21. Fabien

21

Fabien

“ I can tell what’s on your mind, young master,” Ridley says, standing by my side as I stare at the rocky climb ahead. His voice, thick with the accent he’s clung to all these years, washes over me like the tide. He’s a small man, old as the sea itself, with hair as white as snow, but his presence—his damn presence—could fill a ship’s hold. He doesn’t need to say much to command respect; it’s just there, simmering beneath the warmth in his eyes and the loyalty in his bones.

Warmth and loyalty—that’s Ridley. Sometimes I wonder if those are the only things he’s ever felt, the only things he’s capable of. Loyalty like his can’t be taught, can’t be bought. It’s in his blood. One thing I lack, and the other I crave like a drowning man craves air.

But loyalty has a way of twisting a man, doesn’t it? Digging in deep until it’s woven into every fiber of his being, making him do things he never thought he’d do. It keeps him clinging to things long past, like that damned accent of his. Even after everything—after the tragedy, after the years that have washed over us like waves—he refuses to let it go. It’s his way of keeping our heritage alive, of holding on to the pieces of what we once were.

And I get it. He’s as scarred as I am, even if he doesn’t show it the way I do.

I should have the same accent as him. I should speak the way he does, carry the same weight in my words. But I don’t. Years of burying myself deep, of forcing myself to blend in, to become invisible, have stripped it from me. I’ve been eroded by the need to survive, by the need to be unseen.

But Ridley? No, nothing can erode him. He stands firm, unshakable, like a goddamn rock in the storm.

I respect it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Don’t call me that,” I grunt, barely sparing him a glance. “I’m not young anymore, and I’m certainly not your master. Trust me, old man, you have no idea what’s going on in my head. You might think you see the surface, but you’ll never reach the depths.”

The words come out harsher than I intended, like they’re made of broken glass. My voice hasn’t been pleasant for a long time—it’s rough, grated from years of screaming at the void. Someone once said it sounded like nails scraping over stone, with the echo of a man twice my age. Not that they’re wrong. I guess that’s what happens when you spend your nights cursing a world that’s ripped everything away from you.

But Ridley? He just smiles, that damn warmth in his eyes, like I didn’t just spit venom at him. Like we aren’t stranded at sea again, worn down from our endless wandering. Like he isn’t tired, broken from the weight of our two-month voyage to nowhere. Like he doesn’t feel the hunger, the exhaustion, the damn hopelessness that’s become a second skin for all of us.

He smiles like I’m worth something. He must be the only one left who does.

“Let me tell you something, lad,” he says, pulling a handkerchief from his chest pocket, his fingers still steady as he wipes down the barrel of my gun. “First off, you seriously underestimate my loyalty to the Rancour family.” I scoff. No, I don’t. “And second,” Ridley adds, his voice soft but sure, “while the crew may think you’re mad, I’ve always seen through that.”

“Is that so?” I mutter, my voice dragging like gravel.

Ridley’s eyes crinkle at the corners, deepening the lines on his weathered face. He’s too old for this, too seasoned to still be sailing, chasing after a man like me. And he knows damn well that whatever thoughts fester in my head, they’re not fit for someone like him.

“Yes, it is,” he replies, undeterred by my roughness. “You see, I can tell you’re thinking about them again. You always are.”

The mention of my parents sends a fresh wave of bitterness clawing up my throat. It’s been years, but some wounds never heal. Some wounds fester and rot and set off awful, awful things.

“Ridley, if you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re doing a piss-poor job,” I say, forcing a bitter laugh. My mouth might turn up in a smile, but I don’t feel it.

“I’m not here to cheer you up,” he replies calmly, still meticulously cleaning the gun. “I’m here to remind you why you’re doing this. Why you can’t afford to give up, no matter how high the stakes or how impossible the odds seem. You think this crew’s the first to call you mad? I know you hear them praying each night before they sleep.”

“They can pray all they want,” I say, my voice sharp. “It doesn’t faze me. I gave up on gods long ago, but if their prayers keep them from losing their nerve, I won’t stop them. They might still have a chance at salvation, even with a soul like mine at the helm.”

The words open a chasm inside me, vast and consuming. Thick, metal chains unwind from around my heart, and hellfire threatens to engulf me. Pain. This fire is pain, and there’s a desperate need to extinguish it. I extend my hand towards Ridley, silently pleading for my gun. It’s the only thing that keeps the flames in check.

He hesitates, his eyes meeting mine, searching for something—what, I don’t know. The wind whips around us, tearing at our clothes, but we stand there, locked in this moment. He nods, solemn, like he thinks he understands.

Ridley doesn’t understand a damn thing.

He thinks he does, sure. Thinks his soul is as blackened as mine, like we share the same torment. But he’s wrong. His pain is nothing compared to what burns inside me.

Finally, he hands me the gun. “Will you go straight away?” he asks, his voice low, barely audible over the howling wind. “There’s a buzz in the air. Stronger than usual.”

“That’s why I need to move fast,” I mutter, clutching the cold metal in my palm.

This ship—this wreck—might be my last chance. If what I’m looking for isn’t here, I’ll have to start over. It’ll mean retracing every step, re-reading every scrap of information, reconnecting with people I swore I’d never deal with again. It’ll mean I’ve wasted five goddamn years chasing a lie.

But no, I’m not wrong. All the signs led me to this place. Whatever I need is on that ship. It has to be.

I grip the gun tighter, my knuckles white. I’ve survived everything thrown at me so far, but the real battle hasn’t even begun. I haven’t left a single mark on my enemy yet.

The fire inside me rages hotter, consuming everything. If I don’t find a way to release it soon, it’ll burn me alive.

And then who’s going to avenge my family?

“Be careful,” Ridley says, his voice soft, his eyes lingering on me for a beat longer than usual before shifting to the shipwreck. It sits there, pierced by the rocks like some cursed monument. Exactly like that damned song describes.

It’s a chilling sight, sure. Maybe it would’ve made me shudder once. But the part of me that used to feel fear? It’s long gone. Burned to ash, just like everything else.

The deck’s quiet, just the two of us standing here like fools while the rest of the crew huddles below, praying to whatever gods they believe in. They’re convinced this place is haunted. Fuck, they’re probably scared stiff right now, thinking the ghost of some sailor will crawl out of the sea and drag them under. One of them even swore that just looking at the wreck would mark us all with the sea’s curse.

Pathetic.

They’ve seen me walk out of places they wouldn’t dare set foot in. They’ve watched me pull relics from ruins, handle objects they wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Yet here I stand, unmarked, unscathed. You’d think that would be enough to shake some sense into them.

But fear’s funny that way. It grips people, blinds them. Just like pain used to do to me—before I learned to turn it into something useful.

Contrary to what it may seem, though, I do believe in curses. I believe I am a victim of one. Real curses, however, do not come in the shape of mares on the water, the undead crawling onto the shores, or mermaid songs.

No, real curses come from within. They creep into your head, twisting your thoughts, turning your memories into nightmares. Those are the curses you can’t shake, the ones that stay with you long after the danger’s passed.

This wreck? It’s tied to one of those curses. And that’s why the crew might be right to be scared this time.

This isn’t just some bitter wife’s tale about a husband who never returned, or a story spun by a treasure-mad merchant to keep people away. No, this place hums with something real. Ancient. Powerful. It calls to me.

“It won’t take long,” I say. I tighten the straps on my swords, holster my gun, and pat down my gear. Daggers, right where they should be. Everything in place.

I descend the helm and head toward the skiff tied to the hull. The crew may be too superstitious to set foot on this thing, but I’ve got no choice. I need to see what’s waiting out there.

Magnus, my little cactus in a jar, clicks against my belt as I walk. The sound grates on my nerves—it’s a dead giveaway to anything lurking in the shadows. But leaving it behind isn’t an option. I need to have it on me at all costs, always.

I lower the skiff into the water, glance back at Ridley for a brief nod, then jump down. The black water sways beneath me, unsettling me the moment my feet hit the wood. My stomach churns. I grip the oars tight, trying to steady myself, but the nausea sticks, coiling inside me like a snake ready to strike.

Fucking water…

I grip the oars, steadying the skiff as best I can, and start rowing toward the shipwreck. It feels like I’m gliding through liquid night—thick, black, and impossible to read. Each stroke of the oars sends ripples that vanish into the abyss, swallowed by the darkness.

Even the foam looks sickly—grey and lifeless. It clings to the surface like a disease, spreading with every dip of the oars. A sign of something rotten underneath. Something festering. Infectious.

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 songs beckoning 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 open like 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 beams that 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.

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—She is watching. 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.

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 awful buzzing ,“ 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.

For a moment, I think I have them. I think the fight’s already won.

But then I see it. The glint in her hand. The way the buzzing roars to life in my skull, louder than before, almost blinds me completely. But I see it. There is no doubt.

The compass .

She has it.

I stumble backward, the shock hitting me like a punch to the gut. It’s real. She’s holding it—the cursed thing.

Thoughts whirr in my mind. Not only does she have it. She has sailed with it.

The words on my grandfather echo in my mind.

The moment that cursed compass stirred, the madness began, and there was no turning back.

There is no turning back now.