Rowan had been traveling west for exactly one morning, and already his new crew was falling apart.

“Ye call that packin’?” Lyra asked.

Rowan twisted around while walking, nearly tripping over his own cloak. “What’s wrong with it?”

Lyra pointed at the wooden ladle sticking out of the top of his pack.

“That,” she said.

Rowan glanced over his shoulder. “What? You never know when you’ll need a ladle.”

Bjorn trudged beside him, his axe resting across one shoulder. Harvey perched comfortably on the other, his icy feathers glowing faintly in the morning sun.

“I’ve known him for days,” Bjorn said. “I stopped asking questions.”

“A wise choice,” Rowan replied.

Lyra shook her head. “I’ve sailed with men who packed cannonballs for fishing trips, and somehow this still worries me.”

Rowan grinned and turned back toward the trail.

Ahead, the land rolled west beneath a wide blue sky. The Stormreach Peaks towered behind them, their jagged white tops fading into the morning haze. Only yesterday, Rowan had stood near their summit with fire, snow, and a raging Burlok all around him.

Now there were butterflies.

Lots of butterflies.

One landed on Bjorn’s nose.

Bjorn stopped.

The butterfly opened and closed its bright yellow wings.

Rowan pressed his lips together.

Lyra looked away.

Bjorn’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Rowan lasted three seconds.

A laugh burst out of him.

Bjorn swatted at the butterfly. It fluttered away just as Harvey gave a soft chirp that sounded suspiciously amused.

“Oh, good,” Bjorn muttered. “Even the bird’s against me.”

Harvey puffed his chest proudly.

The trail dipped between grassy hills, winding farther and farther from the mountains. With each mile, the air grew warmer. The last patches of frost disappeared from the rocks. Pines gave way to broad-leafed trees, and bright flowers spilled along the roadside in bursts of orange and red.

Rowan tugged at the collar of his emerald cloak.

A cool breeze immediately slipped beneath the fabric.

He smiled.

Elyndra’s enchanted cloak was still doing its job.

And somehow, he still hadn’t lost it.

That alone felt like an accomplishment.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out Sorin’s brass compass.

The scratched glass caught the sunlight. The needle trembled once before settling firmly toward the west.

Still west.

Rowan’s fingers tightened around it.

Somewhere ahead was the Never Ending Lark.

And somewhere within it, if the compass could be trusted, waited another piece of the journey he had barely begun to understand.

The Unity Koro in his pack seemed heavier whenever he thought about it.

Not because of its weight.

Because of what it meant.

He had actually found one.

One of seven.

Six remained.

Rowan slipped the compass away before his thoughts could carry him too far.

“So,” he said, glancing at Lyra, “how much farther is this Windmere place?”

Lyra shaded her eyes with one hand. “If the road behaves, we’ll see the mills by midday.”

Bjorn frowned. “Roads don’t behave.”

“Aye.”

“They’re roads.”

“Aye.”

Bjorn looked at Rowan.

Rowan shrugged. “I think it’s a pirate thing.”

“It is not a pirate thing,” Lyra said.

A beat passed.

Then she added, “It’s a sailor thing.”

Bjorn groaned.

They continued west.

By midday, Rowan saw the first windmill.

Its white sails turned slowly above the horizon.

Then another appeared.

And another.

Soon there were dozens.

Windmere spread across a wide green valley where enormous windmills rose between cottages, farms, and wooden workshops. Some stood on hills. Others sat beside streams turning bright blue waterwheels. Their long cloth-covered blades spun in the western breeze, filling the valley with a constant rhythmic creak.

FWUMP.

Creak.

FWUMP.

Creak.

Rowan stopped on the hill overlooking the village.

“Whoa.”

Bjorn joined him. “That’s a lot of windmills.”

Lyra planted both hands on her hips. “Welcome to Windmere. Last proper village in Ardentia ‘fore the land gets soggy.”

“Soggy?” Rowan asked.

Lyra pointed beyond the village.

The green fields ended several miles west.

Past them, the land darkened into a flat stretch of reeds, crooked trees, and silver pools that reflected the sky.

Mist hung low over everything.

“The Mireling Marsh,” she said.

Rowan stared at it.

Something croaked in the distance.

Then something else answered with a much deeper—

GROOOONK.

Rowan slowly turned toward Lyra.

“What was that?”

“No idea.”

“You grew up west of here!”

“Aye. On water. Not in mud.”

Bjorn grinned. “Good thing Rowan packed the ladle.”

Rowan brightened. “See?”

Lyra buried her face in one hand.

They made their way down the hill.

Windmere was busier than Rowan expected. Wagons crowded the main road, loaded with sacks of grain, bundles of cloth, barrels, and crates marked with symbols from villages Rowan had never seen. Travelers moved in both directions, though far more seemed to be coming from the west than heading toward it.

Rowan noticed that almost immediately.

So did Bjorn.

“Lot of people leaving,” he murmured.

Lyra’s grin faded slightly.

“Aye.”

They passed a family loading three trunks onto a cart. An old fisherman carried a rolled net over one shoulder while arguing with a woman about whether they had forgotten his boots.

Two merchants hurried past them, their cloaks streaked with dried mud.

One glanced toward the western sky.

“Storm’s building again,” he muttered.

His companion quickened his pace.

Rowan looked up.

The sky above Windmere was bright and clear.

But far to the west, beyond the marsh, clouds gathered along the horizon.

Dark ones.

They weren’t moving like normal clouds.

They twisted slowly around one another, stacking higher into the sky as pale flashes flickered somewhere deep inside.

Rowan’s stomach tightened.

A breeze swept through the village.

Every windmill turned at once.

FWUMP.

FWUMP.

FWUMP.

Harvey raised his head.

The little Frost Phoenix’s blue eyes fixed on the western horizon.

His feathers puffed.

Bjorn noticed. “What is it?”

Harvey gave a quiet, uneasy chirp.

Before Rowan could answer, a voice exploded from beside the road.

“TRAVELERS!”

Rowan jumped.

“AH!”

Three figures burst from behind a crooked wooden stall covered in moss, reeds, and what appeared to be a pair of wet trousers.

The tallest threw his arms wide.

A giant feathered hat nearly flew off his head.

“Do you fear mud?”

Rowan blinked.

Snatch.

“Do you fear leeches?” Snatch continued.

Thorncoat popped up beside him.

“I fear leeches.”

Snatch shoved him down.

“Do you fear getting hopelessly lost in a swamp where no one will ever find your cold, muddy bones?”

Thorncoat rose again.

“I fear that even more.”

“Would you stop helping?!”

Crumble sat behind the stall, chewing something.

He lifted a soggy green bundle.

“I found lunch.”

Thorncoat’s eyes widened. “That’s inventory!”

Crumble stopped chewing.

He looked at the bundle.

Then slowly lowered it.

Rowan stared.

“You guys?”

Snatch froze.

Thorncoat froze.

Crumble kept chewing.

Snatch’s face twisted in horror.

“You.”

Bjorn’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Well, look who survived.”

Lyra leaned toward Rowan. “Friends of yours?”

“No.”

“Yes!” Snatch cried. “Enemies!”

Thorncoat nodded rapidly. “Bitter enemies! Terrible enemies! Wind-blasting, axe-swinging, berry-stealing enemies!”

Crumble swallowed. “I like the bird.”

Harvey chirped.

Crumble waved.

Snatch slapped both hands against the stall.

“Silence! We are no longer the humble Banditleaf Trio you once knew.”

Bjorn crossed his arms. “We never thought you were humble.”

Snatch ignored him.

With a dramatic sweep, he yanked a damp cloth away from the front of the stall.

Painted across the wood in dripping green letters were the words:

SNATCH’S PREMIUM SWAMP SURVIVAL EMPORIUM

Below that, in smaller writing:

NO REFUNDS AFTER SINKING

Rowan leaned closer.

“What exactly are you selling?”

Snatch proudly lifted a bundle of wet leaves tied together with string.

“The Swamp Survival Kit!”

Rowan waited.

Snatch waited.

Bjorn waited.

Lyra squinted.

“That be leaves.”

Snatch gasped.

“Not leaves!”

He raised the dripping bundle toward the sky.

“Emergency swamp camouflage!”

Water ran down his sleeve.

Thorncoat held up another bundle. “This one has a stick.”

“Deluxe edition,” Snatch said.

Crumble lifted an empty string.

“I ate mine.”

Snatch’s eye twitched.

Rowan tried not to laugh.

He failed.

Snatch pointed dramatically toward him. “Laugh now, Wind Boy! But when the marsh swallows you whole, you’ll wish you had purchased our expertly crafted survival equipment!”

A gust of wind swept down the road.

The wet-leaf bundles blew off the table.

Thorncoat shrieked.

“My merchandise!”

He dove after them.

His foot caught the stall leg.

CRASH!

The entire table collapsed.

Snatch disappeared beneath a pile of reeds.

Crumble calmly picked up a sandwich that had fallen beside him.

Bjorn nodded toward the marsh.

“Think we’ll take our chances.”

Rowan waved as they walked away. “Good luck with the business!”

Snatch’s hand rose from beneath the leaves.

“You haven’t seen the last of us!”

Crumble looked down at him.

“Can we break for lunch?”

“GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

Rowan’s laughter followed them halfway down the street.

They stopped at a small market near the western gate and restocked their food. Dried fruit. Bread. Cheese. Water skins.

Lyra added several bundles of herbs Rowan couldn’t name.

Bjorn bought smoked meat.

Rowan bought two honey buns.

Then a third.

“For emergencies,” he explained.

Bjorn looked at the bag. “What emergency requires three honey buns?”

“The kind where I already ate two.”

They found a bench near one of the largest windmills and ate beneath the slow-moving shadow of its blades.

For a moment, everything felt peaceful.

Then an older man at the next table spoke.

“You heading west?”

Rowan looked over.

The man wore a faded blue coat and muddy boots. Beside him sat a woman with a wide straw hat, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup.

Lyra nodded. “Through the Mireling Marsh.”

The woman’s expression changed.

“Then don’t linger.”

Bjorn lowered his food. “Why?”

The old man glanced toward the storm clouds.

“The Lark’s been restless.”

Rowan leaned forward.

“The Never Ending Lark?”

The woman gave a slow nod.

“Tides where there shouldn’t be tides. Water rising in the middle of clear days. Storms appearing from nowhere.”

She looked down at her cup.

“Three boats came upriver last week with no crews aboard.”

A chill crawled across Rowan’s arms.

Lyra had gone unusually still.

“No crews?” she asked.

“Not a soul.”

The old man shook his head. “Folks say the Lark’s changing.”

A low rumble rolled across the western horizon.

Not thunder.

Not quite.

Every windmill in Windmere slowed.

One by one, their great sails stopped turning.

The village fell strangely quiet.

Rowan looked west.

Lightning flashed inside the distant clouds.

For one brief moment, the light revealed something beneath them.

A dark line.

Too straight to be a cloud.

Too large to be a ship.

Then the darkness swallowed it again.

Rowan reached instinctively for the compass.

The moment it cleared his pocket, the needle spun.

Once.

Twice.

Then snapped west so hard it clicked against the glass.

Lyra stared at it.

Bjorn stared at it.

Rowan swallowed.

“Well,” Bjorn said, “that seems pretty clear.”

Lyra slowly stood.

The playful spark returned to her eyes, but it was smaller now.

“Aye,” she murmured. “The Lark be callin’.”

Rowan rose beside her.

Beyond Windmere waited the marsh.

Beyond the marsh waited an endless body of water that couldn’t decide whether it was a lake or a sea.

And somewhere out there waited another Unity Koro.

His heart began beating faster.

Part fear.

Part excitement.

And something else he was starting to recognize.

Adventure.

Rowan slung his pack over one shoulder.

“Then let’s go.”

They crossed the western gate before sunset.

The road narrowed almost immediately.

Grass became reeds.

Dry earth softened beneath their boots.

Warm mist gathered between crooked trees, curling across shallow pools that glowed orange beneath the fading sky.

BZZZZZZ.

Rowan slapped his neck.

“Ow!”

Another insect buzzed past his ear.

Then another.

Then six more.

He waved both hands wildly.

“I already hate the marsh!”

Bjorn laughed. “We’ve been here five minutes.”

“One of them tried to fly into my mouth!”

Lyra stepped easily across a half-submerged log.

“Keep complainin’. Maybe they’ll decide ye taste bitter.”

Harvey fluttered from Bjorn’s shoulder and landed on a crooked branch ahead.

His icy glow shimmered through the mist.

Rowan followed.

Behind them, Windmere’s windmills slowly disappeared into the haze.

Ahead, the marsh stretched farther than he could see.

The water beside the trail gave a quiet—

Bloop.

Rowan glanced toward it.

Ripples spread across the muddy surface.

He stopped.

“Did you see that?”

Bjorn turned. “See what?”

The ripples vanished.

Rowan stared for another moment.

“Nothing.”

He hurried after them.

The three travelers disappeared deeper into the reeds as twilight settled over the Mireling Marsh.

Behind them, the water remained still.

For several long seconds, nothing moved.

Then—

BLOOP.

A bubble broke the surface.

Then another.

And another.

Deep beneath the murky water, something enormous opened its eyes.