Rowan had learned something important about Larkshore.
The town never slept.
At least, he was fairly certain it didn’t.
Even as the sun disappeared beyond the Never Ending Lark, the streets remained crowded with sailors, merchants, and travelers. Lanterns flickered beneath colorful awnings, music drifted through the narrow alleyways, and the smell of roasted fish filled the warm evening air.
Rowan walked beside Bjorn, his stomach growling.
Again.
Bjorn glanced at him.
“Hungry?”
Rowan nodded.
“Starving.”
Bjorn grinned.
“Good. Me too.”
Lyra sighed.
“Ye two ate less than three hours ago.”
Rowan shrugged.
“That was three hours ago.”
Bjorn nodded seriously.
“Exactly.”
Lyra shook her head.
“By the tides, I’ve joined a crew o’ bottomless barrels.”
Harvey chirped from Bjorn’s shoulder.
Bjorn smiled.
“Four bottomless barrels.”
Rowan laughed.
They continued along the waterfront, passing rows of brightly painted buildings and wooden balconies overflowing with tropical flowers.
Somewhere nearby, a group of sailors sang loudly.
Oh, the waves may rise, and the winds may roar,
But a sailor’s heart belongs offshore!
Bjorn started humming along.
Lyra grinned.
“Careful, warrior. Keep that up and someone might mistake ye for a sailor.”
Bjorn shrugged.
“Could be worse.”
“Aye?”
“Could be mistaken for a pirate.”
Lyra stopped.
She slowly turned toward him.
Bjorn blinked.
“…What?”
Rowan burst out laughing.
Lyra folded her arms.
“Ye do remember who ye’re talkin’ to?”
Bjorn scratched his head.
“Oh. Right.”
She shook her head.
“Hopeless.”
They rounded a corner and found themselves standing before a large wooden tavern overlooking the harbor.
Its walls were weathered by years of salt and storms, and its windows glowed warmly beneath hanging lanterns.
Above the entrance swung an enormous iron anchor.
It was covered in rust.
A wooden sign beneath it read:
THE RUSTED ANCHOR
Rowan looked up.
“That’s a pretty big anchor.”
Bjorn nodded.
“Wonder if it actually came from a ship.”
Lyra grinned.
“Aye. And if ye believe the stories, it belonged to a vessel that sank three times.”
Rowan blinked.
“Three times?”
“That’s what they say.”
“How does a ship sink three times?”
Lyra shrugged.
“Poor captainin’.”
Bjorn laughed.
Rowan smiled.
“Well, let’s hope their food’s better than their sailing.”
He pushed open the door.
And immediately stopped.
“WHOA…”
The tavern was enormous.
Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, supporting fishing nets, lanterns, and strange objects collected from distant shores.
A massive chandelier made from polished shells hung above the center of the room.
Long tables filled the floor, crowded with sailors laughing, arguing, and raising mugs of frothy drinks.
Musicians played near a roaring fireplace, their fiddles and drums filling the tavern with lively music.
Behind the bar stood a broad woman with dark curly hair, polishing a wooden mug.
She looked up.
“Three travelers and a bird?”
Bjorn grinned.
“Yep.”
“Hungry?”
“Very.”
The woman pointed toward an empty table near the back.
“Sit. I’ll bring something.”
Bjorn’s eyes widened.
“Just like that?”
She smiled.
“Anyone who looks that hungry shouldn’t be kept waiting.”
Bjorn turned toward Rowan.
“I love this place.”
Lyra laughed.
“Aye. We noticed.”
They made their way through the crowded tavern.
Rowan couldn’t stop looking around.
Every table seemed to hold a different story.
A group of fishermen argued over the size of a sea creature they’d supposedly caught.
Two sailors compared scars across their arms.
A man with an enormous beard slept face-down beside an untouched bowl of soup.
Rowan leaned toward Bjorn.
“Think he’s okay?”
Bjorn glanced at the sleeping man.
“Probably.”
The man suddenly snored.
SNOOOOORK!
His beard fluttered.
Rowan jumped.
Bjorn laughed.
“Definitely okay.”
They reached their table and settled into the wooden chairs.
Harvey hopped onto the back of Bjorn’s seat.
Lyra leaned back and surveyed the room.
Rowan noticed.
“What are you looking for?”
“Information.”
Bjorn raised an eyebrow.
“In a tavern?”
Lyra grinned.
“Aye. Best place to find it.”
Rowan looked around.
“All I see is people eating.”
“And talkin’, lad.”
She nodded toward a nearby table.
“Give a sailor enough food and drink, and he’ll tell ye things he wouldn’t whisper to his own mother.”
Bjorn grinned.
“Sounds useful.”
“Aye. Provided ye know which stories to believe.”
Rowan leaned forward.
“So we just listen?”
Lyra smiled.
“Exactly.”
A moment later, the tavern keeper arrived carrying three enormous plates.
Roasted fish.
Golden potatoes.
Warm bread.
And a bowl of something green that bubbled suspiciously.
Bjorn stared.
His eyes shone.
“Beautiful.”
Rowan pointed at the green bowl.
“What’s that?”
The woman smiled.
“Seaweed stew.”
Rowan blinked.
“Seaweed?”
“Fresh from the Lark.”
Bjorn grabbed his spoon.
“Food’s food.”
He took an enormous bite.
Then froze.
Rowan watched.
“…Well?”
Bjorn swallowed.
Slowly.
“Interesting.”
Lyra laughed.
“That bad?”
Bjorn considered the bowl.
“…Tastes like the ocean.”
Rowan pushed his stew toward him.
“You can have mine.”
Bjorn grinned.
“Thanks.”
Lyra shook her head.
“Unbelievable.”
As the evening wore on, the tavern grew louder.
Music filled the room.
Sailors shouted over one another.
Mugs clattered against tables.
Rowan tried listening to nearby conversations, but most seemed to involve fishing, storms, or arguments about who owed whom money.
Then a voice caught his attention.
“…I’m tellin’ ye, the ruins are real.”
Rowan froze.
He slowly turned.
Three sailors sat at a table near the fireplace.
One was thin and nervous-looking, with a patch over his left eye.
Another wore a bright yellow scarf.
The third was an enormous man with arms covered in tattoos.
The man with the scarf leaned forward.
“Ruins?”
The one-eyed sailor nodded.
“Aye. Beneath the Lark.”
Rowan nudged Bjorn.
“Psst.”
Bjorn looked up from his plate.
“What?”
“Listen.”
The enormous sailor laughed.
“Every fool with a boat’s heard that story.”
The one-eyed man slammed his mug onto the table.
“This ain’t a story!”
Several nearby patrons glanced over.
The sailor lowered his voice.
“My cousin sailed with a diving crew last season. They found stone pillars beneath the water. Great big things, carved with symbols nobody could read.”
The man with the yellow scarf frowned.
“Could’ve been rocks.”
“Rocks don’t have doors.”
Rowan’s eyes widened.
Doors?
Bjorn slowly set down his spoon.
The sailor continued.
“They found an archway too. Half buried in the sand.”
The enormous man crossed his arms.
“And?”
“And something chased them away.”
The table fell silent.
Rowan leaned closer.
The sailor swallowed.
“Something big.”
The man with the scarf chuckled nervously.
“How big?”
The one-eyed sailor stared into his mug.
“Big enough to make the whole sea move.”
Rowan felt a chill.
He remembered the strange currents beneath the harbor.
The green light.
The wind rising from the water.
Bjorn glanced at him.
“Sounds familiar.”
Lyra nodded slowly.
“Aye.”
The enormous sailor shook his head.
“Your cousin probably saw a whale.”
The one-eyed man looked up.
“Whales don’t have arms.”
Silence.
Then the man with the yellow scarf laughed.
“Alright! That’s enough stories for one night.”
But the one-eyed sailor wasn’t laughing.
Neither was Rowan.
Lyra stood.
“Stay here.”
Rowan looked up.
“Where are you going?”
“To ask a few questions.”
Bjorn grinned.
“Want backup?”
Lyra raised an eyebrow.
“From ye?”
Bjorn shrugged.
“I’m friendly.”
Rowan snorted.
Lyra smiled.
“Aye. Like a hammer.”
She disappeared into the crowd.
Rowan watched her approach the sailors’ table.
She leaned casually against an empty chair and said something that made the one-eyed sailor laugh.
A moment later, she sat down.
Bjorn shook his head.
“How does she do that?”
Rowan smiled.
“She’s good with people.”
Bjorn nodded.
“Better than us.”
Rowan considered that.
“…Probably.”
Harvey chirped.
Bjorn glanced at him.
“Not you. You’re great with people.”
The Frost Phoenix puffed his feathers proudly.
Several minutes passed.
Rowan finished his bread.
Bjorn finished Rowan’s stew.
Then Bjorn finished Lyra’s potatoes.
Rowan stared.
“Seriously?”
Bjorn shrugged.
“She wasn’t eating them.”
“She might come back!”
Bjorn glanced at the empty plate.
“…Too late.”
Lyra returned a moment later.
She looked at her plate.
Then at Bjorn.
Then back at her plate.
“Bjorn.”
He smiled.
“Yeah?”
“Where’d me potatoes go?”
Bjorn hesitated.
“…Sea monster?”
Rowan burst out laughing.
Lyra slowly shook her head.
“Ye’re lucky I like ye.”
She sat down.
Rowan leaned forward.
“Well?”
Lyra’s smile faded.
“The ruins are real.”
Bjorn stopped chewing.
“Really?”
“Aye. Or at least enough sailors have seen pieces o’ them that I doubt they’re all tellin’ the same lie.”
Rowan’s heart quickened.
“Did they say where?”
Lyra nodded toward the harbor.
“Far west. Beyond the usual trade routes. But nobody seems to agree on the exact location.”
Rowan frowned.
“Why not?”
“Currents change. Storms rise. Some say the ruins move.”
Bjorn raised an eyebrow.
“Buildings don’t move.”
Lyra shrugged.
“Neither do rivers run backward, but we’ve seen that happen.”
Rowan glanced toward the window.
Outside, the Never Ending Lark shimmered beneath the moonlight.
He reached into his pocket and touched the compass.
The needle pointed west.
Always west.
“Then we’ll find them,” he said.
Lyra smiled faintly.
“Aye. Maybe we will.”
A strange voice spoke behind them.
“Finding them is one thing.”
Rowan turned.
An elderly woman stood beside their table.
She was small and thin, wrapped in a dark blue shawl decorated with tiny silver shells.
Long white hair spilled over her shoulders, and dozens of necklaces hung around her neck.
Her eyes were pale green.
Almost the color of seawater.
“Coming back,” she continued, “is another.”
Bjorn frowned.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled.
“Someone who listens.”
Lyra studied her carefully.
Then her eyes widened slightly.
“Ye’re a tidewitch.”
The old woman chuckled.
“Some call me that.”
Rowan blinked.
“A what?”
“A sea witch,” Lyra explained quietly. “One who knows the old currents. The tides. The things beneath ’em.”
Bjorn leaned back.
“Sounds useful.”
The woman looked at him.
“Useful things often come at a price.”
Bjorn immediately folded his arms.
“…Never mind.”
Rowan smiled politely.
“Hello.”
The old woman studied him.
Her gaze moved to his emerald cloak.
Then to the compass resting beneath his hand.
Her expression changed.
“Ah.”
Rowan tilted his head.
“What?”
“So the wind has finally reached the water.”
A chill traveled down Rowan’s spine.
Lyra sat straighter.
“What do ye mean by that?”
The woman ignored her.
Instead, she stepped closer to Rowan.
“Tell me, child. What do you seek beneath the Lark?”
Rowan hesitated.
He glanced at Bjorn.
Then Lyra.
Neither spoke.
Finally, he answered.
“Something important.”
The woman smiled.
“Of course.”
She reached into her shawl and removed a tiny shell.
It was pale blue, with a spiral carved into its surface.
She placed it on the table.
Rowan leaned closer.
The shell trembled.
Then began to spin.
Slowly.
Round and round.
Until it stopped.
Pointing west.
Rowan’s eyes widened.
“My compass does that!”
The woman nodded.
“Aye. I imagine it does.”
Lyra leaned forward.
“What do ye know?”
The old woman’s smile faded.
“Beneath the waves lies a kingdom forgotten by the sun.”
Rowan held his breath.
“A kingdom?”
“Stone towers. Silent streets. Doors that have not opened in generations.”
Bjorn glanced at Rowan.
“Sounds like our ruins.”
The woman continued.
“And deep within that kingdom rests something older than the sailors who first named this water.”
Rowan’s heart pounded.
He knew what she meant.
He was almost certain.
“The Ocean Unity Koro?” he whispered.
The old woman’s eyes widened.
For the first time, she seemed genuinely surprised.
Then she smiled.
“So. You know its name.”
Lyra glanced toward the nearby tables.
“Keep yer voice down.”
The woman nodded.
“A wise precaution.”
Rowan leaned forward.
“Do you know where it is?”
The sea witch studied him.
Then she looked toward the window.
Beyond the glass, the moon shimmered across the Never Ending Lark.
“The Ocean Koro stirs the tides,” she whispered.
Rowan frowned.
“Stirs them?”
“Aye. When it sleeps, the water rests. When it dreams, the currents wander.”
She paused.
“And when it wakes…”
A distant rumble rolled across the harbor.
The tavern windows rattled.
Several sailors glanced toward the door.
The old woman lowered her voice.
“…the sea remembers.”
Rowan swallowed.
Bjorn looked toward the window.
“Remembers what?”
The sea witch did not answer.
Instead, she picked up the shell and tucked it back into her shawl.
“If you seek the ruins, follow the old currents.”
Lyra frowned.
“Which currents?”
“The ones that do not belong.”
Rowan blinked.
“That doesn’t help much.”
The woman smiled.
“Perhaps not yet.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait!” Rowan called.
She stopped.
“What’s your name?”
The old woman looked back.
For a moment, her pale green eyes seemed to shimmer.
“Names are like waves, child. They come and go.”
Bjorn sighed.
“Why does everyone around here do that?”
Rowan laughed.
The woman smiled faintly.
“Be careful, Windnaru.”
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
Rowan froze.
His smile vanished.
“…How did she know?”
Lyra stared after the woman.
“I don’t know.”
Bjorn crossed his arms.
“That’s getting old.”
Rowan looked down at his compass.
The needle trembled.
Then settled west.
He swallowed.
Something about the woman’s words lingered in his mind.
The Ocean Koro stirs the tides.
He looked toward the window.
Beyond the harbor, the Never Ending Lark stretched into darkness.
And somewhere beneath those waves…
Something was waking.
Later that evening, the tavern had grown even louder.
A group of sailors began singing near the fireplace.
Someone dropped a mug.
CRASH!
A fight nearly broke out over a card game before the tavern keeper threatened to throw everyone into the harbor.
Rowan, Bjorn, and Lyra remained at their table, discussing everything they’d learned.
“So,” Bjorn said, counting on his fingers, “we’ve got underwater ruins, strange currents, a giant sea monster, and a magic rock making the ocean angry.”
Rowan nodded.
“Pretty much.”
Bjorn grinned.
“Sounds like fun.”
Lyra stared at him.
“Ye have a strange idea o’ fun.”
Bjorn shrugged.
“I’m a warrior.”
Rowan laughed.
Then he noticed something.
A small piece of parchment lay beneath his empty plate.
He frowned.
“What’s this?”
Lyra looked over.
“What?”
Rowan lifted the parchment.
It was folded into a tiny square.
He opened it.
Inside was a rough drawing of the Never Ending Lark.
Several islands were marked along the coastline.
A dark line curved westward from Larkshore, winding between unfamiliar symbols.
At the end of the line was a small drawing.
A cave.
Beneath it, someone had written:
WHERE THE CORAL HIDES THE CURRENT.
Rowan’s eyes widened.
“Guys…”
Bjorn leaned closer.
“What is it?”
Rowan turned the parchment toward them.
Lyra’s expression changed.
“A map…”
Bjorn grinned.
“Finally!”
Rowan looked around the tavern.
“Who left this?”
Lyra studied the parchment.
“Don’t know.”
She traced the dark line with one finger.
“But I recognize part o’ this coast.”
Rowan leaned forward.
“Really?”
“Aye. There’s a stretch o’ rocky shoreline west of Larkshore. Caves run beneath the cliffs.”
Bjorn grinned.
“So we go there?”
Lyra hesitated.
“Maybe.”
Rowan looked at her.
“What’s wrong?”
She studied the drawing.
“Those caves aren’t exactly friendly places.”
Bjorn chuckled.
“Neither was the swamp.”
Rowan smiled.
“Or the mountains.”
Lyra sighed.
“Aye. And look how well those turned out.”
Bjorn grinned.
“We’re still here.”
Rowan nodded.
“Exactly!”
Lyra shook her head.
Then smiled.
“Alright, wind-boy. But we don’t go rushin’ into the first cave we see.”
Rowan raised one hand.
“Promise.”
Bjorn raised his hand too.
“Promise.”
Harvey chirped.
Lyra laughed.
“Somehow, I trust the bird more than either o’ ye.”
Rowan folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket beside the compass.
Tomorrow, they would return to the Crimson Tide.
And if Captain Vespern truly knew the Lark as well as he claimed, perhaps he could help them follow the map.
Rowan smiled.
One step closer.
One more mystery.
One more adventure waiting beyond the horizon.
Outside the tavern, the harbor lay beneath a blanket of moonlight.
Ships rocked gently against their moorings.
Lanterns flickered along the docks.
And far beneath the surface of the Never Ending Lark, an ancient current twisted through the darkness.
Deep below the waves, beyond the reach of sunlight, a vast stone doorway stood buried beneath centuries of sand.
Strange symbols covered its surface.
For generations, they had remained dark.
Silent.
Forgotten.
But now—
A faint blue light flickered within the carvings.
Then another.
Then another.
Until the entire doorway shimmered beneath the water.
A deep rumble echoed through the ruins.
Something enormous moved beyond the darkness.
And the current began to rise.