Tarka saw nothing, his vision an endless field of black. Even the paddle in his jaws and the deck of the ship had been stripped away from his vision. His paddle scraped the side of the ship, and he froze. One wrong step, and he’d plunge into the water. One wrong paddle stroke, and they’d crash into the cavern wall.

“I can’t see the exit anymore,” Tarka said, releasing the paddle from his fangs.

“I know,” Yarik replied.

Tarka looked around, twitching his ears. Was that splashing sound the Scribe in the distance? Was she getting closer?

“How is the Scribe steering?” Tarka asked.

“Listen closely.”

Tarka lifted one ear up, swiveling it. It took a moment for him to notice, but every few seconds, like clockwork, a faint high-pitched noise rang across the cavern.

“What is it?”

“Magic. It lets them see without seeing, even in total darkness,” Yarik explained. He sighed. “I was hoping they’d sent down an amateur. Tarka, can you light another torch?”

“I can’t see.”

“The end of your paddle then. Careful. Point away from the sound of my voice.”

“Yeah. Sorry, paddle,” Tarka sighed. He used his forepaws to whack it against the side of the boat, feeling out where the water was.

Tarka gave the paddle a silent eulogy, lifted the dry end out over the water, and blew a trickle of flame forth.

The cavern was lit up, and just over the boat’s edge, the leering face of Sister Cassandra stared back at Tarka, so close that she could reach out and grab him.

Tarka screamed, staggering back as he continuously shot out flame.

Cassandra screamed as well, her robes caught alight.

“PADDLE!” Yarik screamed, and Tarka shoved the flaming paddle into the water, turning the Windrider towards the lake’s exit.

The distraction of setting a Scribe on fire was enough to give the crew of the Windrider a few moments of respite. Cassandra tried patting out the flames as they spread, before she leaped from her, dousing herself in cold water.

As Cassandra climbed back aboard, a current sucked the Windrider up and into the exit tunnel. Tarka held out the flaming oar and ran to the aft end, watching as the Scribe whacked a metal box on the back of her boat with a hand. It whirred to life, symbols glowing on its surface. Cassandra’s boat sped forward, bubbles rising from its wake.

The tunnel narrowed once again, and the current grew faster. Tarka yelped as he accidentally touched the burning end of his oar, pulling his paw away from it.

Sister Cassandra glared, her robe rippling as her boat took to the current, approaching them. She raised out her hands and began chanting, circles of light forming around her palms. The water around the Windrider began to glow.

“What’s she doing?” Yarik asked, too focused on steering the Windrider to look.

Tarka wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it didn’t look good.

Cassandra twisted one hand, and the Windrider slowed. Tarka dipped his paddle into the glowing water, only to find that it had gained the consistency of honey. Each stroke was like digging through stone. He pulled the paddle out, only for the thick water to stick onto it, trying to drag it back down.

Cassandra approached, her boat unheeded.

Tarka had to do something, and he only had one weapon in his arsenal. He turned his snout aft, opened his jaws, and let loose his flame.

Or, so he had hoped. All that came out was a small flicker of fire, followed by a mountain of smoke.

Still, that was enough to distract Cassandra, who evidently didn’t want to be set on fire again. She ducked and shouted, diving away from where Tarka had been aiming his fire. Her palm twisted the magic circle, and she began to wheeze, flailing her hands around to wave the smoke away.

Suddenly, the Windrider lurched forward, Cassandra’s spell damaged.

“Woohoo!” Tarka exclaimed as they began to speed through the water. The water below them still glowed, but no longer was it thick. Instead, it slid from the paddle in droplets, and the vessel zoomed along the tunnel as if they were sailing across ice.

Cassandra’s smoke-filled boat was further away by the second.

“ROW, TARKA!” Yarik cried. “ROW!”

Tarka felt the deck below him lurch. Air whipped past his snout. Slick water crept up the sides of the Windrider.

The glowing water was speeding them up, with no signs of stopping.

The tunnel ahead of them turned, just slightly, but at the speed they were going, just slightly was too much.

Tarka had no time to row. He dropped his paddle as the Windrider’s twin bows crashed into the tunnel wall, splintering and cracking.

The force threw Tarka from his paws, and he sailed into the air, flung across the Windrider. Beneath him, the vessel ripped itself apart, the two hulls torn from the deck. Jagged wood met jagged stone and one of the hulls twisted around. The masts snapped like twigs, and in mere seconds, the Windrider was no more.

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Tarka was plunged into the water, and the current slammed him into the remains of one of the hulls. Bubbles escaped from his jaws as the world around him turned, and turned, and turned. He tumbled, splinters of sharp wood digging beneath his fur.

Without thinking, Tarka grasped ahold of a piece of wood, holding onto it as the current tried to pull him away. With all the strength left in his body, he climbed upward, even as rubble scratched and barraged him. His head pierced the surface, and he gasped for air.

Everything was broken. The Windrider had been wrecked against the tunnel wall, splintered into a thousand pieces. The flaming paddle had caught parts of the sinking ship on fire. The masts and sails were no more.

“Yarik!” Tarka wailed. “Yarik!”

Tarka looked around for any sign of the human. He quickly found it — Yarik was drifting face-down in the water, the current pulling him around.

With one foreleg on the driftwood, Tarka reached out the other, grabbing Yarik’s leg as he passed. Tarka’s talons raked Yarik’s skin as the current tried to pull him away, but managed to hold on.

Tarka rolled Yarik’s body on a piece of deck that had managed to stay mostly intact and wasn’t in danger of floating away. Blood dripped down from Yarik’s head and over his face. He was silent and motionless.

“Wake up,” Tarka whimpered, pushing on Yarik’s chest with a paw. “Wake up Yarik, please, please wake up.”

Sister Cassandra’s boat drifted down the tunnel, stopping on the other side of the flaming wreckage. She looked at Tarka and Yarik with a face full of pity.

“Yarik, please!” Tarka cried, tears running down his eyes. He shook the human’s body. “I can’t do this without you!”

He looked over at Sister Cassandra.

“Help!” he roared — one of the words that Yarik had taught him in his language. “Help!”

If she even understood, she made no motion to do anything.

Tarka licked at Yarik’s head. He couldn’t die. Not like this, not again. He wailed, shaking his paws. Once again, he felt Serka’s fur beneath him, her body still as it grew cold. And it was all his fault. He’d killed her. He’d killed Yarik.

“Alika!” he shouted. “Alika, help!”

There was no response. Water rushed across his hindlegs.

“Alika?” Tarka cried, his claws shaking. “Snow?”

All alone. He was all alone, as Yarik died at his side.

“Anyone?” he asked. “Please?”

The current lapped at his fur.

A shadow blocked Tarka from the firelight. He turned around.

Turquoise Gust was dragging himself from the wreckage of the cabin, his scales shining against the orange hues of the fire. Slowly, he slithered across the surface of the water.

“Can you help?” Tarka asked, looking up at the serpentine dragon.

Gust’s whiskers flitted about, and he scanned around the wreckage.

“Maybe,” Gust said, his voice haunting. “Loose the sails. There’s something I need to find.”

“The sails?” Tarka cocked his head.

“Trust me,” Gust replied, before diving into the water and disappearing beneath its surface.

Tarka wasn’t sure how that would help, but he had no other options. Nuzzling Yarik, he jumped into the water, splashing and swimming toward the remains of the forward mast.

It had been caught in the wreckage and was sticking out of the water, snapped in two. Carefully, Tarka grabbed onto it, digging his talons in and climbing, like he had many times before. The mast was slick and covered in splinters, but Tarka wasn’t deterred. He grabbed onto a rope, pulling, and the sail unfurled down.

A long hole had been ripped through the fabric, but otherwise, it was intact. Tarka hoped that it was good enough for Gust.

He looked over toward the aft mast. The fire had crept up to it, licking at the wood.

“Please,” he said once more to Sister Cassandra. She’d slowed their ship down. She hadn’t wanted this. “Please, help.”

Cassandra stared at Tarka, looking up to the mast he’d unfurled. She crossed her arms, and her gaze rested on Yarik.

She sighed, shaking her head. Her hands stretched out, and the aft mast shook, falling further into the water. The fire was doused.

Cassandra’s rope untied itself from her waist and flew up to the mast. It coiled onto a strand of rope, pulling it, and the mast unfurled.

“Thank you,” Tarka said.

Cassandra looked at Tarka once more, still shaking her head.

Gust resurfaced from the water, climbing over to Yarik with a piece of wood in his jaws. He placed it down on Yarik’s chest, and Tarka saw what it was — the stringed instrument that Yarik had occasionally played. Though it had been scratched during the crash, it was still intact. What good could it do?

“Can you play it?” Gust asked Tarka.

“Sort of.” Tarka stepped over to it, strumming a string with a claw. A dull tone reflected through the cavern. “Yarik taught me a little. But I’m not any good.”

“You have to,” Gust said. “I can’t do this alone.”

Gust placed his snout next to the instrument, and opened his jaws, breathing a puff of glittering air onto it. The strings vibrated with energy.

“What do I play?” Tarka asked, poking the string again. This time, the tone was beautiful and clear. Wind blew past Tarka’s snout, lifting his fur.

“You’ll know,” Gust replied.

Tarka picked up the instrument, standing on his hindpaws. Carefully, he began to strum like Yarik had taught him. When he’d played before, his foretalons had felt thick and clumsy, but no longer.

Wreckage drifted past Tarka’s paws as he played. With each note, the wind in the tunnel picked up. Tarka wasn’t sure how he knew what to do but did: a song poured from Yarik’s instrument, each note resounding like crystal.

And then, Gust opened his jaws and began to sing.

Tarka had never heard anything more beautiful. Music came forth from Gust’s jaws, each note haunting and sorrowful, as if the wind and the rain had come together in all their glory, singing just for him. His voice chimed in words, and though Tarka knew none of them, he understood their meanings. Gust sang an aching plea, asking for death itself to take pity.

As tones rose and fell, Gust and Tarka in perfect harmony, Tarka suddenly understood what Alika had said: that Gust had been hunted for his voice.

The winds came at Gust’s call, shining in white and turquoise light as they lifted him from the wreckage. He sang them as he curled in the air, playing with them as he spiraled and slithered. The winds followed his song, rising and falling with his pitch, joining their harmony. They billowed across the Windrider’s sails, the vibrating tones of the fabric adding to their orchestra.

Sister Cassandra stared at Gust, scribbling notes down with a quill.

Gust’s song transformed itself, and the plea became bright, loving, and victorious. Tarka’s instrument rang out in hope, the sails an anthem of life. The winds wrapped around Yarik, lifting his body into the air. White light coiled around his head, and the gashes on his head closed.

“Yarik!” Tarka shouted in glee, seeing the human’s eyes flutter open.

But Gust’s miracle wasn’t over, and Tarka felt himself rise. The winds were lifting the wreckage, not just beneath Tarka’s paws, but all around. The twin masts rose straight. With a brilliant crescendo, the torn sail mended itself. The winds were at Gust’s command, and the broken hulls lifted from the current, dripping water.

The song became peaceful and serene, and the fires went out. But they were not plunged into darkness: instead, they were bathed in a glittering green light. Calm winds carried streaks of it across the tunnel, placing the Windrider back together, piece by piece.

Cassandra’s jaw fell open. When she’d finally recovered from the shock, she raised her hands, planning to do something, but it was too late.

Gust landed on the deck of the Windrider, singing as Tarka strummed. Fissures in the wood sealed themselves together in flashes of white, and azure winds filled the sails.

Yarik let out a hearty laugh as music carried the Windrider to safety.