33. Gypsy

33

Gypsy

T he compass jerks again—a stubborn, unpredictable twist, yanking us off course for the fifth damn time today. I grip the wheel harder, fingers tight enough to ache, and fight the urge to hurl the cursed thing into the sea. If it drags us off track once more, that might be exactly where it ends up.

Patience and I are fast becoming strangers.

“It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it?” Vinicola’s voice chimes in, almost dreamy. He’s sprawled on the deck, head propped on his hand, legs crossed at the ankles, with his songbook resting lazily on his knee. A satisfied sigh escapes his lips as he flicks his gaze between the compass and the endless stretch of water before us. “Left, then right, then left again. A real marvel.”

“Marvel’s not the word I’d choose.” My jaw clenches as I wrench the wheel to follow the compass’s latest whim. Around us, there’s nothing but endless blue, no hint of land, no ships on the horizon—not a single distraction in sight. Just a horizon that’s beginning to look like a mirage, staying exactly where it is no matter how hard we sail.

Normally, I wouldn’t complain. No ships in sight means no one’s following us. But I’m starting to think a battle would be a better use of time than obeying this maddening relic that can’t seem to decide where it wants to go.

Wind fills the sails, the ship slicing through the water as if pulled by the waves on purpose, yet no sign of progress—just the same wide, empty nothingness.

Vinicola hums to himself, scribbling something into his songbook. He pauses only to toss out another remark, his tone light and undisturbed. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Why would anyone set sail just to be tossed around like this? It feels a bit…disheartening, doesn’t it? Like we’re sailing in circles.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“Maybe we are,” I reply, gritting my teeth to keep from barking at him. My gaze flicks back to the horizon, hoping for a sign—any sign—that this isn’t just another dead end.

He chuckles, not even fazed. “If an eagle were overhead, it’d see our trail winding like a serpent’s coil. Maybe the path we’re carving is some kind of key for the gateway we’re after. Ever thought of that?”

“Or maybe the goddess is just wasting our time,” I mutter, the edge of absurdity grating at me.

He considers it, tapping his quill against his chin. “Well, it does take long, doesn’t it? Do you think…maybe the length of the journey affects the size of the gateway? The wreck took no time at all compared to this.”

I shoot him a look, deadpan.

“Maybe you should take this up with Fabien,” I suggest, more to get him to stop than because I expect anything useful. “He’s the one who claims to know things.”

He tilts his head. “Fabien hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. He’d probably snap my neck if I tried again. I may be persistent, but I know when to back off.”

“His loss,” I mutter, easing one hand off the wheel to rub at my eyes. The sun and wind have left them gritty, and my spine aches from too many hours standing. I have a suspicion Vinicola lingers here on purpose, probably hoping to chat the ache out of my bones, but his rambling only stretches the hours. I suppose it’s better than silence, though, in its own way.

“True enough,” he agrees, the humor fading slightly from his voice. “If he wants to sulk in the armory, he can have it.”

“At least it frees up cabin space at night,” I reply.

Fabien Rancour’s been holed up in the armory since we left the pirate island. The moment our conversation ended, he took that jarred plant of his and practically barricaded himself. Ridley says it’s typical for him, but he’s never sulked this long before. Maybe my words stung deeper than I thought.

Maybe that beast of a man has a heart, after all.

Vinicola laughs softly at my comment, but there’s a strange edge to it now, as if even he feels the shift Fabien’s absence has left. I’ve tried to ignore it, keep my mind on the compass and the path ahead, but it’s like a thorn buried too deep to pull free.

What does it even matter what that grumpy piece of flesh thinks? He keeps himself apart from us, barely making any effort to belong. He shouldn’t get under anyone’s skin. We’re a crew, and he’s… well, something else entirely.

“Bet he’ll come out once we reach the gateway,” Vinicola says quietly. “He’s the one most obsessed with the Trials, anyway.”

I nod, but his words only dig into the knot of tension that’s been growing in my gut.

Could I trust Fabien for something as dangerous as this? For anything at all?

As long as I’m at the wheel, we’ll reach that gateway. Even if it means dragging this ragtag crew through fire and water, I’ll see it done. But after that? Whatever waits beyond the gateway won’t be some neat reward—it’ll be a trial, a game to test our survival. And I’m not too sure Fabien’s even on our side.

If it’s a test for the whole crew, we’re already half sunk.

I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white against the grain of the wood, and that’s when I catch a faint, rhythmic clicking from the compass.

“Oh?” Vinicola notices it too, scooping it up from where it’s lain untouched on the deck for hours. “A shift? This quick?”

“Maybe we’re closer than we thought,” I say, eyeing the needle’s frenzied spin.

“The needle’s spinning wild. I think you’re right.” He glances up at me, his eyes shadowed with apprehension. “Should I tell the others?”

“Yeah, get them ready,” I say.

Vinicola hurries below deck, clutching his songbook under one arm. I’d wager he’s off to tell Fabien first. Seems like he’s got a soft spot for the bastard. It’s a wonder he’s managed to make peace with Zayan too, yet I can’t say the same about Fabien.

Fabien stands out like bad rigging—one weak link, and the whole ship feels it.

I stay at the helm, thoughts racing ahead of the ship itself. The sea ahead is calm, but there’s a weight in the air—a sense of something gathering just beyond the horizon. Below, I catch the rise of Vinicola’s voice as he stirs the crew with the news. It doesn’t take long for the men to cluster beneath me, glancing up with questions in their eyes and uncertainty in their stance.

I straighten, pushing any hint of doubt far back. They’re not champions of the Lady—whatever twisted title that is—but they’re standing in her line of fire just the same. So, they’ll get the reassurance they need.

“Whatever’s ahead, we’ll see you through it,” I say, letting the words hit them steady and sure. “According to Rancour, it’s us four the Lady’s got business with, no quarrel with the rest of you.”

Some of the tension fades, but doubt lingers in their eyes. They trust me, but the Lady herself? Well, that’s another story. She’s as much a rumor to them as a storm that strikes in perfect weather. And just as fickle.

The others emerge from below—Fabien first, Zayan close behind, then Ridley, who looks like he’s aged ten years just from hearing the news. I nod at them, keeping my eyes on the horizon. Zayan bounds up the stairs two at a time, sleep still clinging to him, hair tousled, cheeks flushed like he’s fresh off a sprint.

“We close?” he asks, his gaze turning more alert by the minute.

“Getting there,” I reply, focusing on the invisible pull tugging at my gut, though there’s nothing but clear skies and blue waters ahead. Still, the hum in the air’s undeniable. That’s what Rancour said is the determinant of the gateway, right? Ridley meets my eyes and nods. He hears it too.

I shout to the crew, “Tend your stations! For now, we’re on standby!”

Hands grip ropes tighter, eyes squint to the horizon, and I keep my hold firm on the wheel, gaze sweeping across the water. The hum grows louder, reverberating through the ship, setting my pulse to a quick, steady beat. We’re close, that much I know.

Time slinks by, each second loud as a heartbeat.

The wind slaps the sails like it wants to rip them off. The sun keeps shining at us. The sea remains blue.

Vinicola looks at the sky, his hand clutching his chest. He looks like he’s praying, but I don’t think that’s it. He’s waiting, his breath held as if he’s bracing for something monumental. We all are.

Zayan stands still next to me, looking ahead of us. Fabien works his jaw. Ridley’s wrinkles deepen.

The hum continues, a slow static that becomes more deafening with each passing moment. And then, the same moment I feel it drop down a pitch, something changes.

All wind stops.

One moment it is here, the next, nothing pushes us forward anymore like we’ve sailed into a dead calm. The sails slacken, the ship’s momentum waning as the once-strong wind vanishes as if stolen away. The humming, now a low, ominous vibration, pulses through the deck beneath our feet.

“What the…” I murmur, loosening my grip on the wheel.

The sea itself changes too. The once rolling waves flatten into an eerie stillness, the water so unnaturally calm, one could use it in order to see their reflection.

“We’re here,” Ridley mutters.

A ripple disturbs the mirror-like surface of the water ahead, expanding outward in perfect circles. It’s subtle at first, but then the water begins to churn, swirling as if some unseen force is stirring it from beneath.

Vinicola gasps, his hand finding his mouth. Zayan puts a hand on my waist, like he’s trying to reassure me that we’re in this together. Fabien clutches his jar so hard, his knuckles turn white.

I watch the transition with my eyes wide and my heart hammering in my chest.

To think, there was a time I’d stake my life on saying The Lady didn’t exist—how I fucking miss those days.

“There!” Vinicola’s voice wavers, arm outstretched, finger trembling as he points.

The water swells, and then something breaks through, slowly rising—a shape forming from the depths. Two cannon shots away, an island emerges, a perfect circle of sand without a single blade of grass or scrag of driftwood. And in the center, jutting out like a jagged tooth, stands a massive stone pillar.

I narrow my eyes, barely blinking. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before—a dark, smooth stone that shimmers, shifting colors like it’s got a life of its own, bending the light in ways that almost don’t make sense. Reminds me of the jagged rocks that kept that shipwreck trapped back at the last gateway. Only, this one’s smooth, massive—almost as tall as our ship’s mast. It defies all damn reason.

Silence settles over the crew.

“Well… isn’t that a sight?” I drawl, keeping my tone steady. “Looks like the four of us are heading ashore, then. Get moving, everyone. You’ll secure the ship while we’re gone.”

“We’ll need to row over,” Fabien cuts in.

I glance his way, sparing him just enough acknowledgment. The nerve he showed last time in front of the crew— my crew—still gnaws at me, so I don’t bother dulling the bite in my voice.

“Astounding insight, Fabien,” I reply, dry as driftwood. “Vinicola, Zayan—get the boats lowered. And Fabien, I take it you’ll be joining us this time? Done hiding out in the armory?”

Fabien’s jaw clenches, working side to side before he manages a reply. “Yeah. I’m coming.” His tone’s so clipped it’s almost satisfying—he’s uncomfortable, and he knows damn well why.

Vinicola and Zayan are already at the ropes, lowering the longboats as we approach.

“Didn’t you say we all needed to be on top of our game to get this done?” I shoot over my shoulder at Fabien, the expectation clear in my voice.

“Don’t make no mistake, Captain,” he grunts in response. “I am always on top of my game.”

Maybe he believes that; I don’t. But I keep my mouth shut and turn my focus back to the crew, signaling them to keep moving. Within minutes, the four of us have loaded into the boats, rowing towards the island with a rhythm born more of necessity than ease.

The water below us is unsettling—no seaweed, no fish. Just clear, empty water over golden sand stretching out like the desert floor. Fabien is the first to step onto it, his boots sinking into the warmth of the sand, and he pauses, glancing back at us. I follow, with Zayan and Vinicola close behind, the weight of this place making the hair on my arms stand.

Something is wrong, and I don’t need to use my words for all of us to know it. We just feel it.

“This is the Trial?” Vinicola mutters, looking around as though he’s missed something grand.

“We don’t know that,” Fabien says.

He’s right. We don’t know. Even the old journals were vague about the compass—hinted it led to more than just Trials. Sometimes, it led to... well, something else. One thing’s clear, though: everything’s connected to the Lady. Always.

“Doesn’t matter what this is,” I say, voice steady. “Whether it’s the Trial or some other curse, we’re here to face it.”

Because I’ll be damned if I’m bested by some sea bitch.

We push forward toward the pillar rising ahead of us, each step pulling us deeper into the strange, thick silence that smothers everything else. The hum marking our approach fades, replaced by a weight pressing from all sides—a heat heavy with sun and salt. This place… it’s a windless dessert surrounded by salty waters.

Everything sailors hate after sailing for longer periods of time.

Vinicola mutters again, shaking his head. “Still not grand.”

I might’ve thought the same until I see the pillar up close. It’s not just standing there—it’s floating. Right above a pool of water so dark it looks like a void, swallowing every shred of light. Unnatural. The kind of grand that doesn’t sit right, the kind that watches you back.

“What is this…?” Zayan asks, edging closer to the pool and pointing at a hollow gouged into the pillar’s stone at eye level.

The hollow catches my attention. It looks like an altar niche, where healers or shamans might set candles or sacred tokens, only this one’s empty. Bare. Waiting.

“And there’s something on top,” Fabien mutters, craning his neck. I squint up, barely making out a small shape perched at the pillar’s peak, lost in the glare of the sun.

I follow Fabien’s gaze, squinting against the glare of the sun to try and see what he’s talking about. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but then I see it—a small object perched atop the pillar, barely visible from where we’re standing.

“What do you think it is?” Vinicola asks, shading his eyes, a nervous glance darting between us.

“No clue from down here,” Fabien says, voice tight with frustration. “But it’s not there by accident. Whatever that is, it’s part of some… mechanism .”

Zayan takes a step back from the pool of water beneath the pillar, his expression tense. “So, what now? Do we try to get that thing down, or do we figure out what the hollow is for?”

“We should be careful,” I say, my voice firm. “This place is a trap waiting to be sprung. Whatever we do, we need to think it through.”

Fabien nods, his eyes still locked on the pillar. “I agree. Let’s not rush into anything.”

“We should do something , though, right?“ Vinicola asks, glancing nervously between the rest of us.

I circle the pillar, keeping an eye out. The sand around it is dry, untouched, like it’s never even seen water—odd, given the whole island was soaked a moment ago. It feels like walking on desert sand, no hint of the sea in it.

I tighten my grip on my pistol, scanning every corner as I circle. And then I see it. A small, etched line of words scratched into the stone on the far side. “There’s something written here,” I call out, drawing everyone around. “‘What is common, yet you claim; fill me with, I’ll drop like rain.’”

Huh? A riddle?

I glance over at Zayan, who’s already started pacing, his fingers tapping against his belt as he mulls it over. “Common, yet we claim…” he repeats, like turning the words over will shake loose some answer. His expression sharpens, brow furrowed.

A part of me wants to scream. Days at sea, steering us through storms, heat, and god knows what else, and now we’re here, solving riddles in this miserable place? Really? But with the shake of my head, I force myself to ignore the frustration building in my chest.

I can’t win with the sea bitch if I can’t stand to face a riddle or two.

“‘Fill me with it, and I’ll drop like rain,’” I murmur, feeling the bitter taste of the words as they slip from my mouth. “So… something that fills this hollow, and then releases something? Or triggers something?”

“Water?” Vinicola suggests cautiously, his voice hopeful. “It’s everywhere, sure, but we… need it. We’re always claiming it.”

I arch a brow at him. “Fill it with water, and it’ll drop like rain?”

Fabien steps forward, eyes narrowed, locked on the pillar like he’s dissecting it. “Water’s too simple,” he says, voice clipped. “Look at the pool beneath us—it’s already part of this whole mess. Her domain, the sea goddess’s mark. She’d hardly call water ‘common.’”

“Air?” Zayan offers, though the doubt lingers in his voice. “She doesn’t own it. Everyone needs it. You can fill a space with it, technically…”

“Not this,” I mutter. My frustration spikes again, and I turn the phrase over in my head. “What’s common, yet claimed…?”

Vinicola’s voice breaks in again, tentative. “There’s a lot of sand here…”

“Yes, we all see that,” Zayan snaps, shooting him an irritated glance as he resumes pacing, kicking at the sand with each step.

But then Vinicola’s voice rises again, louder, more insistent. “No, it is the sand,” he says, conviction settling in his tone. “Think about it. It’s everywhere. We claim it. And if you fill something with sand…”

I stop, turning to look at him, considering. The pillar is hollow; we’d all seen that. And as absurd as it sounds, he might be onto something. I glance at Fabien, and then Zayan, catching the spark of realization flashing in their eyes. All three of us face Vinicola, a look of unexpected agreement passing between us.

“So, sand…” I say, skeptical but curious. “It’s under the sea, Vinicola. Wouldn’t that make it hers?”

Vinicola shrugs, but he’s got that earnest glint, the one that says he thinks he’s stumbled upon something big. “But think about it—sand is everywhere. It’s what we walk on, what we ignore, but it fills every gap, slips through every crack. It can fall like rain if you drop it. It’s common, ours by habit, maybe, but something we claim as our own. Like she doesn’t have a say over it.”

I glance down, kicking at the sand below my boots, watching it scatter in the sunlight. Miles of it stretch out in all directions, an endless, golden expanse. And for a moment, the sea feels… far off, distant, like a memory just beyond reach.

“Hold on,” I mutter, frowning as a strange prickling sensation spreads through my chest. “Does it seem like there’s… more sand than when we got here?”

The others look around, eyes narrowing as they take in the landscape. Sure enough, the line where the sea once hugged the shore has shifted, creeping back, as if the ocean’s decided to take a few steps away.

“Is the shore… stretching?” I ask, that prickling sensation sinking into something colder.

Zayan’s eyes narrow as he follows my gaze. “You’re right. The water’s pulling back. There’s a hell of a lot more sand now.”

A cold sweat breaks out along my neck.

Vinicola, wide-eyed, stammers out, “Please, don’t tell me this is one of those things where you try running to the water and never get there, like it just keeps… stretching.” His voice drops, and he clamps his fist against his mouth.

I force myself to shake off the dread creeping up my spine. Letting Vinicola’s fear sink into me is about the last thing I need right now. It’s just sand. Endless stretches of it, sure, but still sand. Not some mystical trap… right?

But here, where reason feels like a suggestion and not a rule, where the Lady’s influence warps reality like clay, the impossible feels less… impossible.

She could trap us here for as long as she pleases.

Fuck.

Suddenly, Zayan drops into a crouch, digging his fingers into the sand. “Look at this,” he mutters, swiping away sand to reveal a dense stone block, half-buried and smooth as bone.

I stop dead, watching the unease in my gut crawl into something sharper. This is no time to start poking around, yet, seeing the object clutched in Zayan’s hands, I can’t shake the feeling that this —whatever it is—demands our attention.

“It looks like… a stone cube,” Vinicola breathes, fidgeting as he inches closer.

Zayan lifts the cube, holding it up, and I can see his muscles tense with its weight. The thing’s heavy, denser than it looks, smooth, and utterly blank. No markings. Just a chunk of deadweight stone.

Something about it is off, though.

Fabien steps closer, brow furrowed as he reaches out. “I’ve seen something like this in old journals on the Trials,” he says, tracing his fingers over the surface. “It’s a mechanism. Think of it like a chest—there’s a lid we’re supposed to pry off.”

With a grunt, Fabien runs his thumb along the stone’s edge until he finds a thin seam, pulling the top open with a crack. Inside, nestled like relics, are four seashells, identical in size, each peppered with tiny holes along its length.

Fabien reads aloud the inscription on the lid, “One for each.”

Four shells. Four of us. I don’t like the symmetry of it.

One by one, he hands each of us a shell. It’s rough, strangely warm in my palm—too warm. The texture’s familiar, reminding me of the cursed compass in my pocket, and the holes lining it feel sharp, almost intentional.

Vinicola eyes his, running a finger along the edges. “You know, my mother keeps these fancy kitchen supplies back home. These things… they’re like the sea’s version of… what do you call it? A colander.”

“A colander?” I echo, arching an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?”

He blinks, surprised, and then explains, “A colander. It’s a bowl with holes. You use it to drain water from food, like pasta or vegetables. Water flows out, but the food stays inside.”

I huff, unimpressed. We don’t have time for these comparisons, not when Zayan cuts in.

“This isn’t some quaint kitchen lesson,” he growls, dropping the bottom of the stone crate with a thud. “We better get moving. Our ship’s a damn dot on the horizon.”

My pulse spikes, and I jerk my head to where Zayan’s looking. He’s right—our ship is almost nothing but a distant smudge, barely a mark against the endless stretch of sand.

This is bad. Very bad.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. The land is stretching faster than we realized. We don’t have much time.

Vinicola crouches, scooping a handful of sand onto the shell, intent on dumping it into the pillar. He barely straightens before the sand slips through, pouring out in tiny streams from the holes, leaving nothing but air.

“Okay… so much for the sand idea,” he mutters.

I shrug it off. “It was a thought.” But my mind’s already turning, trying to piece together the pattern. Think, Gypsy. What does she want us to do?

If you were a scheming, vicious creature like her… how would you force four puny humans to entertain you?

It’s all about control, isn’t it? The Lady doesn’t deal in mercy or quick escapes. She thrives on the struggle, on every last breath we waste clawing our way out. The longer we fight, the harder it becomes, the sweeter her satisfaction.

The bottom of the sea was clear and golden, just like the sand here on the island. There was no vegetation. Empty, wide, endless. No kelp or algae to offer even a sliver of hope—just a vast, sunlit prison.

Of course. She wants this to drag on, wants to savor every moment of our desperation. The realization hits me like a slap, and just as quickly, an idea claws its way into my mind. It’s half-formed, rough around the edges, but it’s something.

“I’ve got an idea,” I say, barely able to keep the apprehension from creeping into my voice. “And I really hope I’m wrong, because if I’m not, we’re in for one hell of a ride.”

Fabien’s laugh comes out sharp, a touch wild. “Don’t threaten us with a good time, Captain. By all means, lead the way.”

I don’t need any coaxing. I shoot Zayan and Vinicola a look. They’re worn down, faces streaked with exhaustion, but their nods say it all. We’re in this, every damn step of the way.

Without another thought, I take off, tearing across the shore with all the speed I can muster. Sand kicks up behind me, stinging as it hits my calves, but I grit my teeth and push harder.

Don’t look for the easy way out, Gypsy. That’s not how she plays. She wants us to suffer. She wants us at the edge.

My feet splash the still water. I clutch the seashell hard between my fingers, bend down and scoop. The seashell fills with wet sand, its weight pulling slightly against my hand as I lift it from the water. The grains cling together, a dense, heavy mass that feels completely different from the dry, loose sand we tried before.

Fuck yes.

I pivot sharply, sprinting back toward the pillar, the wet sand sloshing slightly in the shell as I run. I don’t spare Fabien, Zayan, or Vinicola more than a glance as they watch me.

“Move!” I bark, closing the distance, and without pausing, I tilt the shell in my hands, pouring the wet sand into the gouge carved into the pillar’s side.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just silence as the sand vanishes down that hollowed-out gap, not a single sound coming from it, like the damned thing’s eating it whole. Doubt starts to twist in my gut, but just then, the pillar hums—low, resonant. The same sound I heard the day I first plunged the compass into seawater, unknowingly triggering this whole cursed trial. I set it in motion back then, and I’m setting it off again now.

The pillar sinks ever so slightly, grinding against the stone in a slow descent, a faint glow pulsing at its base.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Zayan mutters, half a laugh in his voice.

“Not yet, you won’t,” I pant, dragging in a breath. “It needs more sand. Fill that hollow till it’s spilling over.”

“Oh gods,” Vinicola moans, his face already covered with a layer of sweat. “We have to run, don’t we?”

“Unless you want to stay here,” I snap, already moving. We’ve got no choice now. I glance back at them, a hint of a smirk slipping through. “Didn’t say I wanted to be right now, did I?”