23. Vinicola

23

Vinicola

T his is a nightmare.

My precious shirt is ruined. Stinging drops of red rain keep falling into my eyes. There’s an angry, scary-looking man chasing after me.

Nightmare. Absolute nightmare.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I weave through the moldy deck, the decaying ship underneath my feet just moments away from crumbling down and throwing all four of us into the rocky abyss. I can hear the man’s footsteps gaining on me, his harsh breathing mirroring my own panic.

“Keep running, Vini!” Miss Captain roars somewhere behind us.

Easier said than done, Miss Captain, considering the human mountain chasing me is probably part ogre. I mean, sure, no horns or tails (that I’ve noticed), but everything else? It checks out. That permanent scowl? Check. Soul that feels half-dead? Check. Murderous intent? Oh, definitely.

And from three on ascent, there came four, But the fourth was trouble, and more. He sought to kill all the rest, To take the compass on his quest.

Like a brute, savage and unkind, The bard must flee, leave all behind. But how to outsmart, how to evade, This evil man, in darkness laid?

I should really stop composing poetry while being chased, but how else could I cope with it?

The bard must be sharp, see all he can, Use wit and guile to form a plan. With keen perception and courage grand, To outmaneuver the madman’s hand.

I glance over my shoulder, and there he is—glaring at me like I just insulted his dear, sweet mother. His eyes are practically glowing with rage, his face twisted into a look that says, “I’m going to turn you into fine paste.” Lovely.

He growls something unintelligible. The sound is more a rumble than a word, but it sends a shiver down my spine all the same.

Man loose? Marvelous? Madness?

Something along those lines.

I dart left, barely avoiding a loose plank that definitely wanted to see me kiss the deck. His words rattle around in my head, but they make about as much sense as a finger without a nail. What could he have meant? And more importantly, why am I even worrying about it when he’s about to crush me into a decorative pirate rug?

Ah, maybe because I detected something… just a sliver of fear in that one grumbled word. Maybe that’s my lifeline—if I could just figure out what it was.

“To the starboard side!” Miss Captain’s voice slices through the chaos, mercifully giving me a direction. I veer right, nearly slipping on the slick wood, but somehow— somehow —stay on my feet. Behind me, his footsteps thunder closer. My heart races, and I know this is it. He’s going to catch me, and fast.

Here’s the thing: I’m not a runner. Never have been. Actually, I’m not really made for anything involving physical activity. My best features? My face, my fingers, and, well… my instrument , if you catch my drift. But none of those talents are going to save me right now. I have to rely on muscles I barely have and all of which are currently screaming in protest from all that sail-tending teachings I was getting lately.

But still… what did that madman say?!

It started with an M… was short… and sounded either like a name or maybe some curse that’ll see me turned into a fish. I glance back at him again, hoping for a spark of insight.

Yup, still terrifying. That hasn’t changed. But there’s more. What am I missing? Think, Vinicola!

Then I hear it: a clinking sound. He’s got one hand guarding something on his hip, a glass jar by the looks of it. I noticed it earlier, too. He clutched it like a lifeline after he nearly gutted me. Zayan muttered something about poison, but no. No, it feels too… precious. He’s holding it like it’s sacred, not deadly.

And that’s when it hits me, lightning bolt-style. That jar? It’s important to him. Like, life-or-death important. And if it’s that important, it might just be my ticket out of this mess.

My ears tune into the rhythmic clink, and suddenly, I have a reckless, borderline-suicidal idea. I veer sharply right, heading toward a stack of crates that look like they’ve seen better centuries. The man follows, his growls morphing into outright snarls. I scramble up the crates, my fingers clawing for purchase on the slick wood, splinters be damned. I turn to face him, balancing precariously.

I need that jar.

With a deep breath, I plaster on a grin, feeling the wind whip through my hair. “Don’t be shy now!” I shout, throwing caution—and sanity—to the wind. “Come at me!”

He charges without hesitation, like the very thought of rest is offensive to his entire being. As he lunges, I leap from the crates, landing hard on the deck, the impact jarring every bone in my body. My legs scream in protest, but I can’t stop now. I dash toward the edge of the ship, my eyes fixed on his precious jar.

“Vini, what are you doing?!” Miss Captain’s voice slices through my mad plan, panic flooding her tone.

Oh, nothing, Miss Captain.

Ignoring her (because clearly, I have a death wish), I spin just in time to see the madman barreling toward me. Ducking under his outstretched arms, I manage to grab hold of the jar, my fingers curling around it like it’s the Holy Grail.

“Got it!” I shout, tugging it free with all the strength my panicking body can muster.

Time slows for just a second. The madman’s eyes go wide in shock—he even lets out a very human-sounding yelp, which is a bit disappointing, honestly. I thought we were working with something more beastly here.

Before he can recover, I yank the jar free, stumbling backward and clutching it to my chest like it’s my long-lost love.

“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 as him carry 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 is waking 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 is exactly what 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.

And then, amidst the storm, a voice. Not Miss Captain’s, not Zayan’s, and definitely not mine. A woman’s voice, soft but insistent, echoing inside my head.

“Take out the key,” she whispers, her words like a gentle melody weaving through my thoughts. “Start the trial.”

I freeze, the world narrowing to the sound of her voice. Everything else—the storm, the screams, the relentless hum—fades into the background, muffled, distant. Time stretches unnaturally, like I’ve been caught in some strange, warped bubble where nothing else exists but her voice.

“Start the trial,” she urges again, more insistent now, though her tone remains soothing, almost... comforting . A warmth blooms in my chest, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, and for a moment, it’s as if everything will be alright. She’s coaxing me forward, guiding me with calm reassurance. I feel... safe.

But then I remember the chaos outside this strange bubble. Miss Captain is on her knees, her face contorted in agony, hands clutching her head as though trying to tear the pain away. The madman lies prone, groaning like a beast about to die, his body convulsing with each wave of pain. And Zayan—of course, Zayan is limping forward, his eyes locked on Miss Captain, as if nothing else exists.

“Start the trial,” she whispers again, but this time, there’s a sense of urgency. The warmth grows, but it’s laced with something else now, something more... expectant.

“Will this end if I start it?” I whisper aloud, though I have no idea who I’m asking. There’s no answer, just the steady pulse of warmth from the voice—like she’s smiling at me, amused by my question.

Well… that’s gotta be a good sign, right?

My hands tremble as I pull out the compass. The patterns engraved on it swirl in intricate designs, delicate and ancient, as if they were meant for someone else, someone much more capable than me. Yet here I am. My thumb grazes the small, hidden button on the side of the compass, and somehow, without even thinking, I press it. A soft click echoes, and somehow, I hear it just fine.

Inside, the needle spins wildly before settling, pointing directly at the jar.

“Good, Vinicola,” the voice inside my head praises. “Now, insert the key.”

Key? What key?

My mind races, spinning as fast as the compass needle did moments ago. My eyes dart around frantically, searching for anything that could be a clue. Panic bubbles up inside me until—there. I see it.

At the base of the compass are four small slots, barely visible in the low light.

One of them, the first one on the left, seems to tug at something inside me—like it’s calling to me.

My fingers twitch, still slick with the rain. Somehow, my attention flips to the jar. It’s just a simple jar, right? Glass, dirt, a cactus—nothing extraordinary. But something about it sends a shiver down my spine. My hand trembles as I unscrew the lid. Inside, the cactus sits nestled in the soil, its spines sharp and menacing.

I hesitate, the voice urging me forward, coaxing me. I know, in the pit of my gut, that I have to push through. My fingers graze the cactus, and pain flares up immediately as the spines pierce my skin, drawing thin trails of blood. I flinch, but I don’t stop.

Keep going , the voice whispers.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I dig through the soil beneath the cactus, my fingers grazing something cool and metallic. I pull it free—a small, ornate key, no bigger than a coin, but intricate and delicate, like it was crafted by the same hands that created the compass. As soon as it touches my palm, I feel another soft hum.

Buzzing , I realize. The metal is buzzing.

“ Good ,“ the voice in my head croons again, as though it’s pleased with my discovery. “ Now, insert it into the compass. It will lead you to the first clue. ”

The first clue ? My thoughts stumble over the words. Clue to what?

My pulse quickens. I fumble with the key, the metal slippery between my bloodied fingers as I fit it into the small slot on the compass. For a moment, nothing happens. I hold my breath, heart thudding in my ears. Then, with a soft, almost inaudible click, the compass springs to life.

The needle, which had been spinning aimlessly before, snaps into focus, pointing sharply toward the starboard side of the ship. I follow its path with my eyes, but all I see is the black void of the storm-tossed sea.

“ Good luck, “ the voice murmurs one last time, the words lingering like a soft kiss on my mind before it fades away, leaving me standing there, clutching the compass and key, utterly alone.

But the world around me is no longer the same. The storm—raging and relentless just seconds before—stops dead in its tracks. The eerie red rain ceases, the air no longer vibrating with the crack of thunder.

And then, as if that wasn’t bizarre enough, Miss Captain’s screams—raw, desperate, the kind that could pierce hearts—just… stop. Her voice cuts off mid-shout, leaving behind this thick, suffocating silence that presses hard against my ears.

I whip around, my pulse hammering in my throat, to see the angry man, the one who was writhing on the deck in pain a moment ago, now standing as still as a bloody statue.

Their gazes shift to me, two pairs of eyes—sharp and wide, brimming with a mix of confusion and suspicion.

“Vini,” Miss Captain says. “What did you do?”

I stare down at the compass in my hands, the needle still pointing unwaveringly to the starboard side. My grip tightens around the key, slick with blood that’s somehow smeared across its intricate engravings. My heart is racing, and the truth is…I have no idea what I’ve just done. I don’t even know what this thing is, let alone what I’ve just unleashed.

“I-I don’t know,” I stammer, my voice cracking. “There was a voice in my head... it told me to—“ I break off, shaking my head because—well, how do you explain a voice that isn’t yours, but feels like it’s living inside your chest? “I couldn’t resist it.”

The madman—the one who was just about ready to rip my throat out—takes a slow step toward me. His eyes, dark as the depths of the sea, are no longer wild, but there’s something worse there now. A quiet menace.

“What did it sound like?” he asks.

“Huh?” I blink.

“The voice,” he repeats, his eyes narrowing. “What did it sound like?”

Describing sounds has never been a problem for me. That’s usually my forte. I can capture melodies and voices like butterflies, pin them down with the right rhythm and words. But this… This was no song. It wasn’t even a sound, really—it was more like…a weight. A pull, deep in my bones, like someone tugging on a string hidden under my ribs.

“It sounded like the sea,” I say, the words falling out of my mouth before I’ve even fully processed them. And the moment they’re out there, I know it’s the only thing that fits.

The man with black eyes scoffs, his lips curling into a bitter smile. He turns away, casting a glance up at the sky as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the clouds. His whole body tightens.

“You’ve just started something you can’t possibly understand,” he mutters. There’s resignation in his voice.

Miss Captain catches up with him, stepping forward. She cocks her head to the side and presses the muzzle of her pistol against the man’s temple. The click of the hammer being drawn back slices through the heavy silence. The man doesn’t stop her.

“You better start explaining,” she growls, her voice hard as steel. “What did he just do?”

The madman’s eyes flick to me, then to the compass still clutched in my hands. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, he lets out a long, weary sigh.

“It’s called the Trial of the Sea,” he says. “A rite as old as sailing itself. That compass...” He gestures to the object in my trembling hands. “It’s the invitation. The moment you accept it, it becomes a map—a path. And he just accepted it.”

My stomach drops. I accepted a what now?

Miss Captain’s eyes narrow, sweat beading on her brow despite the cold breeze blowing across the deck. “And the voice he heard?”

He meets her gaze, his eyes dark and unfathomable. “The Lady herself.” Almost as if daring her, he turns his head into the barrel of her gun, pressing it harder against his skin. “So you do know some things.”

I swear I can feel the temperature drop. For a split second, Miss Captain’s face changes—just a flicker, but it’s there. Surprise? Recognition? But just as quickly, her expression hardens again.

“I never said otherwise,” she says smoothly. “And I didn’t try to kill you for no reason. You threatened one of ours.” Her eyes flick to me, and I swallow hard. “So why would the goddess bother with him?”

“I don’t know why she talks to anyone. Who knows why the sea does what it does?”

Miss Captain’s jaw tightens, her finger twitching on the trigger. For a moment, I think she’s going to pull it. But then, with a growl of frustration, she lowers the gun just enough to point at his chest instead of his head. She steps back.

“Who are you?” she demands. “And why did you have this?” She gestures with her chin toward the compass and the key dangling from its side.

Zayan stumbles into the scene, breathing heavily. He looks like he’s been running for hours, his usual sharpness dulled by whatever nightmare this shipwreck has become.

“My name’s Fabien Rancour,” the madman replies. “And all you need to know is that key was mine by right. You stole it and set off an avalanche you can’t stop.”

“By right? What do you mean?”

But before she can press further, I interject, the name Rancour ringing in my ears. “Wait...” I say, my voice shaky. “ The Rancour?”

Miss Captain turns to me, her eyes demanding answers, her brow furrowed in confusion. I clear my throat, the words of an old song coming to me unbidden, as though pulled from the depths of my memory.

And then I recite it—the lines that have traveled across the seas.”

“Once there was a boy, Rancour by name, He sailed with his parents, seeking fortune and fame. They produced fine rum, islands far and wide, Off to meet a planter, on the ocean’s tide.

But the sea was cruel, with a heart so grim, It took his parents, leaving only him. They drowned in the depths, lost to the roar, Leaving the boy alone, on a distant shore.

He stayed there for years, on that lonely strand, Enduring the trials, by fate’s cruel hand. Until one day, with a raft built so clever, He sailed back home, looking changed never.

Ten years had passed, the boy should be grown, But he returned just the same, as if time had not flown. The staff took him in, the heir to the land, The estate left in shambles, now under his hand.

He walked through the halls, with memories in tow, The walls whispered stories, of those long ago. Yet his heart—“

“Enough,” the man says, stopping me. I close my mouth, my lips snapping shut as the final lines hang, unsaid.

“Well, that’s a first,” I murmur, trying to salvage my pride.

“No way,” Zayan growls. “He can’t be that.”

Fabien’s gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. He’s unnervingly still, his expression as unreadable as the sea in the dead of night. Slowly, he shifts his eyes to Zayan, locking onto him with an intensity that makes the air feel too thin.

“Believe whatever you like,” Fabien says quietly. “But the story you just recited is mine.”

I shift awkwardly.

“Don’t lower your gun, Gypsy,” Zayan murmurs. “Let’s kill him before he tries to kill us again.”

Fabien’s lips pull back into a twisted grin, baring his teeth. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Relax, cripple,” he spits, and there’s enough venom in his voice to make even me flinch. “I won’t hurt any of you. Not anymore.”

Wait—what? Did I hear him right?

I blink. Twice, maybe three times for good measure. We’re all frozen like we’re all collectively too stunned to process whether this is a good thing or the prelude to something much, much worse.

We’re frozen, but naturally, I’m the first to speak. Curiosity, as per usual, strikes again.

“Sorry, could you run that by me one more time?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Why exactly won’t you hurt us?”

Fabien’s glare could burn holes through wood. He’s looking at me like I’m slow, but hey, I’ve never been one to keep my mouth shut when confusion’s on the table.

“You’ve started the trials,” he says, deadpan. “And by proxy, I’ve started them with you. Now, we either finish them together… or die trying.”

I blink again, this time with extra care. Ah, yes. That clears it up. It clears is all up.

Of course. Of-bloody-course.