“Can you hear them, the titans inside the glaciers, Arnie? They sleep in the north pole, in walls of ice so tall they connect the two seas. Can you imagine that? Sometimes, son, you can even hear them snoring.” His father’s words revisited him every time Arnold stood at the bow of the Manticore. The sloop was small but had braved the seas well so far. Truly, it was a cheap vessel, built from the scraps of other ships, renamed and sent crawling twenty thousand miles across the ocean. If it could survive tonight, the ship would have served its purpose well enough.

  The wound in his shoulder ached and the hole in his back burned. The stitches were still bloody. But at the advent of the end, the old man desired one last meal. He held up the amulet around his neck. Bale’s eye before she was taken away. He remembered her, the teacher he had amidst the damp doom of Allecros’s dungeons. “I will finish this,” he whispered through cracked lips as he wrapped a thin thread of copper around the trembling eye. The mold stretched onto the metal, eating at it. Shifting to a sickly green, the copper sank into the amulet, and the chain rattled like a familiar laugh.

  The crew gathered around him to watch, for the spectacle still marveled them. The waters of the Second Sea sloshed and spun, and a school of fish came raining down. In tandem, they rose from the gray ocean too. But the ones from the Second Sea had eyes like his, ones glazed over with a pearly shine. They see souls too, up there, maybe . . . They must. On the island they were chased to the earth below, chased by a monster that could swallow the world. The amulet alone had no such power. A meal’s worth of fish was all it could muster without living souls.

  As the deckhands scooped up fresh meat by the bucket full, Arnold strode off to his quarters. “Our boys are watching us now. We’ll make the cannibals pay their toll in blood,” he said to the sparse crowd. Too many had been culled by the animal. Now she rotted beneath him. His crew looked aghast when he threw her down on the deck. It was humiliating returning back with only news of defeat and blunder. Sawyer and her fawns, whatever they were, had torn his loyalty asunder. He could see it in their hearts, as the essence inside them quivered as he walked past. He had promised them riches, and all they saw were timid men being spat out of a jungle. All the dead fish and strange tricks in the world could never seal the scars. Would he even take them to the island? Stolen Niall still lingered. A boy with a big mouth and a quick wit could cause more damage. And he very well could not shoot the traitor. All his most loyal vanished when they entered the jungle. All he had now were skeptics and cowards.

  Only his cabin was safe from prying eyes, from both the ship and far above. Did the spirits look at him like his mother did? Arnold could not make out scowls, glares, and maybe the sparse smile. He could see shapes of everything but faces. People were just dolls with essence inside them, swishing around like water. Souls were ugly things with no secrets. Could others see him like this from the Second Sea? Did the Siren see the same thing as he gorged on his family?

  He could see it when he slept, every night. How the rain intoxicated the adults, and the children could only watch. Piece by piece, the monster grew in the tombs. The old heroes there, Deneve the Barbarian Queen and her seven companions: the legends called them demon women and malformed warmongers. Nevertheless, the Siren wanted their skeletons, but it was not ready by the time the pirates came. What was it building when the Salt Wench slew the creature?

  A brisk chilled air haunted Arnie as he sat down at his desk. His quarters were a small room, made even more cramped by the shelves that wrapped around the walls. Books, potions, and artifacts sheltered him, even as the waves outside grew taller and the thunder swelled in volume. His bed was only a meager cot, with old sheets and a scruffy stuffed toy he had kept all this time. Maps and ledgers crowded his desk, with stacks of gold coins hidden amongst them. Gems gathered in leather sacks. And spools of copper wire and bundles of brass rods were stacked by the door. But these treasures were not enough compared to what he had in Allecros.

Soon, it would all end, and the evil city would sink below the waves. Whatever survivors that remained afterward could have the world, but the city must be torn asunder. If the Manticore were to sink, so be it, as long as the crabs and worms ate Allecros too.

  He had first heard of the city from Maynard as the big man led him away from the village where Admiral Sawyer Jean had slain the moose man. “She is drunk on magic, the chimera woman will have us go to Allecros, where witches would skin her alive and wear her as a cape. You must run too boy. Your eyes, your history, they’d see you as a treasure and keep you in a cage. I’ve heard too many stories if even one of them is true then . . .” He never said the rest.

  But the wizards did come, all the way to Chorllow. Remember what they did. A crimson warship rested offshore with the glaciers. A marble figurehead glared at them as five masts sliced into the sky. Double the size of the Harpy, it stood as a blemish atop the black waters. And rowing to the beach was a legion of figures cloaked in velvet. Their swords were made of bronze and steel, decorated with runes and old mermaid words. Demanding parley, the wizards brought forth a decree from Allecros. Sawyer Jean was dead beneath the bay, killed by the city’s watchmen and Mehamton’s Navy. The pirates remaining were to be arrested and put on trial. But Maynard, a stalwart fool, said no. And for that, he and those who stood with him were burned alive. The fire butchered them, eating at their skin like some wicked acid. Snow nor the ocean waves could not extinguish it. “Pilke,” that was Maynard’s last word as his soul withered to ash.

  Remember what they called you, blessed, the wizards dubbed you blessed. The wizards, with souls distorted by fog and twisting lights, called him wondrous as they put swords to his throat. “Show us the tombs,” they demanded as the cries of the other children rang out.

  There were secrets in those tunnels that only Arnold knew of from before the Siren came. Sawyer and her thieves never knew of them, but the Siren surely did. They beat a young boy, not Arnold, thankfully not Arnold. I am blessed. Fate protected me. But the battered boy showed them the catacombs, where Deneve and her companions rested. Arnold could still see something faint in the bones, something lingering. Power. He knew it was something grand when the wizards took the bones away at once. They even pilfered the scant remains of the ones Sawyer cannibalized. And after they threatened to lock a little girl in the empty grave, she showed them the treasure Sawyer Jean never found. The wizards . . . Arnold had never seen a soul flutter with so much happiness, so much glee. The Siren’s eggs rested nestled in tiny nooks, hidden behind the bricks. They were singing when they were scraped away and sealed in steel boxes. Blessed. They burned Chorllow, leaving the castle of driftwood and ancient stone a ruin of only smolders.

  Only forty children survived after being severed from the Siren’s grace. Arnold was the oldest, the strongest, the smartest. Sawyer Jean picked him and took him to battle. When he tried to fight back against the wizards, he managed to kill two, fighting as Sawyer taught him. And in retaliation, they thrust magic potions down his throat, just as he did to the feral cannibal and the anchor. The wizards put shackles around his wrist and really did throw that little girl into the tomb before sealing the door forever.

  Arnold reached for a flask at the end of his desk. No. The crew could not see him drunk. A fool would lose his men in a heartbeat. He needed them to reach the end. All the men he lost were the result of a terrible miscalculation. Subjugating the island and its primitives should have been simple. Those on the Glass Islands did it with traded muskets. That feral bitch, the Salt Wench, her anchor, the traitor, the magnitudes of incompetence amongst my men. How much will it cost me by the end? He strained himself trying to think of how it could be done with what he had left. The amulet writhed, glaring at him with fervent rage. “Bale,” he whispered. “You saw what I did there. You know I will not stop until Allecros is sunk beneath the waves. Let the mermaids have it. They’ll be a better fit for tools forged there than the madmen who wield them now.”

  When the wizards took the children to Allecros, they sorted and split them. Arnold was the first to go. Blindfolded, he was led on a march that seemed to never end, leading to stairs that must have gone deep under the earth. Imagination made the walk more perilous, but upon reflection, it must have been deeper. The cold rivaled Chorllow's winter at those depths. And a distant rumbling of machines quickly became a comfort. Through the blindfold, he still saw souls but no shapes. There must have been rooms where things were kept. Their essences, whatever went to the Second Sea, looked unlike anything he had ever seen. Only the Salt Wench looked the same. And then there was Bale, the witch. Her soul was molted and rotten. Stems had grown from it, spores were flying into the air, making her glimmer like starlight.

  He lost track of how long he lived in the cell next to Bale. She would sing him songs, tell him stories, and listen to him when he cried. A boy that old should not have been so weak, but the dungeons were so cold. Bale told him about the mushrooms in the purple desert outside the city and how they all thought as one. She could hear them too, and she told him all stories about the past. Once there were people the size of mice with butterfly wings and chitin skin. Eons ago only mermaids lived on a flooded earth. And that they were only in the early ages still, and much more change was needed before mankind could match what lied up above. When he asked if it was true, she only laughed. “No, my child, the spores are not that old. They hear it from the sand, who hear it from the mountains. And sometimes, time brings more lies than truth.”

  “What are you?” He asked her.

  “A thrall, once a witch, before that a princess, now a thrall.”

  “What happened?”

  “Same as you, but a different ailment, a different thing.”

  It must have been a year later when he first started calling her mother. The other lights through the walls, he named them his family too. Big brother was pure anger, and little brother was empty but still alive. Small specks of souls, he called fairies, scurried like rats. But he did not know if they were real or if they were Bale’s spores. And then there was something else. During storms, things would wash through the walls. He would sit there, hugging his stuffed animal, hoping for more toys to come through. Sometimes, he would beg for a sword or a key, so he could escape. He was in the tomb, just like the little girl. What was her name again? But once, an eye came flowing through. The amulet was made of bone, with runes carved into it, and vaguely familiar. The same etchings as he made on Chorllow once, when the Siren had his mind. It scared him, he could see the essence inside, writhing with madness. Yet, in his hand, it calmed him, as the Siren did. Without hesitation, he surrendered it to Bale and asked her to destroy it.

  “No,” she answered. And her soul shifted thereafter. It sank into itself, the fungal infections multiplying. The fixation on the amulet created a void that slowly ate itself alive. “This belonged to someone I knew a lifetime ago,” was all she said.

  The wizards came a week later, and Arnold heard his mother scream. He nearly broke his fingers hammering against the wall, trying to pry his way to her.

  “There is not much time left,” Bale told him, weeping. “The spores have seen our purpose.”

  “What?”

  “We are one sacrifice, but we will not consent. When the doors open, you must run.”

  “I have no way to fight.”

  “Stupid boy, you have eyes that can see in darkness and you have legs. Have a brain too.”

  “What about you?”

  “They need me more than they need you. I will be staying, my son.” That was when she gave the amulet back. It was made of silver now, the runes gone. Arnie saw the eye and knew. “A summoner’s charm, to speak to the spirits, to speak to what lies beyond even that.”

  “How did you make this, mother?”

  “Not all of us are prisoners, some alchemists are simply too dangerous to be let outside. It was always the plan to bring you to me.” Bale said it as if Arnold was already aware of this fact. “But you need to go on your own now. My soul will one day reach the Second Sea. And you’ve seen how deep those waters are.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Copper, the lifeblood of magic, feed it that and you will be able to speak to the spirits,” she lied. The runes, the instructions, they were not to confide with ghosts. Instead, he spoke to things outside the realms of spirits, in the sky’s deepest waters.

  Arnold sat at his desk, wishing he never took it. The old man resisted reaching for the bottle once more. This is the end, Bale. He grimaced. Destiny is nothing. History only repeats itself so often. We end up in the same place without fail, always carrying on. How many times did he try to speak to the spirits? And how many times was he without an answer? Only by speaking to something else could he make it rain fish, something that gave him a promise. When he took the amulet, nightmares told him what it was. Even the Siren feared it. Knowing that I will die when I find this island’s ghost . . . It's no certainty, but it is the safest wager I could strap a coin to.

  When the guards came, Arnold was waiting. When the flood water came, he was lucky enough to be given a shard of rusted iron. It was too jagged to wield. Just holding it would slice his hand open. The stuffed animal he had carried all the way from Chorllow was gutted and used as a glove. Thank you, father, he remembered thinking when the steel door opened. The wizards were frail bony old men, absolutely terrible jailers. Once he was done, he broke off into a sprint. “They need her more than they need me,” he said to himself as he rushed past Bale’s door. But where would he go now? The air was cold, coming from a thousand different directions as if the walls were breathing. There were flickers in the stone, souls melded with the masonry. For a moment, it all lit up, giving Arnold a passageway. But these spirits had lied. The corridor bent into a long drop. Arnold remembered the fall, and if he had known what was ahead, he would have stayed in that cell and let them take him.

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  Those who truly dwelled in the dungeons of Allecros were the fairies. From his cell, they seemed so small, but up close the chimeras were thrice the size of him and still had wings and chitinous skin. He would run for years at a time, lost in the dark. The ruins of old libraries and laboratories gave him an arsenal of books and potions. And corpses gave him swords. My enemy is not down there, he used to tell himself as he wiped blood off a blade inscribed with mermaid runes. My enemy is from the Second Sea, the thought hissed as he wore armor from a dozen different ages, all lost in the catacombs. His eyes could only see souls, could only see enemies. Lanterns brought death, but it was the only way to read. The fire was only for reading. Any book could hold the Siren’s secrets. The eggs were still down there. Every night, he would fall asleep thinking about how lucky the girl locked in Chorllow’s tomb was. If something comes, Bale will warn me. And the amulet did.

  Once he found a monster with two souls and a few with three. Tethered to one body, the chimeras died just as easily as any other. And Arnold watched as the light faded one by one. He did not know how deep he was anymore. The surface, did it still exist? Hell, the underworld, where all souls go to vanish, was he already there? No, he was blessed. “Can you hear them, the titans inside the glaciers, Arnie? They sleep in the north pole, in walls of ice so tall they connect the two seas. Can you imagine that? Sometimes, son, you can even hear them snoring.” One day a man will try to chip away at the glacier, piece by piece, trying to kill the titan trapped inside. They would never stop because once winter came, the ice would grow even thicker. The catacombs and tunnels matched the futility. The mysteries that smothered Arnold either lingered on the edge of hatching or remained locked for the rest of time. Every step Arnold took in the ravenous dark festered with noises that echoed for miles and miles, he imagined himself scratching at the ice, just inches away from the Siren. His eyes could see it. His eyes were the only thing that could hunt the creature down. Destiny is nothing. History only repeats itself so often. We end up in the same place without fail. Who will kill it after I go to the Second Sea?

  What a decade in the dark did not extinguish followed Arnold down the streets of buried cities and through caves of monsters and other desolate souls. Sometimes the wizards trapped in the underground were sane enough to share a meal with. That happened twice, both with people who were just outcasted. Everyone else was feral as the chimeras. Was he an exception? No, Arnold lost track after a while. He was just a ravager scrounging whatever he could. He would zone in on souls he saw from miles away to rob or hunt. Eventually, following the light became all he could focus on. One step forward, one step closer. A worm lived that way. Arnold walked because he still had legs. His hands were still there, so he had to fight. And he still had ears, so he could hear the hum of the machines. No, that noise was never there before. The only time he heard it was during his first descent. The man turned his head and trailed after the sound instead, begging it for an escape from the pit.

  The first light he saw in a year was molten iron.

  Never had something been so hot against his skin. Steam scalded him as he pressed on. The distant rumblings of the machines called for him, inviting him to the warmth. Chains scraped together, giggling and screeching. The scaffolding was breathing too. Each time the steam brushed against it, the old steel glowed. Everything is forged with souls. The smell of charred meat came with the realization. Gears gnashed together. Wheels tall enough to bite into the sky spun with blinding speed. Metal claws hovered over Arnold swaying and creaking. Was this where he was to end up? Following the faint traces of light, Arnold climbed over mounds of coal. The hills of Chorllow were so small compared to this. Each step had the chance of sending him sliding back to the bottom. But when he looked up, Arnold knew that he must climb. Through cracks in the ceiling, chimneys broke through, and in gaps no wider than an inch, sunlight petered through.

  It was then he heard the groans. Squelching, a lumbering mass writhed as chains hoisted it over the smelters and the gears. It spat and screamed, its fat body rolling in the air. Too many times it seemed close to bludgeoning itself to death as it flailed its long blubbering arms back and forth. But the chains did not break. High above the cauldron of bubbling iron, the thing begged the factory for mercy. A dozen essences inside fought over the body, lashing out in tidal waves of light. But it made no difference. Arnold watched the slow descent of the chimera sinking into the furnace.

  The next one lifted was Bale. So many years had passed, and Arnold recognized her soul but not her shape. Spores burst out, dying instantly in the steam. Roots and stalks formed branches and gardens of fungus, all feeding on men trapped inside. The chains carried a forest of rot over the furnace. The heart of it was a woman compromised by brass spears and runes carved in melted copper. In her arms was a pistol eaten by mold. How many years had it been since he ran? Arnold raced down the mountain of coal towards the furnace. The amulet around his neck wailed so loud it threw him to his knees. And then he watched the machine eat his mother. As she fell, he swore it looked identical to the Siren falling from the sky. What did they need her for?

  It took three more sacrifices before the molten metal spilled out. The river flowed white-hot, trickling down below. Sizzling, the liquid cried and cheered in a chorus of twisted giggles, then a loud resounding splash. Looking for souls beneath the floor, Arnold saw eyes like his glaring back. The children who left Chorllow with him swam as chimeras cocooned in copper wire below the forge, alongside a legion of souls he did not recognize and the quaking vortex of a presence he could never understand. His blessed sight only provided a vague shape, like little shimmers that fed tiny morsels of detail. And doubt never stopped toiling in his memories. But Arnold knew what he saw. At the center, the Siren’s eggs were warmed by a host of other creatures, nestled together in a paradise beneath the earth. And then there was the one who oversaw it all, a man that fostered the creatures as they gorged on the liquid iron, getting drunk on it all. No, it was brass, Arnold realized many years later. That man was feeding the Siren’s eggs brass and souls.

  A man . . . could it have been something else, an anchor, a chimera, a . . .

  “Captain,” a voice came through the door as the wind howled outside. Rising from his desk, the old man resisted the bottle once more. I should not have remembered it. Once he would have asked why it was him who had to suffer the dark, but now? No one but him had the knowledge to cull the concoction brewed from the Siren’s spawn. Glancing at the shelves, his collection served as an arsenal. All of it was plucked from wizards, Naval captains, and even savages on the voyage across the sea. A dozen contingency plans encircled him, just in case the rumors were false. No, this island serves better than any of them. Then he looked under the wooden chest under his desk, the thing he had planned to harness before he heard of the island of ghosts and the sword he carried on his belt. No, I will not open that box. Sonia's soul lives in the Salt Wench, so it can still be of some use. Even then, something from Chorllow needs to survive.

  “Captain!” The knocking grew louder, fist slamming so hard it nearly broke the door from its hinges. “Captain!” Holding the amulet, Arnold opened the door slowly, fearing the storm had beaten him before his plan had even begun.

  The man on the other side scowled at him, soaked in rainwater. Brown matted hair fell over his face, which he pushed back with his hands. Burn scars carpeted them, all up his arms. Pink and gnarled, his fingers rested in the pockets of a white jacket, now so old it was only a tattered cape now, the ends of the sleeves singed and still black. Once, in the holy city of Mehmaton, this man walked the marble halls with a ruby-encrusted sword on his belt. Now the stray dog only had a cutlass, the curved sword swaying with the wind. Time had been cruel to Kipper, he was skinny enough that his old belt no longer truly fit.

  “What do you need? I’ll have the final preparations done shortly, and you already know your job.”

  “Why are we not going back for the men’s bodies, and why did you bring back the girl in the first place?” Kipper’s eyes bore insult, never had he objected to being a jailer.

  “I need her. The cannibals make it too dangerous to return for fetching corpses. Hell, I guarantee if we go, they’ll have a dinner table set up, with all their arms and legs roasting over a fire. Do you want to join them, Kipper?”

  “I want to turn this ship around and ride the winds back to Allecrea. We’ve been too far away from home for far too long.” The swordsman scoffed. “This magic you speak about, it’s not worth its price in blood, not anymore.”

  What would you know? You did not see it. “Kipper, if those animals are left alive they will only eat the next poor sailors who wash ashore. I will not run with my tail tucked between my legs. I will get vengeance for those devoured, then I’ll bring the rest of us home.”

  “Then why the brass rods, the copper, the potions, and the woman?” Kipper said, skeptical. “I know no magic. Mehmaton and all other holy places banned the practice. We could leave and let the cannibals starve themselves and eat each other. And then we could be home, where the treasure from the Glass Islands will give us peaceful lives.”

  A thousand years ago, the Alchemist King burned the world with fire, conquering cities and nations alike. And even so, the remnants of those casualties rebelled two-thousand times. Scorn ran deep in Kipper’s blood, same with every holy man. He never ate in front of others, knowing the fish from the Second Sea may be poisoned, but too scared to starve. “You want no part, so I gave you a job to keep your hands clean, be happy with that.”

  “But she was the one who–”

  “Do I need to show you, or will you spit on every ritual that feeds you?” Arnold was close to slapping him. Niall was a deckhand, barely old enough to be a man. But if he was to strike his first mate, it could incite a mutiny.

  “Show me then, magician.” Kipper stepped back, giving Arnold passage to leave his quarters. “The priests do miracles, and even then I try to figure out the trick. What can you do aside from making it rain fish?”

  “Is raining fish not enough? When I was a kid, we marveled at monsters falling from the Second Sea.”

  “And magicians would come riding down on horses twice the size of steers, demanding tribute or they’ll cook us all alive,” Kipper laughed. “I only follow you because I know you hate them. Allecros turns a blind eye to mages, witches, and whatever crawls out of the wilds. It’s a selfish city. Mehmaton is faithful, even if it’s just as cruel.”

  As he entered the cargo hold, Arnold led the way, lantern in hand. Sometimes, if he blinked, he could see the underground again. “I have never been to that side of the country, only the cities.”

  “Most of the men are from the little towns, who have been caught in a battle between magics for all of time. My home needs us more than the sea does, Arnold.”

  “And where is my home?” Arnold asked, only half-listening to his first mate. He stomped past the tall crates and barrels. Latched to the floor, most of them lay empty, the food eaten and the rum nearly dry. Trading on the Glass Islands refilled their stores somewhat, but the rations still stayed small. Even with a quarter of their men gone, it still felt as if they had nothing to eat. Even the mangy cat scrounging for rats had grown boney.

  Casks of gunpowder left a musty smell through the cargo hold. And the cold seeped in behind, with the wind pushing against them all the way to the belly of the ship. The waves rocked the vessel mercilessly. Arnold held his footing as he approached the brig. There had been storms worse than this before, but none so sudden.

  The savage was held in an iron cage. Bolted to the deck, her confinements were cramped. The savage slid back and forth with the shifting deck. Still under the potion’s effects, she flailed and convulsed, her muscles spasming as she laid catatonic. And somehow, Kipper had bandaged her wounds and wiped most of the blood away.

  “What are you going to do with her?” The jailer asked. Kipper placed himself at Arnold's side, ready to intercept if he tried to hurt her. Simple man, stupid man. What if the bitch was a man bigger than him? Would he be so righteous then? Arnold nearly laughed when he saw the old officer of the church spring back into the skeleton built upon lean muscle. Deep scars covered him just as much as it covered the girl. And as he moved, canyons carved into his skin—gashes sutures could never close completely—reminded Arnold of the stuffed toy, only full of loose pockets and straw and nothing more, all sewn together on rotting cloth.

  “She will not be harmed. One more cut and she’d bleed her last drop of blood,” Arnold assured him. Both Kipper and the savage would not have survived under Allecros. Only he could have. One man saw the heart of the magic city and would live to put an end to it. Reaching for his belt, Arnold unsheathed the brass sword. Bought from the King of the Glass Islands for half the guns they carried, it was well worth its price. The cannibal girl had dented it. Brass was a soft metal. But it was not a weapon, more a tool. As he held it, the hole in his shoulder ached. Proof of Niall the traitor, a generous trade. Kipper would not have believed me otherwise. He would have been stuck neck-deep in a rebellion if the swordsman learned what happened ashore. In hindsight, his anger got the best of him. There were too many things to manage, so close to the end.

  “Open the gate,” Arnold said. As he gazed at the cage, he could see the girl’s dreams. The spirit’s resting place rushed to him, a temple under the earth, holding an eon’s worth of souls. A blazing field with gunshots and oil desecrating a city came next. She showed him the temple and their village, all from a quick glimpse into her nightmare. I may have given her too much. Soon, he knew the map of the island, every footpath and landmark, as if he had spent all his life in that intrepid jungle. And the dead tree whose essence rivaled the Second Sea—a puddle leading into an endless abyss. Thousands, maybe a million, rested there, first buried in an immemorial age. Through the captive, he saw how far the tunnels went. With his eyes, Arnold witnessed every soul at once. He found where the first had been buried. Naked and unremarkable, they dwelled alongside so many others, the essence still thriving. The tomb’s collective had evaded the rot of time.

  The floundering girl had given him all he needed. In the midst of her nightmare, he could see the lifetime of the savage, the starvation and the peril. Every scar became known to him, and his own skin began to itch. He needed to see it all, or else his plan might fall to pieces. When he looked at the boy anchored to Sawyer Jean, he only saw a glimpse at the dream. He saw something come for him and that was all. The roar Arnold heard came from waters so deep in the sky no human soul dwelled there.

  Sawyer had been unforeseen. How could a ghost be accounted for? His plan was nearly ruined. The creature he planned to summon, what if it came for Deneve’s remains as the Siren had before? Too many factors strangled him. It could feel it coming apart at the seams. For decades he had been struggling. What difference was there now?

  For all the artifacts and relics he held, from bones of dead heroes to the blood of mermaids, none had sufficed. He knew every rune and all the incantations. The eye around his neck bounced and flailed. Bale had been incorrect. The amulet, however she forged it, could talk to far more than human souls. Arnold had tried to broker deals with monsters, but it was a useless endeavor. Except when the sword from the Glass Islands fell into his hand. Inside the handle of solid amber, an egg dwelled there, weeping like a child. At first, Arnold suspected it to be a mermaid, but as he spoke to it, he saw an essence that overshadowed the Siren. With the sacrifice of the island, he could summon the creature Sawyer enticed. He could call upon what the Siren had tried to flee from all those years ago. It was building power, just as I am today. Whatever lived in the sword cried as another roar echoed across the sky. He heard its name, the Merrow, and Arnold wore the same despair the little girl was stricken with when the doors of Deneve’s tomb slammed shut.

  Nevertheless, he went to rally his crew. Destiny is only what the dauntless deserve. Only a deluge of seawater as tall as the Second Sea could extinguish the ironworks, and almost nothing could contest what dwelled underneath. The Merrow remained his only catalyst for revenge.