Rowan stared at the glowing plant.

Then at Lyra.

Then back at the plant.

“Save our lives?”

Lyra grinned.

“Aye.”

Rowan leaned closer. “How?”

“By keepin’ ye from drownin’.”

Bjorn scratched his head. “That seems pretty useful.”

“Very useful,” Rowan agreed.

Lyra carefully brushed her fingers across the thin green leaves. They shimmered beneath her touch, their faint glow spreading through the water like sunlight through stained glass.

“Gilliweed,” she said softly. “Rare as a pearl in a pigsty. Me ma used to tell stories about sailors who’d search entire coastlines just to find a single strand.”

Rowan crouched beside her.

“What does it do?”

Lyra plucked a small leaf and held it toward the sunlight.

“Lets ye breathe underwater.”

Rowan blinked.

“Wait. Seriously?”

“Aye.”

“Like… actually breathe?”

“That generally be what breathin’ means, lad.”

Bjorn leaned over Rowan’s shoulder.

“For how long?”

“An hour, give or take.”

Rowan’s eyes widened.

“An entire hour?!”

Lyra nodded proudly.

“Chew the leaves, swallow the juice, and the magic takes hold. For a little while, the water becomes as friendly to yer lungs as the air.”

Rowan stared at the plant in wonder.

He imagined swimming beneath the surface of a great lake, exploring sunken ruins and strange underwater forests. Fish would glide past him like birds through the sky. He could dive as deep as he wanted without ever needing to come up for air.

Then another thought struck him.

“Does it taste good?”

Lyra slowly turned toward him.

Bjorn sighed.

“Of course that’s your question.”

“What? I’m curious!”

Lyra’s grin widened.

“Like a rotten fish wrapped in wet socks.”

Rowan’s excitement vanished.

“Oh.”

Bjorn chuckled. “Still wanna try it?”

Rowan considered the glowing leaf.

“…Maybe later.”

Harvey hopped down from a nearby branch and landed beside Lyra. The little Frost Phoenix tilted his head, studying the gilliweed with bright blue eyes.

He pecked at one of the leaves.

Lyra gently nudged his beak away.

“Ah-ah. None for ye, featherhead. Ye already know how to handle water better than most sailors.”

Harvey chirped indignantly.

Bjorn crossed his arms.

“He says he wants some.”

“You don’t speak bird,” Rowan said.

Bjorn shrugged. “Neither do you.”

Harvey chirped again.

Bjorn pointed at him.

“See? He agrees.”

Lyra laughed and reached into her satchel.

She removed a small knife and several strips of clean cloth, then began carefully gathering the glowing plants. Rather than pulling them from the roots, she cut each strand just above the muddy soil.

Rowan watched.

“Why not take the whole thing?”

“Because then there won’t be any left for the next poor soul who needs it.”

She tucked the first bundle into a cloth pouch.

“Me ma taught me that. Take what ye need, leave what ye can.”

Rowan smiled.

“That sounds like something my mother would say.”

Lyra glanced at him.

For a moment, her expression softened.

“Then she sounds like a wise woman.”

Rowan nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She was.”

The river continued flowing beside them, carrying little clusters of leaves downstream. Sunlight flickered across its surface, and the warm marsh breeze stirred the reeds.

Lyra finished collecting the gilliweed and tied the pouch shut.

“There. Enough for the three of us.”

Bjorn eyed the pouch.

“So we each get an hour?”

“Aye. Provided we don’t waste it.”

Rowan grinned.

“Imagine what we could find underwater!”

Bjorn gave him a sideways look.

“Hopefully not another giant octopus.”

Rowan glanced back toward the marsh.

“Yeah… one of those was enough.”

A deep croak echoed through the trees.

All three froze.

Rowan slowly turned.

“…Right?”

Nothing answered.

Bjorn started walking.

“Come on. Before something else decides we’re lunch.”

They followed the river west.

The marsh began changing as they traveled. The tangled trees grew farther apart, their roots spreading across shallow pools like enormous fingers. Tall reeds swayed beneath a warm breeze, and patches of bright flowers appeared along the muddy banks.

The air smelled different, too.

Less like wet earth.

More like something sharp and unfamiliar.

Rowan sniffed.

“What’s that smell?”

Lyra lifted her face toward the breeze.

A smile spread across her lips.

“Salt.”

Bjorn frowned.

“Salt?”

“Aye.”

“Like the stuff you put on food?”

Lyra laughed.

“Exactly like that.”

Rowan sniffed again.

“I don’t smell food.”

“That’s because ye haven’t spent half yer life breathin’ sea air.”

Bjorn grinned.

“Well, if the water tastes like salt, maybe we can season our dinner with it.”

Lyra shook her head.

“Ye two are hopeless.”

They continued along the river until the trees thinned enough to reveal a narrow wooden dock jutting into the water.

An old fishing boat rested beside it.

Its faded blue paint peeled along the sides, and a crooked mast leaned toward the riverbank. Nets hung from wooden poles, drying beneath the afternoon sun.

At the end of the dock sat a man.

He wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face and a long gray coat patched in several places. A fishing rod rested loosely in his hands.

He didn’t look up as they approached.

Rowan raised one hand.

“Hello!”

The man remained still.

Bjorn glanced at Rowan.

“Maybe he’s asleep.”

Rowan stepped closer.

“Excuse me?”

The fishing line twitched.

The man lifted his rod.

A tiny silver fish flew from the river.

It landed on the dock with a wet—

PLOP!

Harvey immediately perked up.

The fisherman removed the hook and tossed the fish into a wooden bucket.

Only then did he speak.

“Road’s behind ye.”

Rowan blinked.

“Uh… what?”

“The road,” the man repeated. “If you’re lookin’ for dry land, ye passed it.”

Lyra stepped forward.

“We’re headin’ west.”

The fisherman’s hand stopped moving.

For the first time, he lifted his head.

Beneath the shadow of his hat, Rowan caught a glimpse of weathered skin, a thick gray beard, and eyes as pale as the morning mist.

“West?” the man asked.

Lyra nodded.

“To the Lark.”

The fisherman stared at them.

Then he slowly lowered his fishing rod.

“Turn around.”

Rowan tilted his head.

“Why?”

“Because the water ain’t right.”

Bjorn crossed his arms.

“What’s wrong with it?”

The fisherman glanced toward the river.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he pointed.

“Watch.”

Rowan followed his finger.

The river flowed gently west, carrying leaves and little bits of driftwood toward the distant horizon.

At first, nothing seemed unusual.

Then the current stopped.

A floating leaf hung motionless in the water.

Another bumped against it.

The surface rippled.

And slowly—

The leaves began drifting backward.

Rowan’s eyes widened.

“Whoa…”

The river was flowing east.

Against its own current.

Bjorn stepped closer to the edge.

“How’s it doing that?”

The fisherman shook his head.

“Started three nights ago. Water runs backward. Fish vanish from their nets. Boats come loose from their ropes even when the knots haven’t moved.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small wooden charm.

It was carved into the shape of a curling wave.

“Last night, the river rose higher than the dock.”

Rowan looked at the dry wooden planks beneath their feet.

“But there’s no storm.”

“Didn’t need one.”

The fisherman tucked the charm away.

“Water came up like somethin’ underneath was breathin’.”

Lyra’s smile faded.

“Breathin’?”

The man nodded.

“Up. Down. Up. Down.”

He tapped two fingers against the dock.

“Like a sleeping beast.”

A cold breeze slipped through the reeds.

Harvey ruffled his feathers.

Rowan looked west.

Beyond the trees, the distant clouds still gathered along the horizon.

He remembered the strange shape he had glimpsed above Windmere.

The dark line hidden within the storm.

Something about it had felt wrong.

“Do you think it’s the Lark?” he asked.

The fisherman gave a quiet chuckle.

“Boy, the Lark’s always been strange. Some days she’s sweet as summer rain. Other days she’ll swallow a fleet and never burp.”

Bjorn grimaced.

“That’s comforting.”

“But this…” The fisherman shook his head. “This ain’t her usual temper.”

Lyra stepped closer.

“Ye’ve sailed her?”

The man’s pale eyes settled on her.

“Longer than you’ve been alive, I’d wager.”

Lyra lifted her chin.

“Then ye know the tides can change without warnin’.”

“Aye.”

“And storms can rise from clear skies.”

“Aye.”

“So what makes this different?”

The fisherman studied her for a moment.

Then he spoke quietly.

“Because the water’s afraid.”

The words settled over the dock.

Rowan felt a strange chill.

He glanced down at the river.

Its surface had gone still again.

Not a ripple disturbed it.

Even the fish in the bucket had stopped flopping.

Bjorn shifted his weight.

“Water can’t be afraid.”

The fisherman looked at him.

“Can wind?”

Bjorn opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Rowan’s fingers brushed the compass in his pocket.

He remembered Sorin’s words.

The compass didn’t point where he wanted to go.

It pointed where fate pulled him.

And fate was pulling him straight toward whatever waited beyond the marsh.

He took a breath.

“We still have to go.”

The fisherman studied him.

“Do ye now?”

Rowan nodded.

“There’s something we’re looking for.”

“Treasure?”

“Sort of.”

“Glory?”

Rowan shook his head.

“No.”

The fisherman leaned back.

“Then what?”

Rowan hesitated.

He thought of the Unity Koro tucked safely inside his pack.

Of the green light that had filled the Stormreach Peaks.

Of his mother.

Of his father, who had vanished while searching for the same legendary relics.

And of the promise he had made to himself before leaving Zyranth.

“I want to help people,” he said.

The fisherman watched him for a long moment.

Then his mouth curled into the faintest smile.

“Dangerous reason to go adventurin’.”

Bjorn chuckled.

“Tell me about it.”

Rowan scratched the back of his head.

“Yeah… I’m starting to figure that out.”

The fisherman reached beside his chair and lifted a small wooden marker.

He handed it to Lyra.

Carved into its surface was the shape of a wave beneath a single star.

“Follow the river till the reeds turn gold,” he said. “You’ll find a stone path leading up the western ridge. Take it.”

Lyra examined the marker.

“What’s this?”

“Old river sign. Fishermen used ’em before the marsh swallowed half the trails.”

He nodded toward the trees.

“Keep to the high ground. The lower paths have been flooding without warning.”

Bjorn nodded.

“Thanks.”

The fisherman returned to his rod.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Rowan turned to leave, then paused.

“Wait!”

The man looked up.

“What’s your name?”

The fisherman smiled beneath his hat.

“Names don’t matter much out here, boy.”

Rowan frowned.

“They matter to me.”

For the first time, the man’s expression changed.

Something almost like surprise flickered across his face.

Then he chuckled.

“Call me what ye like.”

Bjorn grinned.

“How about Old Fish?”

Rowan elbowed him.

“Bjorn!”

“What? He fishes!”

The man laughed.

A deep, rough laugh that rolled across the water.

“Old Fish it is, then.”

Lyra shook her head.

“By the tides…”

They waved goodbye and continued west.

Behind them, the fisherman watched until the reeds swallowed their silhouettes.

His smile slowly faded.

He looked down at the river.

The current had begun flowing backward again.

This time, something moved beneath it.

A long shadow slipped past the dock.

Far too large to be a fish.

The fisherman tightened his grip on the rod.

“Easy now,” he murmured.

The shadow vanished.

He looked toward the western sky.

“Not yet.”

The afternoon sun dipped lower as Rowan, Bjorn, and Lyra followed the river through the marsh.

The ground gradually became firmer.

Mud gave way to sandy soil, and the crooked swamp trees were replaced by tall palms with broad leaves that rattled in the warm breeze.

Bright flowers bloomed along the trail.

Colorful birds darted between the branches.

Some had long curved beaks.

Others wore brilliant feathers of blue, yellow, and red.

Rowan stopped to watch one glide overhead.

“Whoa! Did you see that?”

Bjorn looked up.

“See what?”

“That bird!”

Harvey chirped from Bjorn’s shoulder.

Rowan grinned.

“Not you, Harvey.”

Harvey puffed his chest.

Lyra laughed.

“Careful, lad. Ye’ll make him jealous.”

The Frost Phoenix turned his head away.

Bjorn patted his feathers.

“Don’t worry. You’re still the prettiest bird here.”

Harvey chirped proudly.

Rowan rolled his eyes.

They walked until the river widened into a broad, slow-moving channel.

The reeds along its banks had turned golden, just as the fisherman had promised.

Lyra spotted the stone path first.

“There!”

A narrow staircase climbed between two moss-covered boulders, disappearing into the thick greenery above.

Rowan hurried toward it.

“Finally! Something that isn’t mud!”

He stepped onto the first stone.

His boot slipped.

“WHOA!”

Bjorn caught the back of his cloak before he could fall.

“Careful.”

Rowan dangled awkwardly from Bjorn’s grip.

“…Thanks.”

Lyra stepped past them.

“Ye sure ye’re a Windnaru and not a Fallnaru?”

Bjorn burst out laughing.

Rowan groaned.

“That’s not even a thing!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

They climbed.

The path twisted upward through thick tropical trees, growing steeper with every turn. Roots crossed the stones like sleeping snakes, and sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden beams.

Rowan’s legs began to ache.

Bjorn wiped sweat from his forehead.

Lyra walked ahead, humming a quiet tune.

Rowan glanced at her.

“How are you not tired?”

Lyra looked back.

“Ship legs.”

Bjorn frowned.

“Ship legs?”

“Aye. Spend enough years climbin’ riggin’ and runnin’ decks, and a little hill won’t trouble ye.”

Rowan looked up.

The staircase seemed endless.

“Little hill?”

Bjorn leaned against a tree.

“I think she means mountain.”

Lyra laughed.

“Come on, ye lazy landlubbers!”

She disappeared around the next bend.

Rowan sighed.

Then he grinned.

“Race you!”

Bjorn blinked.

“What?”

Rowan took off.

“Last one to the top carries the packs!”

“HEY!”

Bjorn charged after him.

Harvey spread his wings and launched into the air.

The three raced up the staircase, their laughter echoing through the trees.

Rowan jumped over a fallen branch.

Bjorn bounded past him.

Lyra glanced back and laughed.

“Too slow!”

Rowan thrust out one hand.

A gentle gust curled beneath his boots.

He sprang forward.

“Not anymore!”

Bjorn’s eyes widened.

“That’s cheating!”

Rowan laughed.

“It’s called using my abilities!”

He rounded the final bend.

And stopped.

So suddenly that Bjorn nearly crashed into him.

“Rowan! What are you—”

Bjorn fell silent.

Lyra stood several steps ahead, her red hair lifting gently in the breeze.

Beyond her, the trees opened onto a wide stone overlook.

And beyond that—

The world seemed to end.

Rowan stepped forward.

His breath caught.

Water.

Nothing but water.

It stretched from one side of the horizon to the other, a vast shimmering expanse of blue and silver beneath the afternoon sun.

There were no opposite shores.

No distant mountains.

No forests or fields.

Only waves rolling toward the land in endless lines, their white crests sparkling like scattered diamonds.

Far below, the coastline curved around sandy beaches and towering cliffs. Palm trees swayed along the shore, and seabirds wheeled above the surf.

In the distance, tiny ships dotted the water.

Some carried bright sails.

Others looked like dark specks against the brilliant blue.

Rowan slowly turned his head.

Left.

Right.

Then left again.

His mouth fell open.

“WHOA…”

Bjorn stepped beside him.

For once, the Viking had nothing to say.

His eyes widened as he stared at the endless water.

Finally, he managed a quiet—

“…That’s a big lake.”

Lyra laughed softly.

“Aye.”

Rowan looked at her.

“This is it?”

Lyra nodded.

“The Never Ending Lark.”

Rowan turned back toward the horizon.

He had imagined it countless times since Lyra first told him about it.

A lake so large that sailors could travel for months without reaching the other side.

A place where storms appeared without warning and islands drifted through mist.

A body of water that behaved like a sea one day and a lake the next.

But imagining it was nothing like standing before it.

The wind swept across the overlook, carrying the sharp scent of salt and the distant cries of seabirds.

Rowan closed his eyes.

For a moment, he could almost hear the waves calling to him.

Not with words.

With something deeper.

Something ancient.

The same feeling he had experienced atop the Stormreach Peaks.

The same strange pull that had guided him toward the first Unity Koro.

He opened his eyes.

Far out on the horizon, the water shimmered beneath the sun.

For one brief moment, he thought he saw something beneath the surface.

A faint green light.

Then a wave rolled over it, and the glow disappeared.

Rowan blinked.

“Did you see that?”

Bjorn glanced at him.

“See what?”

Rowan pointed.

“Out there. In the water.”

Lyra followed his gaze.

The waves rolled peacefully beneath the afternoon sun.

Nothing glowed.

Nothing moved except the ships and seabirds.

Rowan lowered his hand.

“…Never mind.”

Lyra stepped beside him.

Her expression had softened.

For the first time since joining them, she seemed almost quiet.

Rowan noticed.

“You okay?”

Lyra looked toward the horizon.

“Aye.”

She smiled faintly.

“Just been a while since I’ve seen her.”

“The Lark?”

Lyra nodded.

“Me home.”

The breeze lifted her red hair.

Rowan remembered what she had told him about the Wander’s Wish.

About her mother brewing potions aboard the ship.

About her father singing to the waves.

He glanced at her.

“Do you think your family’s still out there?”

Lyra’s smile faltered.

Only for a moment.

Then she gave a small shrug.

“The Lark’s a big place, lad.”

Rowan waited.

Lyra looked away.

“Ships come and go.”

Her voice was quieter now.

“Sometimes they don’t come back.”

Rowan didn’t know what to say.

So he simply stood beside her.

The wind moved gently between them.

After a moment, Lyra nudged his shoulder.

“Don’t go lookin’ so gloomy, wind-boy.”

Rowan blinked.

“Huh?”

She grinned.

“We’ve got a whole sea to explore!”

Rowan’s face brightened.

“Yeah!”

Bjorn stepped forward and planted his axe against the stone.

“Well, before we explore anything, we should probably figure out how to get across it.”

Rowan looked toward the distant ships.

“Oh.”

Bjorn raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t think about that?”

Rowan scratched his head.

“…Not really.”

Lyra laughed.

“Good thing ye brought a sailor.”

She pointed south along the coastline.

Far beyond the cliffs, where the shore curved around a wide bay, Rowan could just make out a cluster of buildings.

Tall masts rose above them like a forest of wooden spears.

Colorful sails fluttered in the breeze.

Even from this distance, he could see ships moving in and out of the harbor.

Lyra’s eyes gleamed.

“Larkshore.”

Rowan leaned forward.

“What’s that?”

“The finest port this side o’ the Lark.”

Bjorn grinned.

“Does it have food?”

“Aye.”

“Beds?”

“Aye.”

“Dry ground?”

Lyra laughed.

“Mostly.”

Bjorn nodded firmly.

“Then that’s where we’re going.”

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

The needle spun once.

Then settled.

West.

Straight toward the endless water.

His smile slowly widened.

Somewhere beneath those waves waited another Unity Koro.

Somewhere beyond the horizon waited mysteries he couldn’t begin to imagine.

And for the first time, Rowan understood just how enormous his journey had become.

He had crossed forests.

Climbed mountains.

Faced monsters.

And found the first of seven legendary relics.

But now, standing before the Never Ending Lark, he felt as though his adventure was only beginning.

Rowan tucked the compass away.

“Come on!”

He started down the trail.

Bjorn followed.

Lyra laughed and hurried after them.

Harvey spread his wings, soaring above the treetops in a flash of icy blue.

Together, the four travelers made their way toward the distant harbor.