. Not from the jar, mind you, but from something else. The compass, hanging at my side, flares with heat, like it’s responding to whatever this is. It burns against my hip, throbbing in sync with the hum from the jar.
“Vini, drop it!” Miss Captain’s voice tears through the chaos, high-pitched and strangled, raw with terror. “Drop that jar!”
She’s probably right. Dropping it isexactlywhat I should do. Any sane man would throw this thing overboard and run. But I can’t. My fingers refuse to let go, as if they’re welded to the glass. My mind screams at me to move, to drop the jar, but something deep inside—a whisper, a tug—won’t let me.Hold on, it says.See this through.
A crack of lightning splits the sky, illuminating the shattered mast just feet away, while blood-red rain beats down harder, drenching us. The storm breaks, but I’m barely aware of it. My hands are really shaking now, the jar trembling violently in my grip, and yet, I hold on tighter.
