44. Zayan

44

Zayan

W atching Gypsy swim away with Vinicola in the opposite direction to me is worse than anything this island—Solis—could throw at me. And I’m not even mentioning the fact that I’ll have to be with Rancour of all people.

Now that alone deserves a curse or two.

There’s still something about him that gets under my skin. , like he’s got this constant need to pick me apart with that brooding glare of his. Doesn’t matter that we’ve cheated death together more than once by now; some instincts don’t die, and mine? They’re screaming at me not to trust the bastard. Hell, he could save my life, and I’d still be counting the seconds before he’d try to end it.

Some things don’t go away no matter what. I still don’t trust him. I doubt I ever truly will.

But now… now I’ve got to tolerate him. Openly. Or risk knocking that smirk right off his face. I just know our venture together is going to end badly. I just know it.

I glance back at Gypsy’s skiff bobbing on the waves, mist already coiling around her, swallowing her whole. I catch myself counting the seconds until she vanishes from sight—until she’s out of reach all over again.

Until she’s yet again going to be somewhere far away and unreachable.

And here I was, fooling myself that this moment will never come again… That I’ll follow her no matter what.

Well, the Lady has different plans for me.

“What’s the hold-up? Prefer I take over?” Rancour’s voice slices through my thoughts, laced with that smugness of his that makes me itch to throw a dagger. I snap my head in his direction and see one those smiles of his. One of those that make my toes curl.

Gods, he’s an ugly bastard.

Sure, his tone might sound harmless, almost casual. But there’s always that edge in his words when he’s talking to me, a hint that he’s getting a kick out of testing my patience.

It goes both ways, though.

“I said I’d row, so I’m rowing,” I toss back, gripping the oars hard enough to make my knuckles go white. Each stroke pulls us faster toward the island, and damn if it doesn’t taste bitter. But the sooner we find whatever trinket The Lady’s so keen on, the sooner we’re back on that ship—and I’m back where I belong, with Gypsy. Simple as that.

He barely braces for the rocking waves while I’m here tearing through the mist like my life depends on it. I keep my eyes dead ahead, hoping each stroke will scrape away the frustration twisting in my chest. But no—by the time we hit the shoreline, it’s still there, digging deep.

“If it were up to me, I’d leave you here,” I mutter, just loud enough. The mist thickens as we near the land, but I see it—the flash in Rancour’s eye. He heard me.

“Oh, I’m sure you would,” he says, slipping from the boat and into the knee-deep water without a care. “But lucky for you, it’s not.”

He scans the shore, his gaze sharp, simmering with a bottled-up fury I learned to recognize. It’s the one he keeps for the goddess. Her and her only. Then he snaps his eyes back to me, lips twitching.

“Besides,” he says, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “maybe it’s time we buried a few grudges, don’t you think?”

I narrow my eyes. “And what twisted notion made you think I’d be interested?”

His laugh is low, razor-sharp, no humor in it. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because one of us should start acting like there’s more at stake than some petty feud.” He leans in, voice dropping to a hiss, his eyes burning with a dangerous spark. “I figured you’d hate that goddess as much as I do by now. Enemy of my enemy, and all that.”

My hands flex around the oars, even though we’re beached. I force a smirk, cool and careless, letting it settle on my face. “If you’re looking for friendship, Rancour,” I purr, “you’ll need to work a lot harder. I don’t pick best mates off the scrap pile.”

I step onto the shore, head high, chin tipped, eyes narrowed just enough to send the message that he is not shaking me. But then I glance at the sky, noticing something off, something wrong, and that smirk falters—just for a second.

The sun had been sliding down the horizon a moment ago, dipping toward dusk. Now, though, it halts mid-descent, reversing course to climb back up, a fierce glare casting down over the beach. I glance at Rancour, and he’s staring at the sky too, brows knotted, just as baffled.

The heat presses down, thick as the mist we just left. And though the sun shouldn’t be directly above us, it feels like noon on the hottest day up north.

It’s all kinds of wrong. It’s unnatural . It defies every law of nature I’ve ever known.

“What in the…?” I murmur, stepping further onto the beach, barely trusting my own eyes. I spin around, taking it all in.

The sea, which we left as a shadowy abyss, is now a shimmering turquoise, almost too bright to believe. Even the skiff looks different—a pale brown, like wood freshly sanded and warmed, still carrying a faint scent of the forest. And the sand? It’s practically glowing.

Above, the sky stretches in an actual blue, not that gray navy color we were stuck under. It fades at the edges into a foggy white haze, blurring where sea and sky meet. I squint, half-expecting it all to shift back any second.

“Rancour,” I call, a laugh slipping through my breath, “please tell me you’re seeing the same witchcraft I am.”

Rancour scowls, his lip curling like he’s trying to spit out something foul. “I see it, alright.”

We both turn in a slow circle, eyes roving over the island that just moments ago was nothing more than a shadowed, ordinary jungle. Now, it’s transformed—something straight out of tales.

The terrain’s a blend of jagged cliffs, shimmering with heat that blurs their edges, and stretches of desert sand dotted with stubborn, spiny plants. It’s like someone tossed bits of desert and jungle onto the rocks just to see what would stick. And in the midst of all this raw, wild grit, dense patches of jungle burst up, green and tangled, like they’re defying the bare earth around them.

It’s unnatural, that much I know.

Bright yellow-orange flowers spill over the rocks, their petals almost glowing like embers, and deeper in, there are fruit trees with leaves shining like molten gold. The whole island is drenched in sun—heat rising off the cracked ground, off the sand, off the sea itself.

Not only it’s bright as hell, but it’s also scorching hot.

I glance over at Rancour, rubbing a hand through my hair. “You got some buzzing in your head or something?” I ask, remembering he tends to hear it whenever the Lady’s powers are involved.

When we sailed in, I could’ve sworn this place was just a typical island, mostly jungle, and night was creeping in. Now? It’s like we’re somewhere else entirely.

Could this be another gateway? Another realm, like that cursed island that kept growing around us?

But Fabien just shakes his head, and that throws me off even more.

“No,” he mutters, brows furrowing. “I didn’t hear a damn thing.”

Well, shit.

As we stare out at this blazing landscape, the air thickens with heat, shimmering off the ground. I squint, feeling my skin prickle, like the sun itself is pressing down on us, claiming every inch.

Sweat trickles down, and it feels like I’m roasting alive. “Fuck,” I mutter, yanking off my shirt.

Rancour’s right behind me, shrugging off his coat, then his shirt, looking like he’d rather fight a pack of wolves than deal with this damn heat. I watch as he bundles up his gear with that mini arsenal he insists on lugging around, gritting his teeth as he rolls his shoulders, trying—and failing—to hide the wince from all that metal digging into his back. In this swelter? The bastard’s probably roasting like a pig on a spit. Those weapons are bound to brand him before the sun’s done with us.

But I’ll be damned if we’re slogging deeper into this infernal jungle without enough blades between us. Sure, I’ve got my pistols and daggers, but a solid blade could make all the difference out here.

“Hand over some of your gear,” I say, holding out my hand. “We’ll split the load.”

Rancour shoots me a glare, one eyebrow raised like I’ve just offered him a pair of knitting needles. “Save the pity, Cagney. I’m fine.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Pity?” I roll my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s called practicality. Now hand me the damn sword before your back lights up on fire.”

We stare each other down; his eyes narrowed, refusing to give an inch. But finally, after what feels like a lifetime, he pulls one of his swords and offers it, hilt-first, his fingers clinging to it a second too long.

“Does this mean you’re watching my back, Cagney?” he asks, his tone thorny as always.

“Do you actually doubt it?” I shoot back, gripping the hilt hard. “Of course, I’ve got your back, motherfucker.”

He smirks—one of those ugly smirks of his, of course—and we head further inland, the sand grinding under our boots. Each step cranks up the heat until my head’s swimming, sweat stinging my eyes.

“Hold up a sec,” I mutter, mostly to myself. Doubt he’s even listening. But something gnaws at me, twisting in my gut, and it’s getting harder to ignore with each damn step.

“Rancour,” I call, louder this time, that edge of irritation sneaking in. He doesn’t stop right away, and I half wonder if he’s testing me, but then he glances back, one brow raised, face flushed and slick like he’s sprinted across half the island. Honestly, he looks worse than I feel, and I feel like shit.

“Keep walking, Cagney,” he mutters, voice all gravel. “Whatever it is, it can wait.” He turns back, ready to keep marching.

But I shake my head, jaw tight. “What time is it?”

That stops him. He twists around fully, giving me a look like I’ve lost my mind.

Does he feel the same thing I do?

“What the hell are you talking about?” he scoffs, a crease forming between his brows, a hint of something flickering there.

“I asked what time it is,” I tell him, though my voice wavers slightly. My heart hammers in my chest, and I don’t even know why. Or maybe I do… I just can’t remember it. “So answer me.”

He just stares. “Losing it already, Cagney? We just got here, and you want me to guess the damn time?”

Guess…? No. I don’t want him to guess anything. He’s supposed to know the time.

There’s a handful of trees around us, if you can call them that. Twisted, pale things, branches brittle as bones bleached in the sun. Not a palm or a leafy island giant among them. They look dried out, like they’ve been baking here since the dawn of time—and somehow, they’re still clinging on.

Fabien’s about to topple over from the heat, and I’m not much better off. It’s like we’re drunk, stumbling around with our brains half-fried.

Which means that prickle in the back of my skull? I’d be a fool not to pay attention.

“So what time was it when we got here?” I press, not letting it go.

His stare goes from annoyed to... unsettled, maybe. And I know he doesn’t handle this kind of shit well—anything that seems like the Lady’s taunt at him, anything unknown. He lets out this annoyed scoff, glances around at the trees like they’ll give him an answer, then finally squints up at the sky.

“Shut up, will you?” he snaps, voice like a growl. “We just got here. What time could it be?”

“Just answer, Rancour. Humor me,” I say, jaw tight.

I know I sound ridiculous, but there’s this gap in my memory—a blank spot gnawing at me, pressing down like a dull knife lodged somewhere in my skull.

Come on, Zayan. Think. What’s missing?

But there’s nothing. Just a void. I keep my eyes on Fabien, hoping he’s got some spark of genius buried in that grimacing face of his.

He huffs, clearly annoyed, and raises a hand to trace the sun’s path, squinting like he’s digging through a fog in his head. “We… well…” he mutters. “Morning, maybe?”

No. That’s not it. Can’t say why, but it just isn’t .

“Try again, Rancour,” I press, feeling the silence thicken around us, the pressure climbing. This isn’t just a random question, and he knows it, too. His brows knit tighter as he glances from the sun to his hands, like he’s expecting to pull some magic answer out of thin air.

He drops his hand, jaw clenched in frustration. “Hell if I know. The sun’s damn well rising, isn’t it? Noon’s creeping up, so when else could we have come here?!”

“Fuck!” I curse, turning around and running both hands through my hair. I pivot on my heel, take a look at the sky again and turn to face him once more.

I need to calm down. I need to think about this logically. What has happened…?

“Alright,” I mutter. “It seems like,” I round a finger at our surroundings, “is some kind of a trap. And clearly, the two of us don’t remember something that we should.”

He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. It’s the worst kind of powerlessness—not remembering something that one should but knowing it exists. Fabien glances around, then sighs and takes off his sword. He throws it to the ground and crouches down, like he’s just too tired to keep standing still.

“Yeah, something feels wrong,” he agrees finally. Then, with his mouth open and panting, he looks up at me. “It’s definitely a trap.”

Okay. Alright. This gives us something already, right? It’s better to be trapped and realize it than walk mindlessly forward without noticing it.

“Fine, well… Let’s think about it,” I mutter, walking toward the tree and leaning against it. Somehow, even it’s bark feels like heated-up iron. I need to crouch down like Rancour to even get a semblance of rest. “Why are we here?”

“To retrieve something the Lady wants.”

“Do you remember what?” I ask.

He glances sideways. It takes him a moment to reply. “No.”

Well, damn.

“Okay,” I mutter, nodding. “Fuck that, then. I guess when we see it, we’ll know. But… what do we need that thing for? I mean… I have this notion that time is really important but…”

His eyes widen, he licks his lips. And then, I can see that something pops into his head, even though he doesn’t say what.

“What?” I ask him.

His eyebrows pinch together again and he’s shaking his head slowly, like whatever he came up with seems too ridiculous to voice out loud. But that’s just the thing here, isn’t it? Everything seems ridiculous. I can barely believe that I’m in a place like this. It feels too much like a dream. Too unreal.

“Just spit it out,” I snap at him, slapping his shoulder with my hand. The sweat that stays on my palm is so thick that I immediately regret it.

At least it works.

“I just… I remember Ridley saying something about dusk and dawn. Twelve hours to one and twenty-four to another. We were supposed to meet on the ship by that time.”

The moment he says it, the memory of it pops up in my head. Yes. Something like that did happen.

“The two of us came here, to the island of the sun, and Gypsy and Vinicola went to the other,” I mutter, following up on it. “And the time we came here was important because…”

“Because if we’re not back by dusk—or was it dawn?—then we’re screwed. Won’t make it to the Trial in time,” Rancour cuts in, his voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to hit like a gut punch.

“Hell,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair again. “You couldn’t have shared that little gem sooner, Rancour? What, were you just waiting for the suspense?”

He scoffs, his lip curling. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “It’s just that I wasn’t sure I trusted it myself. Come to think of it… if dusk’s twelve hours from a certain point in time, the sun would be directly overhead at noon. And if dawn’s twelve hours from that same point, the sun’s at its lowest—or close to setting, depending on whatever Ridley thought he meant when he said it.”

I stare at him, realization and dread twisting into a hard knot in my stomach. “Either way, the sun we’re seeing here,” I point up above. “Is not what truly stands away from the island.”

“We have no way of knowing time,” he quips.

I let out a harsh, sour laugh. Either that, or I’ll end up screaming into these goddamn trees.

I sink under the water, salt stinging my mouth, but hell, I keep it open anyway. It’s the first real relief from this godforsaken sun, and I let it coat my tongue, tasting the sea as it wraps around me.

In fact, it feels so good that I almost forget why I’m doing this in the first place. Almost.

I break the surface, and that peace shatters with Rancour’s bellow.

“Cagney!” He’s wading in like he’s afraid the ocean might bite, water barely up to his knees. He’s splashing the cool water all over his body. “Stop pretending to be a fish and get a move on!”

I am just where the water starts getting deep enough, just where the mist starts coating my head and the turquoise depths turn into that toe-curling shade of navy.

Right. I need to check where the ship is. If I manage to see it, maybe its position will help us identify when the hell we’ve arrived to this island. All we need to know is the position according to the north pole, and then we can take it from here. Usually, we’d rely on the sun’s position or environmental signs to navigate, but on Solis, nothing behaves predictably. Here, we can’t trust the usual methods.

I remember that we approached this island from the south, crossing the Whisperwind Sea, and angled slightly to the east as we swam toward land. So, if I can spot the ship from here, its position should mark the southwest direction. It should give us a fair idea of the time of night or day we got here.

At least a hint.

Our memory’s fickle at best, but Rancour and I are on the same page for once—find the ship’s position, then get back to it after we’ve picked up whatever it is we’re looking for. As fast as possible.

“I’m trying, mate!” I call back, putting more power into my strokes, pulling myself through the water with grit and muscle. I don’t want to stray too far—just enough to lose some of this blasted mist. But the more I push, the heavier my limbs feel, and still… nothing. Just thick fog swallowing up every damn thing around me.

Then, there’s that voice from shore again, snapping through the haze like a whip.

“I said, get a move on!”

I grit my teeth, spin around in the water, ready to see nothing but a wall of mist where I left him. But no. There he is. Clear as day. Close enough that I could probably spit and hit him.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, more to myself than to him. I could swear I’ve swum a mile at least. Yet there’s the shore, like I’d barely moved at all. I could push twice, and I’d be standing again.

This place is toying with me. I narrow my eyes, hoping to make some sense of it, but all I get is a fresh wave of dread gnawing at my gut.

Seems like not knowing the direction or time is the fucking point here.

“Enjoying yourself, Cagney?” Rancour’s shout cuts through the mist, smug and mocking. He hasn’t budged an inch, standing right where the waves lap the shore, arms crossed, just watching.

I swallow back a curse and throw my own shout over the waves. “Oh, having the time of my life! In fact, I can’t swim any further than this! It’s tons of fun!”

That shuts him up fast enough. His arms drop, and after a moment, he splashes into the water, wading out to meet me.

I swipe a hand across my face, brushing off the salt as I watch him close the distance. Let him figure it out the hard way—it’s better for me, anyway. Heaven only knows that Fabien Rancour is a mistrustful man. I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of his accusations, especially if we’re bound to spend time here on this mind-fucking island.

He finally reaches me. “You sure you’re not just stalling?” he growls, glancing suspiciously at the water that seems to pull us both closer to shore no matter how hard we swim.

I shake my head, still catching my breath. “I’d rather not be wasting energy on laps in this ghost sea, believe me.”

“Fuck,” he curses.

I can see him struggle, moving his legs as fast as possible, even trying to dive and come out inches ahead. But it doesn’t work. No matter what, we stay in place.

Finally, moments and all the possible actions later, I nod my head toward the shore. “Let’s go,” I say. “Let’s take what we’re here for. We’ll worry about the escape route later.”

His eyes flash with frustration, but he nods, spitting seawater out with a sneer. We wade back to shore, instantly feeling this awful heat.

“Let’s keep repeating the important bits,” I say, once we venture again into the heart of the island. “Just so we don’t forget again.”

Fabien grunts, half in agreement, half in resignation. “Fine. Important bits.” He pauses, his gaze shifting to the ground as he stalks forward. “Number one: we’re here to retrieve something. Something… vital to the Lady. Without it, we won’t make it to the Trial in time.”

“Right,” I echo. “Number two: we can’t trust the time here. Every instinct we have about day and night, it’s wrong. The sun’s playing tricks, and so is this whole damned island.”

For what feels like hours, we keep moving, rattling off every scrap of memory, a back-and-forth mantra, to keep ourselves sharp. Bare trees rise up around us, sand patches stretch out like small deserts, and rocks with plants wedged between them blur as we march forward. Onward, and onward. Feels like we’re stuck in some endless, sun-baked dream.

Then, through the blur, I see it.

“Hold up… is that…?” I mutter, wiping the sweat off my forehead, half-disbelieving.

Rancour lets out a breath. “We found it.”

There it stands, on an empty patch of ground, framed by brittle trees and towering rocks: a pillar of that strange, shiny black stone. Just like the last one—the one with the gouge where we found the hourglass—but shorter, about shoulder height. And this time, no gouge.

We step closer, the sweat running down our backs. Whatever this thing is… whatever it means… this is what we were meant to find.

Fabien reaches out, brushing his fingers over the surface. I stay around one step away from it, scanning it from top to bottom. It doesn’t sprout out from any pool of water, so there’s that. This one’s planted right into the dirt, standing as solid as the rocks around us.

“See anything carved on it?” I ask, not getting too close. Last time, Gypsy found a message scrawled behind the damn thing. But this one… as I circle around, looking for anything similar, there’s nothing. Just cold, smooth stone.

Fabien shakes his head. “Nothing but stone,” he mutters, his voice a little too tense.

We both stand there, staring at it, waiting for some sort of revelation that doesn’t come. Then it hits me—something I should’ve clocked the second we split up. Neither Fabien nor I have ever been the chosen ones for the goddess’s riddles. The signs, the whispers, they’re always for Gypsy or Vinicola. As for me? The only thing I’ve ever noticed was a crate with seashells on the sand-expanding island. And maybe I was meant to find that one—like I had to be the idiot to dive into the deep.

“Well, fuck,” I mutter, jaw shifting as I try to piece together this stone’s purpose. “So, what now? Spread out, look for clues? ‘Cause right now, this thing’s just a stone pole without a purpose. Maybe it’s waiting on something.”

“Like what?” Fabien asks, looking over his shoulder. The way his lips curl, you’d say he’s my enemy here, not an ally, but whatever.

I roll my eyes. “No idea. It’s shorter than the last one, so maybe something goes on top? Guess we’re on the lookout for… whatever that is.”

“On top?” he repeats, skeptical.

I let out a sharp laugh, throwing him a look. “You got a better idea? Or are you just planning to stand here parroting every damn word I say?”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, turning back to the pillar with something between distrust and determination.

“I’m not parroting you,” he mutters. “You just sparked an idea, that’s all.”

I snort, crossing my arms. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“But we’re gonna need to haul it back to the skiff if I’m gonna try it.”

Oh, perfect. Just fucking perfect.

But what am I supposed to do? No sense arguing when my mind’s come up with exactly zilch. So, back to trekking we go.

An eternity later, drenched in sweat and with muscles screaming in protest, Fabien’s got his pants rolled up to his knees, looking ready to keel over. Meanwhile, I’m seconds from hacking my hair off with a dagger—anything to keep another strand from sticking to my face.

“Still can’t believe you actually brought that thing,” I say, eyeing him as he clutches the hourglass with whitened fingers. The damn thing slipped out of his grip already twice on the way here just because his palms are so slick with sweat. He catches me looking and shoots me a glare sharp enough to slice bone.

“If it turns out to save our necks, I fully expect you to bow down and thank me,” he grinds out, not missing a beat. “You know how to show a little gratitude, don’t you?”

“Do you?” I bark back. I saved his life for fuck’s sake. Don’t I get any credit for it?

“Oh, fuck off.”

This bastard…

“Put this damn thing on the pillar, already,” I say, waving a hand toward the stone. “Let’s see if it does anything, or if we just wasted time on nothing.”

Fabien shoots me a glare but does as he’s told, swiping sweat off his brow before carefully setting the hourglass atop the stone. The moment it lands, sunlight catches it—doesn’t just catch it, but sinks in, bouncing around until the glass itself starts to glow. And then, wouldn’t you know it, the ground starts to glow, too, like the stone is channeling the sun itself.

Words swirl up in delicate, cursive letters:

The sun, the keeper of all days,

Holds memory firm within its rays.

Without its arc, your mind will stray,

Each hour lost, each thought decay.

To find your way, to face the Trial,

Retrace your steps, each inch, each mile.

Shadows lengthen, east to west,

A mirrored path may serve you best.

“Guess I’ll be expecting a thank you after all,” Rancour breathes under his nose. And then, like even in a moment like this he remembers the rest of our crew, he adds, “Guess that clueless bard was onto something. Said this thing was made to catch the sunlight just right.”

A bitter laugh works its way up my throat. Just great—Vinicola or Gypsy isn’t even here, but somehow one of them managed to crack this puzzle before us.

What the hell…?

I read the clue again, turning it over in my mind, trying to fit the pieces together. Then I catch myself staring at Rancour, my thoughts twisting in ways I don’t care to name.

But Rancour? He’s too busy, circling around the pillar like a dog on a scent. A second later, he’s reaching for something behind it

“What is it?” I ask, stepping up to the pillar myself.

And there, on the other side, a thin gouge has appeared out of nowhere. In it lies an object, gleaming like it fell from the stars themselves. A massive fish scale, razor-edged and just big enough to fill a hand. The surface shimmers, a mix of violet, turquoise, silver—all the colors shifting with the light, like they’re alive, twisting and turning in brilliant shades of orange and green.

It’s breathtaking. And very clearly not of this world.

Rancour lifts it, and as the sunlight hits it full-on, the scale throws a ring of light around us—a blinding, rainbow halo.

“Fuck, keep that thing out of my eyes, will you?” I snap, squinting as Rancour shifts it around. The damn halo twists, scattering shimmering patterns across the ground. Doesn’t look much like the sun’s gift to me—more like something caught between sun and moon, a piece of both worlds stitched together.

Fabien voices what I’m already thinking. “Captain and the bard will probably have to retrieve the same thing from the other island.”

No disagreement here.

But that leaves us with a bit of a problem, doesn’t it?

“Now, if we could just figure out how to haul ourselves back to the ship,” I say, casting a glance skyward. Because the real madness here isn’t in fetching some mystery trinket we never even knew existed. No, it’s that even with the bloody thing in our hands, we’re still caught in this game. Still being tested, just like that damn clue warned us: The sun keeps the memory in its rays. Without it, our minds go astray. For each hour we lost, our thoughts decayed . And, hell, it’s been true every step of the way.

“Aye,” Rancour mutters under his breath.

“Retrace our steps, huh?” I ask, catching his eye. He nods, though he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than backtracking through this nightmare. Can’t say I blame him.

“Alright then,” I grin, though it’s half-hearted. “Let’s get moving, mate. This island’s not going to lead us back.”

So back we go, every cursed step dragging us deeper into the island’s hellish grip. I’d love to say it’s easy, that we waltz right through without a hitch. But that? That’d be a lie. Just getting back to the skiff feels like a feat meant for the gods. And then, just when I think we’ve wrestled with enough demons for one day…

“So we’re here,” Fabien says, voice edged with irritation. “Now what? Skiff still won’t get us past the fog. We’ve tried, damn it. Just doesn’t. Pass. Through.”

I stare at him, the weight of it all pressing down like a stone in my gut. “Then, mate,” I say, my voice grim, “we’ve got ourselves one hell of a problem.”

“Think, Cagney!” he bellows, veins straining. “Fucking think! What’s it gonna take? What the hell does that bitch want from us?”

I just chuckle, low and dry, and sink down onto the burning sands, squinting up at the relentless sun. It’s so damn hot it feels like breathing fire—like death would be a mercy if it meant not having to drag my chest up and down with each breath.

How long have we been roasting here already? Damn if I know.

“How’d that clue go again?” I mutter, scratching at the back of my head, trying to drag the words out of my brain. It mentioned memory loss, didn’t it? Figures.

“Retracing our steps, goddamn it!” Fabien snaps, his voice cracking like he’s been howling at me for hours. The fury under that calm front of his is finally bubbling up, spilling over like it’s got nowhere else to go in this damn heat.

“Right,” I drawl, leaning back against a rock. “Because storming in circles has really been working for us.”

Fabien’s pacing like a caged animal, while I’m just trying to remember how to stand without the ground wobbling beneath me.

“How much more can we retrace our steps?” He barks, hands slicing the air. “We’ve come full path already! We tried mirroring it, too!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave a hand lazily. “Look, when Vini and I were picking apart that clue about the Sister Islands, he saw things I didn’t even know were there.”

Fabien glares at me, waiting. “And?”

“And,” I say, stretching the word out, “maybe it’s not so literal, yeah? ‘Retrace our steps’ could mean something else. Maybe it’s a little… I don’t know, clever. Or mystical. Or just another of the Lady’s twisted jokes. Think about it—what’s her play here? You know, just to rub salt into the wound.”

That catches his attention. His eyes go wide, and he stops pacing, feet planted as he whips his gaze to the sun, then back to the skiff. His face lights up like he’s been struck by lightning.

“Cagney, you’re a… damn genius.” He turns sharply, squinting at the sun, then jabs a finger in the skiff’s direction. “The position of the ship’s pointing southwest, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So, the skiff’s marking south-west too!” He bolts to the skiff, like touching it somehow makes it real. His words hit me harder than I expected, and before I know it, I’m on my feet, my legs a little shaky as the idea clicks into place.

My mind is spinning.

“Retrace our steps,” I murmur, a grin creeping in. “Retracing could mean moving the same way back, but ‘mirroring’ might mean we need to reverse it somehow.”

Fabien nods, muttering under his breath, “The Lady would want us to sweat, to find exactly what we don’t know. Retrace our steps… hell, this whole island runs on the sun! ‘Shadows lengthen, east to west.’ The sun is the point of reference!”

Leave the island when the sun’s position will be the opposite of what it was when we arrived. But we have no way of tracing the sun. We can only work in directions.

What was the position of the sun when we arrived?

“The Trial will take place at dusk or dawn. Either twelve or twenty-four hours from now on,” that’s what Ridley said. That’s what we remember.

Oh, fuck.

I grip my hair with my fists.

“When we got here, the sun was either setting or rising, right?” I ask, following up on his thought process. “It was either low in the sky, in the west, or rising in the east.”

And the skiff points in the south-west direction.

“So, if we backtrack, metaphorically,” Fabien mutters, “we’d need to pick one of these directions. And in one of them, the sea might just let us through! That’s our way off these islands—swimming out in the right direction!”

Fucking brilliant.

All that’s left now is testing his little theory. And, naturally, making sure Rancour understands because of who we even came up with it.

I flash him a smirk. “Well, looks like I am owed a ‘thank you’ as well, don’t you think?”

This time when he smiles, his smile is not ugly at all.