Rowan woke to the sound of a cannon.
BOOOOOM!
“AH!”
He shot upright, tangled himself in his blanket, and tumbled straight out of bed.
THUD!
For a moment, he lay on the wooden floor, staring at the ceiling.
Then he heard laughter.
“Nice landing.”
Rowan slowly turned his head.
Bjorn sat on the edge of the neighboring bed, pulling on his boots.
Harvey perched on the windowsill, his icy feathers glowing in the morning sunlight.
Rowan groaned.
“What was that?!”
Bjorn shrugged.
“Cannon.”
“I KNOW it was a cannon!”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Rowan sat up, rubbing his head.
“Why is someone firing cannons in the middle of town?”
Bjorn grinned.
“Breakfast bell.”
Rowan blinked.
“…What?”
Another cannon boomed somewhere beyond the harbor.
BOOOOOM!
Rowan flinched.
Bjorn burst out laughing.
“I’m kidding!”
Rowan grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.
Bjorn ducked.
The pillow sailed across the room and struck Harvey.
POOF!
The Frost Phoenix disappeared beneath a cloud of feathers.
Silence.
Rowan froze.
Bjorn slowly looked toward the windowsill.
A tiny blue head emerged from beneath the pillow.
Harvey’s eyes narrowed.
Rowan swallowed.
“…Sorry?”
Harvey spread his wings.
FWOOOSH!
A blast of freezing air swept across the room.
Rowan’s hair turned white with frost.
Bjorn laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed.
“Serves you right!”
Rowan shook the ice from his hair.
“I said sorry!”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Ye two done destroyin’ the room?”
Lyra’s voice carried through the wood.
Bjorn called back.
“Almost!”
Rowan scrambled to his feet.
“Give us a minute!”
“Make it quick, wind-boy! The market won’t wait for yer beauty sleep!”
Rowan glanced at Bjorn.
“Do I really look that bad?”
Bjorn studied his frozen hair.
“…I’ve seen worse.”
“Thanks.”
“Not much worse.”
Rowan threw the second pillow.
By the time they stepped outside, Larkshore was already buzzing with activity.
The morning sun painted the harbor gold, and a warm breeze carried the scent of salt, fresh bread, and roasting fish through the narrow streets.
Sailors hurried toward the docks.
Merchants rolled wooden carts across the cobblestones.
Colorful banners fluttered between buildings, while seabirds circled overhead, crying loudly whenever someone dropped a scrap of food.
Rowan stretched his arms.
“Alright! Today we find a ship!”
Bjorn rubbed his stomach.
“After breakfast.”
Lyra shook her head.
“Ye just ate.”
“That was an hour ago.”
“Aye.”
“Exactly.”
Rowan laughed.
They followed Lyra through a winding street lined with painted houses and hanging flower baskets. As they approached the waterfront, the crowd grew thicker.
Then the buildings opened into an enormous square.
Rowan stopped.
His mouth fell open.
“WHOA…”
Before them stretched the largest market he had ever seen.
Hundreds of stalls crowded the square, their colorful awnings rippling like waves beneath the morning breeze. Ropes crisscrossed overhead, supporting lanterns, flags, and strings of polished seashells.
Beyond the square, wooden walkways extended over the harbor, connecting floating platforms packed with even more merchants.
Ships of every shape and size surrounded the market.
Some had their sails furled neatly against their masts. Others displayed enormous banners painted with strange symbols, fierce creatures, or laughing skulls.
A towering sign stood above the entrance.
THE MARKET OF A THOUSAND SAILS
Rowan stared.
“A thousand?”
Lyra grinned.
“Give or take a few.”
Bjorn counted the nearest ships.
“One… two… three…”
Rowan looked at him.
“You’re not actually going to count them, are you?”
Bjorn frowned.
“Now I kinda want to.”
Lyra grabbed both their sleeves.
“Come on, ye landlubbers!”
She pulled them into the crowd.
The market swallowed them whole.
Everywhere Rowan looked, something new caught his attention.
A merchant displayed enormous pearls that shimmered with rainbow colors.
Another sold tiny glass bottles containing miniature whirlwinds.
A woman with bright purple hair shouted about enchanted fishing hooks that could catch fish before they were hungry.
Nearby, a man balanced three live crabs on his head while juggling coconuts.
Rowan pointed.
“Look at that!”
Bjorn glanced over.
“Crabs.”
“On his head!”
“Yeah.”
“How is he doing that?”
“Very carefully.”
One of the crabs pinched the man’s ear.
“YEEEOUCH!”
The coconuts flew everywhere.
Rowan ducked as one sailed over his head.
CRASH!
It smashed against a barrel.
Bjorn grinned.
“Not carefully enough.”
They continued deeper into the market.
Lyra’s eyes wandered from stall to stall until she suddenly stopped.
“Ohhh…”
Rowan turned.
“What?”
Lyra was staring at a narrow shop tucked between two larger stalls.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from its wooden beams. Glass jars filled with colorful powders lined the shelves, while tiny bottles of glowing liquid dangled from strings above the counter.
A painted sign read:
MADAME MARABEL’S MARVELOUS MIXTURES
Potions, Powders, Poultices, and Peculiarities.
Lyra’s eyes sparkled.
“Now that’s a proper shop.”
Bjorn glanced at Rowan.
“We’re gonna be here awhile, aren’t we?”
Rowan nodded.
“Probably.”
Lyra hurried inside.
The shop smelled of crushed flowers, dried leaves, and something sharp enough to make Rowan’s nose twitch.
Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crowded with bottles, jars, and strange ingredients.
A tiny blue lizard slept inside a glass terrarium.
A bundle of silver roots hung above the doorway.
Behind the counter stood an elderly woman with enormous round spectacles and a tower of gray hair pinned into a bun.
She looked up as Lyra entered.
“Well, well! A young herbalist!”
Lyra grinned.
“Aye. And ye’ve got quite the collection.”
The woman smiled proudly.
“Forty years of gathering, trading, and occasionally running away from things with too many teeth.”
Bjorn nodded.
“Sounds familiar.”
Lyra wandered between the shelves, examining bottles with growing excitement.
“Stormroot… moonkelp… silver thistle…”
She stopped before a small jar filled with shimmering blue powder.
“Is that frostblossom dust?”
The shopkeeper’s eyebrows rose.
“You know your ingredients.”
“Me ma taught me a thing or two.”
The woman chuckled.
“Then she taught you well.”
Rowan leaned over a nearby shelf.
A bottle contained a tiny glowing fish swimming through purple liquid.
“Whoa! What’s this?”
The shopkeeper glanced over.
“Glowfin essence.”
“What does it do?”
“Makes things glow.”
Rowan blinked.
“…Oh.”
Bjorn picked up another bottle.
“And this?”
“Sleepmist.”
“What does it do?”
The shopkeeper stared at him.
Bjorn slowly returned the bottle.
“Right.”
Lyra laughed.
Then she reached into her satchel and removed the pouch of gilliweed they had collected in the marsh.
The shopkeeper’s expression changed immediately.
“Where did you find that?”
Lyra opened the pouch.
The delicate green leaves shimmered faintly.
“Mireling Marsh.”
The woman stepped closer.
“Fresh gilliweed…”
She carefully examined the leaves.
“My goodness. I haven’t seen a healthy bundle like this in years.”
Rowan smiled.
“Lyra found it!”
The shopkeeper looked impressed.
“Then you’ve a good eye, young lady.”
Lyra grinned.
“Comes with the trade.”
The woman lowered her voice.
“Keep it safe.”
Lyra tilted her head.
“Why?”
“Because lately, everyone seems to be searching for things that grow beneath the water.”
Rowan exchanged a glance with Bjorn.
“What do you mean?”
The shopkeeper returned the pouch.
“Strange customers. Sailors asking about breathing potions. Divers purchasing charms. Captains offering ridiculous sums for old maps.”
Lyra’s smile faded slightly.
“Maps of what?”
The woman shrugged.
“Ruins, mostly.”
Rowan leaned forward.
“Underwater ruins?”
The shopkeeper nodded.
“That’s what they say.”
A strange excitement stirred in Rowan’s chest.
He remembered the green light beneath the harbor.
The unusual wind rising from the water.
And the compass pointing west.
“Do you know where these ruins are?”
The woman laughed.
“If I did, lad, I wouldn’t be standing behind this counter.”
Bjorn chuckled.
“Fair point.”
Lyra tucked the gilliweed away.
“Thanks for the warnin’, ma’am.”
The shopkeeper smiled.
“Safe travels, dear.”
They stepped back into the crowded market.
Rowan looked toward the harbor.
“Underwater ruins…”
Bjorn crossed his arms.
“You think that’s where we’re going?”
Rowan reached into his pocket and touched the compass.
“Maybe.”
Lyra glanced at him.
“Let’s not go divin’ after every rumor we hear, wind-boy.”
Rowan grinned.
“But what if it’s true?”
“Then we’ll find out when we’ve got a ship beneath our boots.”
Bjorn nodded.
“Speaking of which…”
His stomach growled.
Loudly.
Lyra sighed.
“By the tides…”
They found food near the center of the market.
A broad wooden platform had been transformed into a gathering place, with long tables, cooking fires, and merchants selling everything from roasted fish to sweet tropical pastries.
Bjorn purchased three enormous skewers of grilled meat.
Rowan bought a round pastry filled with something bright orange.
Lyra chose a bowl of spiced rice and vegetables.
Harvey received a small piece of fish.
Rowan took a bite of his pastry.
His eyes widened.
“Whoa!”
Bjorn looked over.
“Good?”
Rowan nodded enthusiastically.
“Really good!”
Then the filling hit his tongue.
His smile vanished.
His face turned red.
“HOT!”
Lyra looked up.
“Spicy?”
Rowan nodded frantically.
“WATER!”
Bjorn handed him a cup.
Rowan gulped it down.
Then froze.
His eyes widened even farther.
“THAT’S WORSE!”
Lyra burst out laughing.
“Ye drank pepperfruit juice!”
Rowan stared at the cup.
“WHY WOULD SOMEONE SELL THAT?!”
Bjorn laughed so hard he nearly dropped his skewer.
Harvey chirped from the table.
Rowan fanned his mouth.
“I think my tongue’s on fire!”
Lyra pushed her bowl toward him.
“Here. Eat some rice.”
Rowan shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.
Slowly, the burning faded.
He slumped against the table.
“…I’m never eating again.”
Bjorn raised an eyebrow.
“Want the rest of your pastry?”
Rowan immediately pulled it closer.
“No.”
Lyra shook her head.
“Hopeless.”
Across the platform, a loud cheer erupted.
Rowan turned.
A crowd had gathered around a long wooden table.
Two enormous sailors sat opposite each other, their elbows planted firmly against the surface.
Their hands were locked together.
“COME ON, BRIGGS!”
“BREAK HIS ARM!”
“FIVE GOLD ON THE BIG ONE!”
Bjorn’s eyes lit up.
“Ohhh.”
Rowan followed his gaze.
“Oh no.”
Bjorn stood.
“Oh yes.”
Lyra glanced toward the crowd.
“Arm wrestlin’?”
Bjorn grinned.
“Arm wrestling.”
Rowan sighed.
“Of course.”
They approached just as one sailor slammed the other’s hand against the table.
THUD!
The crowd erupted.
The winner stood, flexing his enormous arms.
“ANYONE ELSE?!”
Bjorn stepped forward.
“Yeah.”
The sailor looked down.
And down.
And down.
Then he laughed.
“You?”
Bjorn smiled.
“Me.”
The crowd chuckled.
The sailor folded his arms.
“Go home, little man.”
Bjorn’s grin widened.
“Scared?”
The laughter stopped.
The sailor’s smile vanished.
“…Sit down.”
Bjorn sat.
Rowan leaned toward Lyra.
“Should we stop him?”
Lyra watched Bjorn roll up his sleeve.
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
She grinned.
“Because this oughta be good.”
The two locked hands.
The sailor’s arm was nearly twice the size of Bjorn’s.
A man standing beside the table raised his hand.
“READY?”
Bjorn nodded.
The sailor grinned.
“Hope you’ve got a healer.”
Lyra waved cheerfully.
“Already here!”
“GO!”
The sailor pushed.
Bjorn’s arm didn’t move.
The sailor frowned.
He pushed harder.
Nothing.
Bjorn tilted his head.
“You started yet?”
The crowd roared with laughter.
The sailor’s face turned red.
He leaned forward, muscles bulging.
The table creaked.
Bjorn yawned.
“Alright. My turn.”
THWACK!
The sailor’s hand slammed against the table.
Silence.
Then—
“WHOOOOOO!”
The crowd exploded.
Bjorn stood, grinning.
Rowan threw both hands into the air.
“YEAH, BJORN!”
Lyra laughed.
“That’s our warrior!”
The defeated sailor stared at his hand.
Then at Bjorn.
Then back at his hand.
“…Again.”
Bjorn grinned.
“Sure.”
A few minutes later, Bjorn had defeated four sailors, won a small pouch of coins, and earned the nickname Little Thunder.
He was not particularly happy about the last part.
“I’m not little,” he muttered.
Rowan laughed.
“Sure thing, Little Thunder.”
Bjorn pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
Lyra smirked.
“Aye, Little Thunder.”
“Not you too.”
Harvey chirped.
Bjorn sighed.
“…Even the bird.”
As the afternoon wore on, the market grew busier.
Rowan wandered between the stalls, occasionally stopping to admire strange trinkets or examine maps of the Never Ending Lark.
One map showed dozens of islands scattered across the water.
Another displayed enormous sea creatures swimming between curling waves.
A third had a large section marked with a single word.
UNKNOWN.
Rowan frowned.
“Unknown?”
The merchant behind the stall nodded.
“Aye. Plenty of places out there nobody’s mapped.”
Rowan studied the empty space.
“But people have sailed the Lark for years.”
“Centuries, lad.”
“Then how can nobody know what’s out there?”
The merchant chuckled.
“Because the Lark doesn’t always show the same face twice.”
Rowan looked up.
“What does that mean?”
The man leaned forward.
“Islands disappear. Currents change. Fog rolls in where the sky was clear. Some captains swear they’ve sailed past the same rock three times without ever turnin’ their ships.”
Rowan stared.
“Seriously?”
The merchant nodded.
“Best advice I can give ye? Don’t trust a map more than the water.”
Rowan glanced down at the parchment.
Then at the compass in his hand.
He wondered what Sorin would say about a place that refused to stay still.
A gust of wind swept across the stall.
The maps fluttered.
Rowan caught one before it could blow away.
“Thanks, lad,” the merchant said.
Rowan smiled.
“No problem.”
Then he heard something.
“…the ruins…”
His smile faded.
Two sailors stood beside a nearby stack of barrels, speaking in low voices.
Rowan turned slightly.
One was tall and thin, with a scar across his cheek. The other wore a dark green coat and a wide leather belt covered in small knives.
“I’m tellin’ ye,” the scarred sailor whispered, “they found another piece.”
The second sailor frowned.
“Another piece of what?”
“The old city.”
Rowan’s heart skipped.
He stepped closer.
The scarred sailor continued.
“Stonework. Carvings. Something that doesn’t belong on the bottom of the Lark.”
The other sailor shook his head.
“Probably wreckage.”
“Wreckage doesn’t have towers.”
Rowan froze.
Towers?
Underwater?
The second sailor glanced around.
“Keep yer voice down.”
“Why?”
“Because every treasure hunter from here to the eastern shore is lookin’ for that place.”
The scarred sailor leaned closer.
“And they’re not the only ones.”
Rowan held his breath.
“Someone’s been buyin’ information,” the man continued. “Old charts. Sailors’ stories. Anything that mentions the ruins.”
“Who?”
The scarred sailor hesitated.
Then lowered his voice.
“A captain.”
Rowan leaned closer.
“A captain?” he whispered.
Unfortunately, he leaned too far.
His boot caught the edge of a loose board.
CREAAAK!
Both sailors turned.
Rowan froze.
“…Hi.”
The scarred sailor narrowed his eyes.
“How long’ve you been standing there?”
Rowan scratched his head.
“Uh…”
The second sailor stepped forward.
“Were you listening?”
Rowan smiled nervously.
“…A little?”
The scarred sailor scowled.
“Then forget what you heard.”
“But—”
“Forget it.”
The two men hurried away.
Rowan watched them disappear into the crowd.
He frowned.
“That’s suspicious.”
“What’s suspicious?”
Rowan jumped.
“AH!”
Bjorn stood directly behind him, holding a roasted fish on a stick.
Rowan clutched his chest.
“Don’t DO that!”
Bjorn blinked.
“Do what?”
“Appear out of nowhere!”
Bjorn took a bite.
“I walked.”
Lyra approached from the opposite direction, carrying a small bundle of herbs.
“What’s all the shoutin’ about?”
Rowan quickly explained what he’d overheard.
By the time he finished, Lyra’s expression had grown thoughtful.
“An underwater city…”
Bjorn crossed his arms.
“Sounds like the sort of place we’d find a Unity Koro.”
Rowan nodded.
“Exactly!”
Lyra glanced toward the harbor.
“Maybe. But if someone else be huntin’ those ruins, we’d best be careful.”
Rowan looked at her.
“Why?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Because not everyone searchin’ for treasure wants to share it, lad.”
Bjorn grinned.
“Then they can try taking it from us.”
Lyra sighed.
“That’s exactly the sort o’ thinkin’ that gets sailors thrown overboard.”
Bjorn shrugged.
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
Rowan glanced toward the distant ships.
The compass rested warmly against his palm.
The needle pointed west.
Steady.
Certain.
He smiled.
“Then we find the ruins before anyone else does.”
Lyra shook her head, though a smile tugged at her lips.
“Ye really don’t know how to do things the easy way, do ye?”
Rowan grinned.
“Nope.”
By late afternoon, the market had begun to settle into a gentler rhythm.
The sun hung low above the Never Ending Lark, painting the water in brilliant shades of orange and gold.
Merchants packed away their wares.
Sailors gathered near taverns.
Musicians played lively tunes beneath the swaying palms.
Rowan, Bjorn, and Lyra stood near the edge of the harbor, watching ships drift across the shimmering water.
Bjorn stretched his arms.
“Well, we found food.”
Lyra nodded.
“Aye.”
“And money.”
“Aye.”
“And a bunch of rumors about underwater ruins.”
Rowan smiled.
“That’s progress!”
Bjorn looked at him.
“Still don’t have a ship.”
Rowan’s smile faded.
“…Right.”
Lyra folded her arms.
“Finding a captain willing to sail into unknown waters won’t be easy.”
“Perhaps,” said a smooth voice behind them, “you simply haven’t met the right captain.”
The three turned.
A tall man stood several steps away, leaning casually against a wooden post.
He wore a long crimson coat trimmed with gold, polished black boots, and a dark tricorn hat decorated with a single white feather.
A silver-handled sword rested at his hip.
His dark hair was tied neatly behind his head, and a confident smile curved beneath his neatly trimmed mustache.
Everything about him seemed carefully arranged.
Even the way he stood looked practiced.
Rowan blinked.
“Uh… hello?”
The stranger removed his hat and bowed.
“Good afternoon, my adventurous friends.”
Bjorn raised an eyebrow.
“Friends?”
The man smiled.
“Potential friends, at the very least.”
Lyra’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Rowan noticed.
Her smile had disappeared.
The stranger straightened.
“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”
Bjorn crossed his arms.
“Seems everyone’s overhearing conversations today.”
The man chuckled.
“A bustling market does make privacy rather difficult.”
His eyes settled on Rowan.
“Now, if I understood correctly, you’re searching for passage across the Never Ending Lark.”
Rowan nodded.
“Yeah!”
“And perhaps something a little more… adventurous than a simple ferry ride?”
Rowan’s eyes widened.
“How did you know?”
The stranger smiled.
“Call it a captain’s intuition.”
Lyra stepped forward.
“And what captain might ye be?”
The man placed one hand over his heart.
“Captain Vespern.”
He bowed again.
“Master of the Crimson Tide, explorer of forgotten waters, and, if you’ll forgive my modesty, one of the finest sailors ever to command a vessel upon the Lark.”
Bjorn stared at him.
“…You practice that?”
Vespern laughed.
“A good introduction is an art, my friend.”
Lyra didn’t laugh.
“The Crimson Tide,” she repeated.
Vespern turned toward her.
“Ah. A sailor, I see.”
“Aye.”
“Then perhaps you’ve heard of my ship.”
Lyra studied him.
“Perhaps.”
Something flickered behind Vespern’s smile.
Interest.
Or maybe amusement.
Then he turned back toward Rowan.
“Tell me, young traveler. What brings you to our magnificent waters?”
Rowan hesitated.
He thought of the compass.
The Unity Koro.
The strange green light beneath the harbor.
Then he smiled.
“Adventure.”
Vespern’s grin widened.
“An excellent answer.”
Bjorn stepped forward.
“We’re looking for a ship.”
“So I gathered.”
“And someone who knows the Lark.”
“Better than most.”
“And someone who won’t get us killed.”
Vespern paused.
Then laughed.
“Well! I certainly admire your directness.”
Lyra folded her arms.
“Do ye now?”
Vespern glanced at her.
“Indeed.”
For a moment, the two regarded each other in silence.
Then Vespern spread his arms.
“My friends, the Never Ending Lark is a place of wonders. Forgotten islands, ancient treasures, mysteries buried beneath the waves…”
Rowan leaned forward.
“Ancient treasures?”
Vespern smiled.
“Oh, yes.”
“Like ruins?”
The captain’s expression shifted.
Just for a moment.
Then his smile returned.
“Ruins, you say?”
Rowan nodded.
“We heard there might be an old city underwater.”
Bjorn glanced at him.
Lyra closed her eyes.
“…Wind-boy.”
Rowan looked at her.
“What?”
Vespern chuckled softly.
“An underwater city. How fascinating.”
He stroked his chin.
“Rumors of such places have circulated among sailors for generations.”
Rowan’s excitement grew.
“So you’ve heard of it?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Vespern smiled.
“That, my young friend, is a question best discussed somewhere more private.”
Lyra stepped closer.
“And why would that be?”
“Because,” Vespern replied smoothly, “some treasures attract dangerous attention.”
Bjorn grinned.
“We can handle dangerous.”
Vespern’s eyes flickered toward the axe resting against Bjorn’s back.
“So I see.”
He returned his gaze to Rowan.
“Tell you what. Why don’t you come aboard my ship tomorrow morning?”
Rowan blinked.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
Vespern gestured toward the harbor.
“The Crimson Tide is anchored at the eastern docks. Come see her for yourselves. We can discuss your journey, your destination, and perhaps arrange a mutually beneficial agreement.”
Rowan grinned.
“That sounds great!”
Lyra opened her mouth.
“Rowan—”
But Vespern had already stepped forward, offering his hand.
“What do you say?”
Rowan glanced at Bjorn.
Bjorn shrugged.
“Worth a look.”
He glanced at Lyra.
She looked less convinced.
But after a moment, she gave a small nod.
“Just a look.”
Rowan smiled and shook Vespern’s hand.
“Deal!”
Vespern’s grip was firm.
His smile never wavered.
“Excellent.”
He released Rowan’s hand and placed his hat back upon his head.
“Tomorrow morning, then.”
He turned toward the harbor.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
Rowan looked up.
“Yeah?”
Vespern glanced over his shoulder.
“Do bring that remarkable compass of yours.”
Rowan froze.
His hand instinctively moved toward his pocket.
“…My compass?”
Vespern smiled.
“A curious little instrument. I noticed it earlier.”
Lyra’s eyes narrowed.
Vespern tipped his hat.
“Until tomorrow, my friends.”
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
For several seconds, none of them spoke.
Finally, Bjorn scratched his head.
“Well.”
Rowan looked at him.
“Well what?”
“He’s certainly friendly.”
Lyra stared after the captain.
“Aye,” she murmured.
Rowan glanced at her.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Lyra folded her arms.
“On the Lark, lad, the friendliest smile sometimes hides the sharpest blade.”
Rowan looked toward the harbor.
Somewhere among the hundreds of ships waited the Crimson Tide.
And perhaps their first real chance to explore the Never Ending Lark.
He touched the compass in his pocket.
Its needle trembled faintly.
Then settled west.
Rowan smiled.
“Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
Far across the harbor, Captain Vespern stepped aboard a magnificent crimson-sailed ship.
A broad-shouldered sailor waited near the gangplank.
“Well?” the man asked.
Vespern removed his hat.
His smile faded.
“They’ve heard about the ruins.”
The sailor frowned.
“And?”
Vespern glanced toward the distant market.
“And one of them carries a rather unusual compass.”
The sailor crossed his arms.
“Should we be worried?”
Vespern smiled again.
But this time, there was no warmth behind it.
“Quite the opposite.”
He turned toward the darkening waters of the Never Ending Lark.
“I believe our luck has finally changed.”