The Island That Follows You: The Terrifying True Voyage of the Maragold

The year was 1721, and the Caribbean smelled of gunpowder, wet rope, stale rum, and the dreams of men foolish enough to chase the horizon. I served aboard the Red Mercy, a square-rigged brigantine with red-stained sails and a reputation twice as large as her hull. Weeks at sea had chipped at our tempers. No Spanish convoy. No merchant fat with coin. Not even a fishing sloop we could bully for food. Hunger made us mean; boredom made us cruel. Captain Velez—broad-shouldered, silver-eyed, and sharp as a reef—knew it better than anyone.

When we limped into Port Royal for supplies, the crew scattered across Kingston like a wave of noise and knives. I followed only to keep the others from burning half the street, though truthfully I longed for real ground beneath me. The taverns roared with heat and smoke, but amidst the chaos, I noticed a corner table where a man sat alone—still, silent, unblinking. Strange enough in a pirate port, but stranger still was the way no one sat within arm’s reach of him, as if an invisible border held them back.

His clothes were seaworn but not filthy. His hands—what remained of them—told the story better. Two fingers missing, a deep scar running from wrist to elbow, and the way he curled his remaining fingers around his tankard like he expected it to be torn away.

I would have ignored him—until he spoke without lifting his head.

“You sail with Velez.”

I froze. “Aye. And who asks?”

He looked up, and his eyes—clouded, unfocused—seemed to stare through me rather than at me. “A navigator’s hands,” he murmured. “Steady, cautious. You’re the one who should hear it.”

“Hear what?”

He reached into his coat and withdrew a leather cylinder. Even through the dim light, I could see its stitching was old—older than any man in the tavern.

“A map,” he said softly. “To an island not inked on any chart. I was a cartographer once, before I set eyes on that place. Before it marked me.”

I snorted. “Every month someone claims they’ve found a phantom island loaded with treasure and guarded by the devil.”

“You misunderstand,” he whispered. “I never said treasure.”

With fragile fingers, he rolled the map open on the table. The parchment, yellowed and curling with age, bore a drawing unlike any chart I had ever studied. Not a coastline. Not an outline. Instead, a shape like a spiral carved into the sea, surrounded by dozens of crude symbols— warnings, prayers, anchors, bones, and one repeated sigil that looked like an eye carved into a seashell.

In the center was a smear of ink so thick it cracked as it dried. Beneath it, faint but legible, a single word:

“Mirevault.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“A wound,” he whispered. “A place the sea tried to swallow and failed. A place something else now calls home.”

I rolled the parchment partly closed. “And why bring this to me?”

“Because no one else will listen,” he said with a tremor in his voice that sounded nothing like pride. “Because the men I warned before you either vanished or wished they had.”

As he leaned closer, I smelled brine—not the fresh salt of open water, but the stale rot of a drowned hold.

“My crew sought shelter on Mirevault after a storm,” he said. “We thought the beaches were empty. But the island was waiting. It listens. It learns. We did not see it at first, because it hides beneath the surface, beneath the sand, beneath—”

His voice broke.

“Only I lived. And only because I fled before night.”

I studied him again. The missing fingers. The scars. The hollowed eyes. Something inside me shifted—the uneasy pull between disbelief and the instinct to trust a madman.

“How far?” I asked quietly.

He tapped the map with a shaking hand. “Three days southeast of Pedro Bank. Follow the currents; you’ll feel them change. The sea grows… heavier.”

“And why give this to pirates?” I demanded.

He closed his eyes. “Because if any soul must face Mirevault again, better men who know death and cruelty than honest sailors who deserve a kinder fate.”

Captain Velez appeared behind me without a sound—he had a talent for that. His gaze fell on the map, then the cartographer, then me.

“Take it,” he ordered.

I shook my head. “We don’t know what—”

“Take it,” he repeated, voice like drawn steel.

So I did.

The cartographer exhaled like a man relieved to pass a curse to another host. As we turned to leave, he whispered a final warning.

“Do not anchor,” he said. “Do not set foot on sand. Above all, do not look into the water after dusk.”

He shuddered violently. “The eyes beneath remember.”

---

The Sea Turns Wrong

We left Port Royal at dawn. Wind strong. Crew restless. Captain Velez offered no explanation for our new heading. Pirates don’t need reasons—only promises of gold.

But there was no gold on the map.

Only the spiral.
Only the warnings.
Only the word Mirevault written like a scar.

On the second day, the flying fish vanished. Birds circled overhead but never landed. The water darkened—not the blue-black of depth, but a murky ink, as though disturbed sediment rose from the seabed even in calm seas.

By evening, the current pulled us without permission. Sailors muttered about undertows, ghost currents, waters where compasses spun mad. I checked the instruments twice. Then a third time. The needle drifted a full point east, then returned west, then stopped entirely like a needle embedded in flesh.

“This is madness,” I told Velez.

“It’s direction,” he corrected coldly.

“Direction to what?”

He did not answer.

Later that night, as I charted our position, someone shouted from the quarterdeck.

“LIGHT OFF THE STARBOARD!”

We ran to the rail and saw it—a faint green glow beneath the waves, pulsing like something breathing slowly in the dark.

Old Finn, our most superstitious sailor, crossed himself. “The bottom’s glowing,” he whispered. “That’s no reef. No fire.”

The glow brightened—

Then moved.

The water rippled outward in a widening circle as something enormous shifted below. We saw no body, no form—only the displacement, the rise and fall like a whale turning close beneath the surface.

Except whales come up for air.

This did not.

Whatever passed under us stayed deep, yet its shadow stretched beyond the hull on both sides.

“It’s guiding us,” I murmured before realizing how mad it sounded.

But Velez nodded as if he agreed.

---

Mirevault Appears

On the dawn of the third day, the fog parted, revealing a shape on the horizon—low, dark, irregular, as if carved by a blind hand. No birds flew around it. No surf broke against its shore. The sea went still as glass.

“Land-ho,” someone whispered.

But no one cheered.

As we approached, I saw the truth: Mirevault wasn’t an island formed naturally. Its shores were jagged bands of black stone fused like melted glass. Some parts jutted upward like ribs. Others sank in unnatural smoothness.

And the sand…
The sand wasn’t sand.
It was white. Bone white.

Captain Velez raised a hand.

“Drop anchor.”

“No!” I shouted instinctively. “The cartographer said—”

But the chain rattled out before I could finish.

It did not clink against rock.

It sank.

As if the seabed swallowed it whole.

Every man aboard fell silent at once.

That was when the island breathed.

Not wind. Not tide.
A low inhaling sound, deep beneath the surface, that made the deck vibrate under our boots.

Old Finn whispered: “The island’s alive.”

Velez ignored him.

“Prepare the longboats.”

“No one goes ashore,” I protested. “No one.”

Velez turned to me, expression unreadable.

“You spent years studying maps,” he said softly. “Has any chart ever offered what we see here? Answers lie on that shore. And answers are worth more than coin.”

He stepped forward.

“And you will guide us, navigator.”

My throat went dry. “I refuse.”

Ror, the largest brute on the ship, cracked his knuckles. “You don’t get to refuse.”

I felt their eyes on me—crew hardened by hunger, greed, desperation. Saying no meant mutiny. Or worse.

So I went.

---

The Shore That Should Not Exist

We rowed in two boats, oars cutting silently into unnaturally still water. Beneath us, shapes drifted—long, curved outlines, moving parallel to the boat as if escorting us.

When we reached the shore, the white sand crunched—not like sand, but like breaking shells. Every footprint pressed deeper than it should, as if the ground were hollow.

The air had a metallic tang.

We found the first skeleton within minutes—half buried, ribs splayed outward not from decay, but from force. Something had crushed the bones inward, then dragged the body deeper into the island.

The men murmured prayers. Even Velez froze.

Then Ror pointed ahead.

“There. Treasure.”

He was right.

Chests lay open along the beach. Gold coins spilled like dried seeds. Silver ingots tarnished but intact. Jeweled weapons, goblets, and foreign trinkets scattered in the sand.

It was wealth beyond any pirate’s dream.

But no one cheered.

Because the arrangement wasn’t natural.

The treasure wasn’t hidden.

It was placed.

Like bait.

Velez stepped forward. “Take what you can carry.”

“No!” I hissed. “Look at the patterns. Someone arranged these piles. Or”—I shuddered—“something.”

The island exhaled again.
Longer this time.
Heavier.

The sand under my boots trembled.

Something beneath us was waking.

The sand beneath my feet trembled faintly, like the skin of a drum struck from underneath. The oars of the beached longboats quivered, and the ropes tied to their bows gave off a soft, tired creaking, like something complaining in the wind.

“The island is breathing,” Bram whispered, fingers clutching the tiny wooden cross at his neck.

“Shut your mouth,” Velez snapped, though even he stood with his legs slightly apart—as if he expected the ground to cave in.

Gold lay everywhere like discarded scrap: Spanish doubloons, English silver bars, necklaces worth more than our entire brigantine. But none of it seemed dropped at random. Each pile formed a warped circle in the sand, evenly spaced, each surrounded by a strangely clean patch—no bones, no driftwood, no seaweed.

Treasure “nests.”

And every one of them sat neatly along the same long grooves in the sand that ran from the shoreline up into the forest of black stone.

“We’re going back to the ship,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let the current pull us out. If any of us want to stay alive—”

Ror laughed, a brittle, cracked sound. “Do you see all that silver? A lifetime of raiding couldn’t match it. And now you want to leave empty-handed?”

“I want to leave alive,” I shot back. “If whatever lives here wants to crack our ship, it’ll do it like snapping a matchstick. And here on land—”

A gold coin rolled across the sand, clicking softly. Mateo had knelt beside a chest, scooping handfuls of coins with shaking hands, his coat pockets bulging, his pupils huge.

“Idiot,” Old Finn rasped. “They placed it as bait and you’re crawling right in.”

“I’m an idiot with gold,” Mateo barked back, though his hands trembled wildly. “Dead men don’t spend money, right?”

The mention of death thickened the air. The metallic scent in the wind grew stronger—not like fresh blood, but like rust soaked in seawater. My tongue tingled. My throat felt scraped and dry.

“Enough,” Velez commanded. “One bag each. No more. Don’t touch anything near the treeline. Do not stray from the boats. We don’t know what hunts here, but it isn’t stupid. Don’t give it reason to notice us.”

“It noticed already,” Old Finn muttered. “Since the anchor fell and never touched bottom.”

As if in answer, the water behind us swelled—not in waves, but in a single long bulge that traveled parallel to the shore. No wind. No tide. Yet the sea rippled like something massive slid just beneath the surface.

Bram swallowed hard. “Holy Father…”

“Grab what you can,” Velez said, quieter now, determination replacing bravado. “We’re here. We’re not leaving empty.”

Greed is a rope that tightens itself around a man’s neck. Even as fear clawed at my ribs, my feet moved toward a cracked chest. Its lid hung open, revealing neatly stacked silver bars, some wrapped in cloth so old it crumbled to dust at my touch.

I lifted one bar. Heavy. Cold.

Everything inside me screamed drop it and keep it at the same time.

In the end, I slid it into my satchel.

Around us, metal clinked, cloth rustled, breath grew shallow. None of us spoke. We were rats in a cathedral, snatching scraps before the stone angels woke.

Then Bram collapsed.

I spun around. He hadn’t tripped—the sand beneath his boots had simply sagged, sinking slowly around his feet. The white grains darkened into a sickly gray.

“Don’t move!” I shouted.

He froze mid-breath, arms spread like a tightrope walker teetering over a pit.

Velez stepped toward the edge of the sinking patch. He crouched carefully, not touching it.

Velez squinted at the shifting grains. “It’s not a sinkhole. Look at the edges—see how the sand rises, not falls?”

Ror grunted. “Like something pushing up.”

A shiver clawed straight down my spine.

The sand around Bram’s boots rose, then settled again, then rose once more—slow pulses, like the rhythm of a creature breathing beneath a blanket.

“Captain…” Bram whispered, voice cracking. “Please.”

“Hold still,” Velez commanded. “Whatever’s beneath you is testing weight.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Bram hissed, sweat soaking through his collar.

I scanned the area—white sand stretching smooth and undisturbed in every direction, except for the long, curved grooves that led from the water inland. And Bram was standing right at the intersection of two of them.

“Captain,” I said quietly, “those grooves—look how they converge. He’s standing on a—”

A nest.

A feeding path.

A trigger.

Before I could form the word, the sand under Bram ballooned upward.

“MOVE!” I screamed.

Bram jumped, flinging himself sideways as the entire patch of sand erupted like a geyser. A column of white grains shot into the air, but it wasn’t just sand—something dark rose with it, something slick, segmented, and impossibly long.

The crew stumbled backward, shouting.

From beneath the earth emerged a massive, eel-like appendage—smooth as wet stone, black as oil, with tiny rows of bone-plated ridges running along its length. It slapped down where Bram had been a heartbeat ago, smashing a crater into the beach. Sand blasted outward in a shockwave.

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME—” Ror bellowed, stumbling.

“BACK TO THE BOATS!” I shouted.

But Velez didn’t move. He stared at the rising creature-piece with a strange, fascinated calm.

Another section broke through the sand several yards away. Then another. Three enormous segments burst upward, arcing through the air like the limbs of a blind titan groping for prey.

They weren’t arms.
They weren’t tentacles.
They were… feelers.

A creature feeling its surroundings—searching.

Hungry.

The segments converged toward Bram, who crawled desperately across the sand toward us, coughing and screaming. Each impact missed him by inches, leaving holes deep enough to swallow a man whole.

“CAPTAIN!” I yelled. “We can’t fight that!”

Velez snapped back to reality. “Ror! Mateo! Cover Bram! MOVE!”

Ror charged forward, firing his musket directly into the nearest appendage. The shot struck but did nothing except send a shudder through the black surface. Mateo emptied his pistol too—no effect.

Bram reached my boots. I grabbed him under the arms and hauled him upright.

That was when the island exhaled again.

But this time, we heard it clearly—not the wind, not the sea, but a deep resonance rising up from beneath the ground. A thick, bass rumble, like a breath drawn through a massive hollow throat.

And the sand rippled outward in a perfect circle from the forest’s edge.

“RUN!” Velez roared.

We sprinted, dragging Bram. Behind us, the black feelers slammed in rapid succession, chasing the vibrations of our footsteps. Mateo tripped but Ror yanked him up by the coat without stopping.

I forced myself not to look back.

We reached the longboats, flinging ourselves inside as the sand twenty feet behind us erupted once more—this time with enough force to spray chunks of shell and stone high into the air.

“PUSH OFF! PUSH!” Velez bellowed.

Oars hit the water. Men screamed. Bram sobbed prayers. The boat lurched free of the shore as the black appendage lunged into the surf behind us, slicing the water like a blade.

It didn’t chase far.

It didn’t need to.

Because now we knew—the creature lived beneath the sand, beneath the island, beneath everything. And the beach was its hunting ground.

When we were fifty meters offshore, Old Finn finally dared to look back.

His face drained of color.

“It wasn’t reaching for us,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?” I asked, breath still ragged.

He pointed.

At the shore.

At the nest.

At the piles of treasure we’d disturbed.

“It was guarding the offerings.”

And the realization hit us all at once:

The treasure wasn’t bait.

The treasure was tribute.

Left by something—or someone—who feared whatever lived below.

The longboats cut through the shallows fast enough to spray cold water into our faces. None of us dared slow. The feelers—those black, segmented horrors—slipped back beneath the sand, leaving behind perfect circular holes that collapsed a moment later.

Only when we reached deeper water did the men breathe again.

Even then, no one loosened their grip on the oars.

The Maragold rocked quietly in the distance, lanterns dimmed per Carol’s orders. The ship had never looked so small—so fragile.

“It won’t follow into deeper water,” Jonas murmured. “Not that one.”

Ror spat into the sea. “That one? How many damn beasts does this island keep?”

Jonas didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The silence said enough.

We tied the boats and climbed aboard.

Matteo collapsed first, dropping to the deck, panting into his hands. Old Finn made the sign of the cross. Bram stared blankly at the water dripping from his sleeves.

Captain Velez—the one man I expected to bark orders—said nothing. He stood at the rail, eyes fixed on the island’s pale outline.

“Captain,” I said softly. “Orders?”

He didn’t turn. Not right away. When he finally did, his face was drawn, bloodless, older by ten years.

“Not yet.”

The answer chilled me more than if he’d shouted.

It meant he didn’t know the right move—and Carol Velez always knew.

The crew kept their silence. The sea was still. Too still.

Then…

something tapped the hull.

Not the waves. Not driftwood.

One single tap—measured, deliberate.

Then another.

Then two, right beneath the waterline, spaced out like knocking.

Tok…
Tok……… tok…

A few men scrambled back from the side.

“Not him,” Jonas whispered. “He doesn’t leave the sand except at night. And only inland.”

“Wonderful,” Matteo hissed. “So there’s more than one.”

Jonas slowly nodded.

“There is what rules the shore. And there is what rules the water.”

Ror’s jaw clenched, fists tightening. “And which one is tapping my damn ship?”

Jonas looked at the blackening sea.

“The smaller one.”

Ror stared. “There’s a smaller one?!”

Jonas corrected him quietly.
“No. Not smaller. Just younger.”

The tapping grew faint, then faded entirely.

I wished it hadn’t.

Silence was worse.

---

That night, no one slept.

We set double watches. Lanterns remained dim. Arms stayed loaded.

The sea around us turned oddly warm, as though heated from below. A faint glow shimmered under the surface—not bright, but visible enough to unsettle every man.

“What is that?” Bram whispered, leaning over the rail.

I pulled him back sharply. “Don’t get close.”

Tiny motes flickered in the deep, swirling like fireflies trapped under glass. At first, I thought it was phosphorescent plankton.

Then the lights moved in patterns.

Not random. Not drifting.

Forming lines.

Curves.

Shapes like symbols.

Like writing.

“What kind of creature makes… that?” Mateo murmured.

Jonas swallowed. “Not creatures.”

The lights brightened for a moment, swarming beneath the hull, tracing along the underside of the Maragold like curious fingers.

Jonas bowed his head.
“It’s the city waking.”

Ror blinked. “City? What city?”

Jonas lifted his eyes to the horizon.

“The one this island used to be.”

---

The Drowned City’s Song

Just past midnight, a low hum vibrated through the planks beneath our feet.

Not a sound—more like a pressure. A resonance.

It came from the deep.

At first, I thought it was the creature beneath the sand—some distant roar carried through stone and water.

Then the lanterns flickered in unison.

I clutched the railing as a subtle but nauseating pulse moved through the hull, like the sea itself was exhaling.

Velez gripped the quarterdeck rail. “Jonas… what is this?”

Jonas didn’t flinch at the trembling air.
“It starts the same way every time.”

“What starts?” Ror demanded.

Jonas finally looked at him.

“The calling.”

Bram paled. “The calling? Of what?”

“Of those who died here.”

The hum deepened.

Ripples formed around the ship in perfect circles—too symmetrical to be natural. The lights in the water shifted from pale green to deep sapphire.

Then the singing began.

Soft. Distant.

A voice so faint I thought it was the wind. Then stronger. Dozens of them. Hundreds. A chorus rising from the deep, layered and impossibly ancient.

The men froze.

Mateo crossed himself. “Mother of God…”

Old Finn trembled. “I’ve heard mermaids before. Sirens. Nothing like this.”

“Because it isn’t calling to lure you.” Jonas whispered.

“It’s calling to warn you.”

“To warn us of what?” I asked.

Jonas closed his eyes. “That something has awakened with us.”

A sudden splash burst on the port side.

Not a wave.

A shape.

Pale. Humanoid. Just for an instant—floating on the surface, staring up at us with empty sockets where eyes should have been.

Then it sank silently.

Another surfaced on the starboard.

Then another at the bow.

And another.

And more.

Bodies.

At least I thought they were bodies.

Pale and swollen from the deep. But not rotting.

Just… drifting. Watching.

Ror stepped back, voice cracking. “No. No, no, no—what is THIS?!”

“They’re not alive,” Jonas whispered, “but not dead either. The city keeps them.”

Captain Velez stepped forward. “Explain. Now.”

Jonas hesitated.

“The island was a city once. A great one. Built too close to the ocean floor. They thought they controlled the creatures. But the creatures learned.”

Mateo swallowed. “Learned what?”

“How to sing back.”

The chorus surged louder, vibrating through our bones. The floating figures drifted closer.

Bram grabbed my arm so tightly his nails dug into my skin. “Navigator… tell me how we leave this place.”

“I can’t,” I whispered. “There are no stars. No wind. The sea is dead.”

Jonas nodded. “It traps you. Draws you in. It wants to know you.”

Velez’s voice broke through the fear.
“Cut anchor. Raise sail.”

“We have no wind,” I reminded him.

“We make our own. Ror—Matteo—run the pumps. Bram—Finn—clear the lines. MOVE!”

Fear or not, the men obeyed.

I took the helm.

The singing grew louder.

The water glowed brighter.

And then—

Something rose beneath us.

Something enormous.

A shadow spreading wider than the ship, rising slow as a mountain pushing through the sea.

My knuckles went white on the wheel.

“CAPTAIN,” I croaked, “we have to move. We have to move NOW.”

Jonas didn’t look surprised.

“It wakes when it senses trespassers,” he whispered. “Especially those who disturb the graves.”

Mateo froze mid-step. “Graves? We stole from the clearing!”

“No,” Jonas said softly. “We stole from its dead.”

A giant ring of lights formed in a circle around the ship.

Then another, closer.

Then another.

The sea began to rise.

Not in waves.

Upward.

As if something beneath was lifting us.

Men screamed.

The corpses drifted away rapidly, as though repelled by what was coming.

And the song turned into a roar.

Jonas grabbed the captain’s arm. “There is one chance.”

Velez spun to him. “Tell me.”

Jonas pointed to the open water beyond the glowing rings.

“We must break the circle.”

“How?” I demanded.

Jonas stared at the rising sea.

“With sacrifice.”

The deck fell silent.

Even the chorus paused, as if listening.

Jonas’s voice lowered. “It wants the one who led you here.”

Every man turned to him.

Ror’s fists tightened.

Mateo went pale.

Bram gasped, horrified.

Old Finn muttered, “No. We’re not doing that. We’re not—”

But Jonas didn’t plead.

He simply stepped forward, placing his hands on the rail.

“I knew this would happen,” he whispered. “It always does.”

Velez grabbed him. “Jonas—NO.”

Jonas gave a tired smile.

“I promised only to show you the way. I never promised to survive it.”

He stepped onto the rail.

The water rose to meet him.

“WAIT!” I reached out—

Too late.

Jonas let himself fall.

The moment his body hit the glowing water, the entire sea shuddered.

The singing stopped.

The rising shadow halted.

Every ring of light blinked once—

—then receded all at once, spiraling outward into the deep like a massive breath exhaled.

The sea dropped back into place, sending the Maragold rocking violently.

Men shouted, holding ropes and rails.

When everything settled…

The glowing rings were gone.

The corpses had vanished.

The sea was dark again.

Still unnatural, still quiet—but no longer rising.

Old Finn collapsed to his knees. “He gave himself to the deep.”

“He bought us a chance,” I said hoarsely.

Velez stared at the water where Jonas disappeared, jaw tight, hands trembling.

“Raise every scrap of sail,” he ordered quietly. “We leave this cursed place.”

But even as the men scrambled to obey…

The wind remained dead.

The compass spun uselessly.

And beneath the ship…

A faint glow flickered again.

We had escaped the creature.

We had escaped the city’s awakening.

But the island was not done with us.

Not even close.

The crew worked in near silence, hoisting the sails and clearing the lines with shaking hands. Every man kept one eye on the black water below as though expecting Jonas to rise again—or something far worse.

The wind refused to come.

The canvas hung limp, like the wings of a dead bird.

Old Finn spat into the sea. “Dead wind. Dead water. Dead city below. We’re trapped.”

“Not trapped,” Captain Velez muttered. But the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

I tightened my grip on the helm. The compass needle spun slowly, then jittered, then pointed nowhere at all. As if magnetic north had drowned beneath the island, taking every charted truth with it.

Bram’s voice broke the quiet. “What… what do we do now?”

Ror snarled. “We fight. We blast our way out. Load the cannons!”

“There is nothing to shoot,” Mateo snapped. “Unless you want to fire into the sea and hope the ocean bleeds.”

Ror turned on him, fists tight, but Velez stepped between them.

“Enough.” His voice was steel now. “We will not fall apart.”

But even he looked toward the water more than the men.

---

Then something tapped the hull again.

A single, deliberate knock.

Tok…

My stomach turned.

Before anyone could speak, a second knock replied.

Tok… tok…

But this time, the knocks weren’t random.

They formed a pattern.

Old Finn’s face drained of color. “That’s no creature.”

“No,” I said softly. “It’s a message.”

“From who?” Mateo whispered.

From Jonas.
Or from whatever had him now.

I leaned over the side, careful not to go too far. The water below was black—but not empty. Shapes drifted inside the dark like cold smoke swirling beneath glass.

Then I saw it.

Something pale floated upward.

Not Jonas. Not a corpse.

It was a bone.

Long. Smooth. Polished by water and time.

It bumped the hull gently, knocking out the same rhythm.

A third bone surfaced beside it.

Then a fourth.

Then more—rising in a slow spiral beneath the ship.

Ror staggered back. “What in God’s name—”

“It’s not attacking,” Bram whispered. “It’s… forming something.”

The bones gathered together, drifting until they lay in a perfect circle around the hull. At first I thought they floated freely, but no—the water beneath them trembled, holding each one in place as though invisible threads pulled them.

A sigil began forming.

Not random.

Not natural.

The shape resembled an open spiral with a sharp hook at one end—the same shape Jonas had drawn in rum on that tavern table in Kingston.

Mateo gasped. “The cursed island mark…”

“No,” I whispered. “It’s a compass.”

The bones glowed faintly, pointing to a single narrow direction—east, away from the island.

Ror blinked hard. “Do we follow it?”

Captain Velez gave no answer.

The crew looked to him—each expression a mix of fear, hope, and disbelief.

Velez exhaled slowly. “He said he’d show us the way. Even in death, Jonas keeps his word.”

The captain turned to me.
“Navigator. Helm east. Follow the bone-sign.”

“We still have no wind,” I warned.

“Then we row,” Velez said. “All hands. Oars out. Move!”

Ror barked orders along the deck. The men obeyed instantly, almost grateful to have something to do that wasn’t waiting for death’s hand.

Oars plunged into the water.

The Maragold creaked forward—slow, heavy, stubborn.

But the bones in the water shifted too, drifting ahead as if guiding our path. Each time the ship strayed from the correct angle, the nearest bone rattled faintly against the hull.

As if correcting us.

As if… steering us.

Mateo whispered under his breath, half prayer, half disbelief. “Jonas… you saintly madman…”

I wasn’t so sure Jonas was guiding anything anymore.

The dead city had taken him.

And whatever lived beneath those glowing rings had learned the shape of his intentions.

---

Hours passed.

The island grew distant, shrouded in mist.

But the sea remained wrong—too warm, too calm, too watchful.

Men rowed until their arms shook. Ror set the pace with the booming grunt of a war drummer. Old Finn wheezed through clenched teeth, sweat soaking his collar.

“We’re making ground,” Bram whispered.

“No,” I said.

Everyone turned to me.

I pointed at the island.

“It’s following us.”

The mist shifted.

The outline of Mirevault—its ridges, its torn trees, its broken beach—had not grown smaller. It sat behind us at the same distance as before, no matter how far we rowed.

Mateo’s eyes widened. “Impossible. We’re moving—I feel us moving!”

“We are,” I said. “But so is the island.”

The rowing faltered.

Ror nearly dropped his oar. “No. Islands don’t move. They don’t—they CAN’T—”

The sea beneath us pulsed.

A ripple like a heartbeat.

The bones flickered faintly.

And something spoke from the deep.

Not in words.
In resonance.

A low, ancient vibration rolled through the water, lifting the hairs on our arms.

“What is that?” Bram whispered.

“The city,” I said. “It’s calling us back.”

The bone circle broke apart.

Half drifted ahead.

Half drifted behind.

A command.

A warning.

A decision.

“We cannot keep rowing,” Mateo gasped. “We’ll die of exhaustion.”

“We cannot stop rowing,” Bram wheezed. “Or we die anyway.”

Old Finn clenched his jaw. “Then what do we do?!”

I stared at the bones—floating, waiting, watching.

“We choose.”

---

The Choice

Captain Velez stepped to the rail.

His voice cut through the panic—thin but resolute.

“This city—whatever it is—wants to judge us.”

“The way it judged Jonas?” Matteo snapped.

“No,” Velez said. “Jonas chose his fate.”

“And us?”

Velez’s gaze hardened.

“Us, it tests.”

Ror barked a laugh—short, harsh, desperate. “Then test this!” He hurled his oar into the sea. “I won’t play games with ghosts!”

The sea responded instantly.

The bone nearest the spot where the oar splashed blinked once—then sank like a stone.

Ror froze.

The water beneath him darkened.

“Ror,” I whispered. “Step back.”

“I—I didn’t mean—” His voice cracked. He stepped toward the center of the deck.

But the ship lurched.

The deck tilted under his boots.

“NO—”

A black appendage shot from beneath the waves—thin, fast, nothing like the giant limbs of the sand creature. It coiled around Ror’s ankle with lightning speed.

He screamed—a raw, animal sound.

The crew grabbed whatever they could.

“Hold him!” Velez bellowed.

Bram lunged for Ror’s wrist. Old Finn grabbed Bram’s coat to anchor him. Mateo reached for Ror’s belt.

For a moment, it worked.

We had him.

We had him—

Until the water below glowed bright blue.

A second tendril rose.

Then a third.

Each one coiled around Ror’s legs, waist, chest.

The bones surrounding the ship sank in unison.

Ror’s eyes widened with terror.

“CAPTAIN—PLEASE—DON’T LET IT TAKE ME—”

Velez grabbed his forearm, muscles straining.

“I HAVE YOU! HOLD ON!”

But the tendrils pulled with a force no man could match.

Ror’s scream cut through the night as he was yanked downward so fast the air around him popped. His fingers slipped from ours, tearing skin and leaving bloody streaks on Mateo’s arms.

He vanished into the black.

The water stilled.

The bones resurfaced.

Except one.

The one Ror had angered.

It never returned.

Mateo staggered back, shaking violently. Bram fell to his knees. Old Finn vomited over the rail.

I stared at the dark sea.

The glowing bones brightened again.

One path ahead.
One path behind.
A missing piece where Ror had stood.

A message.

Not all crew will leave.

Velez finally spoke.

“Take your positions,” he whispered hoarsely. “We follow the bones. No one makes another mistake.”

---

The Sea That Learned

We rowed.
And rowed.
And rowed.

The island still hovered at the edge of the mist, but now it drifted slower—reluctantly, as if allowing us some distance.

The water hummed with quiet warning.

Mateo trembled at every splash.

Bram whispered prayers until his voice cracked.

Old Finn stared hollow-eyed at Ror’s empty place.

Velez stayed at the bow, spine straight, jaw locked, refusing to show how deeply fear gnawed at him.

The bones pulsed brighter.

The path ahead narrowed.

“Captain,” I said quietly, “we’re approaching the open water beyond the city’s reach. If we follow this far enough—”

“I know,” he said.

“But something is wrong.”

I frowned. “What?”

He nodded at the compass.

It wasn’t spinning anymore.

It pointed at a fixed direction.

Down.

The compass needle pressed against the underside of the glass so hard it strained to break it.

Bram saw it too.

His voice cracked. “Why is it—what does it mean?”

Velez exhaled slowly.

“It means the city beneath us has noticed.”

The sea hummed louder.

The bones glowed brighter.

The Maragold drifted into a vast, circular patch of water darker than the rest of the ocean—too dark.

As if the world beneath had fallen away.

Mateo swallowed. “Navigator… what lies below?”

I stared at the water.

At the void.

At the faint flicker of lights far, far beneath, arranged in patterns too symmetrical to be natural.

“A city,” I whispered. “An entire city.”

Old Finn clutched the rail. “Ruins?”

“No,” I said softly. “It’s not ruined.”

The humming deepened.

The bones vibrated.

And from beneath us…

lights turned upward.
Like eyes opening.

The drowned city had awakened fully.

And it was looking at us now.