The storm had raged through the night and into the following morning. Hours blurred together, broken only by the rhythm of waves crashing against the hull and the steady howl of wind. Outside the porthole, there was no day or night—only a churning wall of water and gray.

The boat no longer rocked—it heaved and lurched, like something alive beneath them was tossing it about. Scarlett had grown used to the constant motion. She was afraid the stillness after the storm would almost be too much.

At some point in the night, Artur had come down to check on them. She'd been half-asleep, the children still curled beside her, the book forgotten on the floor. He’d mentioned something about dinner, but the memory was distant and patchy. A few more sailors had stopped in after that to check in, but their visits all blended together into the same strange fog.

She sat on the end of her bed, fixated on the porthole, eyes fixed on the frothing waves slamming against the glass. She kept searching for a flash of white—watching, waiting. The sound of it was still there, just beneath the water’s surface, humming faintly like a song meant only for her.

It was calling.

That was the danger of kelpies, wasn’t it? They lured. They called. She wasn’t sure if the pull she felt was a warning or an invitation. And she wasn’t sure which scared her more.

The door creaked open, and she jumped.

Olive, Via, and Evelyn were still curled up at the head of the bed, nestled into a tangle of pillows and blankets. Evelyn’s face scrunched briefly at the sudden movement before settling again.

“Miss Scarlett?” Artur’s voice came from the doorway. “Need anything?”

She exhaled, adjusting her dress as her pulse slowed. “Artur…” she sighed, then nodded. “Yes, actually—could we have some water?”

“Of course, miss.” His eyes drifted past her toward the bundled children. “Everyone holding up well enough?”

“They’ve been out like a light.” She glanced back at them, watching their even breaths rise and fall.

“And you?”

She turned to find him watching her closely, his eyes studying her face.

“I’ve slept some,” she answered carefully. If she told him about the kelpie, he’d only dismiss her again.

He lingered, still holding her gaze, as if waiting for more. “Alright then...” he finally said, though his voice held a note of doubt. He hesitated a moment longer before turning and stepping away.

She sighed and turned back to the window.

Then froze.

A massive white eye stared back at her. It filled the entire porthole, flooding the cabin with a pale, glowing light. The pupil contracted, then dilated, locking onto her as if studying every corner of her soul.

Her breath caught. She was suspended—weightless. It was like passing through the waygate again: floating, untethered, as if her limbs might simply drift away.

A shallow breath escaped her lips.

The eye blinked. For a moment, the world darkened.

Then the song returned—louder. Clearer. It thrummed through her chest like a living thing.

A strange flutter rose inside her, light and almost giddy. The song was shifting.

Suddenly, the sensation broke. The floating vanished, replaced by a sickening drop. Her body turned heavy—lead sinking through water. Each breath thickened, the air pressing like a wet cloth against her lungs.

The melody twisted, each note warping, sharpening into jagged edges.

And as the darkness closed in, the song finally broke—melting into screams.

Everyone was screaming.

She pressed her hands against her ears, but it only dulled the terror. The panic still seeped in through her fingertips, through her skin. Even with her eyes squeezed shut, the chaos burned behind her eyelids. It didn’t matter—she could barely see anything through the thick, blurring haze when her eyes were open anyway.

She was small. Much smaller than she should have been.

Why was she so small?

She felt helpless.

She wanted someone. Someone familiar. Who was it? She called out a name—it felt foreign in her mouth, like a word she should know but couldn’t place. She wanted Harmon, or her mother, her father… but none of them were the name stuck on her tongue. She tried to call it out, to make sense of it. The sound of it vanished into the smoke.

Smoke.

Why was there smoke?

Something smaller clung to her. Someone too small. Too small for the smoke. Too small for the screaming.

She held the small one tight, its face pressed against her chest, shielding it from what waited beyond the haze. She couldn’t let them see. She whispered reassurances—soft, trembling words—but the wind tore them away before they could reach the small ears.

Then came a voice. It called her name. 

How did they know her name?

A shadow broke through the smoke—tall, looming—something glinting in its hand, pulsing with red light.

Sword.

The word formed in her mind, but her own voice sounded far away. Too small.

Another shadow followed, stepping between her and the first. Metal clashed against metal. Red light collided with red light, the blades sparking as they struck, reflecting the glow of—

Fire.

There was a fire. She knew there was a fire. Lots of fire.

The second figure turned, his mouth moving—saying something she couldn’t hear. He shoved the larger man away. Something dark sprayed across the deck.

Deck. They were on a deck.

The ground tilted violently. An explosion ripped through the air. She lost her footing, falling backwards. The small weight in her arms shook, clinging tighter. There was no time to think.

Her eyes locked with the man holding the stained blade. He saw her falling. He tried to move. Gods, he tried. But he wasn’t fast enough. His hand shot out, desperate to catch them, but she knew he wouldn't reach her in time.

So she did the only thing she could. She flung her arms forward, hurling the small thing toward him, praying he would catch them.

She knew she wouldn’t stop falling. She knew something dark and terrible waited below. She only let her eyes close after she saw the man fall back, arms catching the small thing. Then the cold swallowed her.

Something nudged at her, insistent. Her arms moved weakly, but she wasn’t going anywhere. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to close her eyes. Wait… they were closed. She wanted to sleep, but something kept nudging her.
She tried to drift, but the nudging kept pulling at her, keeping her tethered.

The world rushed around her—too fast, spinning.

Suddenly, she broke through the surface. Air hit her like a slap. She gasped, choking, coughing. Salt burned her throat and stung her eyes. The wind cut through her soaked skin, cold seeping into her bones. But somewhere deep inside, something warm flickered—a steady thrum pulsing in her chest.

She flailed her arms, slipping under again. Something large darted past, but she barely registered it. Then, a warm body caught her beneath the arms, lifting her upward. She clung instinctively, wrapping herself around whatever kept her afloat. 

For a while, she simply bobbed there, gasping, chest heaving as she held tight.

Blinking, she squinted up at the source of the light that had been needling at her as she struggled.

Red. Orange. Yellow. The colors bled into each other, swirling across the sky. Smoke curled upward, fusing with the clouds, turning them into a churning mass. She forced herself to look away. She didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.

Her gaze drifted, drawn toward a softer glow. White. Soft. Warm.

And then came the song.

She gasped and jolted upright.

Her eyes shot open—too fast. She was blinded by light.

She doubled over, clutching at her head as her ears rang, sharp and piercing. She panted, still feeling as though the water was trying to consume her.

Something beside her had jumped back.

"Oh my—!" A voice shouted from somewhere close, but it sounded far away.

She let out a pained gasp as the ringing in her ears spiked into a dull thudding behind her temples. Her chest felt like it was trying to break open. Each breath scraped against her ribcage. She took in another deep breath, trying to cough up salt water that wasn't there.

She turned her head as a fast movement blurred in her vision. The doctor was nervously rummaging in some nearby cabinets.

Cabinets…?

She looked around, her vision still blurred. She wasn't in her cabin anymore. The room was bigger—brighter.

"Oh my…" the doctor muttered, hurrying over with a glass of water. "Oh, dear," he hummed nervously as he pressed the cup into her hands.

She opened her mouth, trying to speak, but he just held the water in her hands.

"Drink," he said, firm but gentle.

She put the cup to her lips, trying to drink. As the cool water rushed past her dry throat, the memories of salt water rushed back over her. She pulled the cup away, gagging and coughing. A chill ran through her like she was still drenched in seawater.

"Oh heavens," he pulled the cup away and pressed a hand against her back. It didn't stop the feeling that her lungs were filling up with salt and burning water.

Her head snapped up as a rush of boots and voices flooded in. Too many people. Too loud. She shrank back, breath caught in her throat.

"What's going on?" Artur pushed back the first few guards who had broken the door down.

Finally—a face she recognized.

“Everyone needs to get out. Now.” Dr. Huget didn’t raise his voice, but the edge in his tone left no room for argument.

Scarlett pulled away from his hand, raising her own, fingers trembling. “I’m fine…” Her voice cracked, thin and hoarse. She swallowed hard, fighting the cough building in her chest. She wanted everyone out as much as Dr. Huget, but she didn't want them all to keep looking at her like that.

She wasn't entirely sure what it was. Pity? Worry? Apathy? Whatever it was, it made a flicker of anger twist in her gut. She didn't know why. She should be glad they had a concern; if they wanted her to live, then surely nobody was going to kill her.

But she wouldn't even have to worry about that if someone—anyone—just told her what was going on already! She was tired of trying to pretend like it wasn't a big deal. It was! She had no clue where she was going or why.

She didn’t want their pity. She wanted answers. She wanted guilt. Maybe shame. Even a shred of remorse.

“Scarlett…” A hand brushed hers, pulling her from the storm of her thoughts.

She looked down, startled by the quiet sound of her name.

Artur was still there, eyes steady, voice soft. “Breathe,” he whispered.

She took in a shaky breath, breathing in till it hurt. She let it out, feeling her chest ache in response.

“What… happened?” The words rasped out weak and thin. She reached for the cup again, desperate to drown the pathetic sound of her own voice.

“Your fever spiked.” Artur’s hand brushed hers as he steadied the cup, but then pulled away too soon. “I came down to bring water… the kids were trying to wake you up.”

Her fingers hovered in the empty air where his hand had been. Maybe it was the fever boiling her brain, but she wanted him to hold her hand again—just for a second. Like when Harmon used to sit by her bed and read stories until she fell asleep… or how her mother’s cool hand would brush her hair back, checking for a fever.

If Artur let go entirely, she might sink right back into the cold water.

“It got bad,” he admitted quietly, refilling her cup from the pitcher beside the bed. “Real bad.”

The doctor pulled a chair closer, eyes sharp behind his spectacles. “Did you notice anything strange before it you passed out? Dizzy spells? Blurred vision?”

She stared down at the water swirling in her cup, fingers tightening around it. A lie formed on her tongue. She shook her head.

He looked like he didn't believe her but just nodded. "You were having trouble breathing in your sleep. Do you know if you have any family history or preconditions like that?"

A lump swelled in her throat, hot and tight. “No.”

Artur shifted beside the bed, offering a soft, hopeful smile. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Miss Scarlett. We were all worried.”

The flicker of anger flared sharply in her chest. She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, stop it.”

Artur leaned back, his brow furrowing. “What?”

“You heard me.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it. “Stop pretending anyone here cares. I shouldn’t even be here!” Her hand swiped at her face, catching the tears before they could fall. “I wouldn’t be—like this—if I was home.” She gestured at herself, trembling, flushed, a mess.

A small part of her felt bad for yelling at Artur. Regret twisted through her gut—it wasn’t Artur’s fault, not directly. But the words kept spilling.

"Miss Scarlett…" Artur held out a tentative hand.

"And another thing—" Her mouth was moving before she could stop. "Could everyone stop being so damn polite? I can't go anywhere, I can't get any answers—I was thrown in the back of a cart like livestock. So stop acting like I'm a lady or someone important. At least then I wouldn’t feel guilty for being angry.”

The room buzzed quietly for a moment, her chest heaving.

It was true. If everyone had been cruel from the start, she could’ve abandoned the manners her parents spent years drilling into her. What was the point of playing the proper lady if no one was going to treat her like one?

“I—I’m sorry.” Artur looked like she’d struck him across the face.

The guilt churned in her chest, sour and heavy.

“Please…” Her voice wavered, all the heat gone from it, leaving only raw edges. “Just—please go. Both of you.”

Dr. Huget stood, brows knitted with concern. “Miss Scarlett—”

“Go.” Her voice cracked as it rose, more desperation than anger.

She waited, eyes closed, as she heard two sets of feet shuffle out. Once she heard the door click, it was like something inside her cracked open. Her shoulders caved in like the last thread holding her upright had snapped.

Tears broke free, sliding down her cheeks in hot, quiet rivers. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Her fingers twitched, curling into the blanket like she could anchor herself with the thin fabric. A strangled sound tried to claw up her throat, but she clamped her jaw shut, biting down so hard her teeth ached.

She sat there, trembling, the storm still churning in her veins. But beneath the fear and exhaustion, one thought burned steady:

She was going to find a way to leave. Whatever it took.