The Venture's hull sliced through the gray water of the Broken Sea. Thick fog clung to the masts, muffling the sound of the waves. The gris-gris charm from Maman Brigitte hung on Thomas's neck, radiating a faint warmth against his skin. The air felt cold, but there were no longer any ghostly whispers piercing his mind.
The compass needle in his hand vibrated, pointing past a labyrinth of black rocks jutting from the sea. Ancient shipwrecks tilted in the water, their masts broken like the ribs of giants. After hours, the compass needle stopped vibrating and pointed straight ahead.
A giant Spanish War Galleon was impaled on top of a stone pillar. Its bowsprit jutted towards the fog-covered sky. As The Venture glided closer, a sound broke the silence—the weeping of a woman, thin and full of suffering.
"There's a survivor," a crewman whispered nearby. "We have to help her!"
Several men moved, their hands reaching for ropes. Thomas felt a cold dread run down his spine. He opened his mouth.
"IT'S A TRAP!" he yelled, his voice echoing across the deck. A page from Lorenzo's bestiary flashed in his mind: a drawing of a winged creature with a woman's face. Their call was a cry. "It's their dinner call! Riggs, ready the whistling cannons! Everyone, look up!"
Winged shadows plummeted from the fog. Their bodies were those of large predatory birds, but their heads and chests belonged to wailing old women. Long talons were extended below.
"FIRE!" Riggs roared.
The cannons on the deck barked. Their projectiles let out a high-pitched whistle as they tore through the air. The high-frequency sound hit the creatures in mid-air. They shrieked, their formation breaking. Several collided and fell into the sea.
"Now!" Thomas yelled. The marksmen on the deck raised their muskets. Silver bullets streaked into the sky.
The Harpies recovered and dived. Talons snatched a crewman from the ship's rail, lifting him into the air amidst his screams. The Venture's crew closed ranks, protecting one another. The swivel gun turned and fired, taking down another Harpy with an explosion of black feathers.
Thomas's eyes remained fixed on the Galleon. His compass pointed to the highest point of the ship: a large nest made of wood, ropes, and human bones at the top of the broken mainmast. Inside the nest, something glowed faintly.
The first fragment.
"We can't win from below!" Thomas yelled to Arthur. "I have to go up! Give me cover fire!"
A grappling hook was fired and snagged on the Galleon's rail. Thomas and five other crew members began to climb. Harpies swooped down on them. Talons grazed the air near Thomas's face. He let go with one hand, drew a pistol, and fired. The creature fell, screaming.
Thomas landed on the tilted deck of the Galleon. Before him, a Harpy twice as large as the others stood guarding the nest. Its eyes glowed. Its shriek made the wood beneath Thomas's feet tremble.
The creature lunged. Thomas rolled. Talons ripped the back of his leather jacket. He drew The Twin Absolutions.
CRACK!
A beam of light hit the matriarch's wing. It burned to ashes. The creature shrieked and staggered.
CRACK!
The second shot hit its chest. The Harpy Matriarch exploded in a flash of silver. Black feathers fell like snow. The remaining Harpies shrieked in fear and disappeared into the fog.
Thomas's breath hitched. He climbed the remains of the mast and grabbed the edge of the nest. Among a pile of bones, an object the size of a goose egg pulsed with light. He took it. It felt like crystal, vibrating with energy in his hand. The air around him smelled of ozone.
In Thomas's cabin, the storm fragment lay on the table, emitting a faint pulse of light. Tiny blue sparks jumped to the tip of a nearby dagger. Beside the fragment, the compass spun for a moment, then its blue needle pointed south.
One down. Now for the next.
He stepped out onto the deck. The crew was patching torn sails and tending to wounds. The air smelled of tar and blood.
"One down," Thomas said. A grin formed on his face. "Who said hunting a storm was easy?"
The journey south thinned the fog. The sea turned into narrow canyons of volcanic rock and giant whirlpools. For hours, Thomas and Arthur stood at the bow, shouting commands to the helmsman. The ship's hull scraped against the stone walls, its paint peeling.
On the third day, the lookout shouted, "Ship on the port side!"
Thomas raised his telescope. Three shipwrecks crudely joined with metal plates sailed nimbly between the whirlpools. A flag fluttered on its mast: a black spiral storm on a gray background.
The Children of Captain "Storm-Eyed" Jack.
The ship sailed parallel to The Venture for a few minutes, then disappeared into a rocky corridor.
"Now we have competition," Riggs said beside him. "And they know the way here."
"They might know the way," Thomas replied, his eyes still fixed on where the ship disappeared. "But we have the map."
Two days later, the compass in Thomas's hand pulsed faster. They emerged from the stone labyrinth into calm open water. The water was turquoise. Strong currents swirled around the calm area. Thomas held the compass over the ship's rail. The needle pointed straight down.
Arthur lowered a weighted line. The line unspooled until it stopped. "There's something solid down there, Captain. Very deep."
In his cabin, Thomas unrolled the ancient maps from the monastery. His finger traced their route until he found a blank area that matched their location. Written there in faded ink was a single word: "Y'ha-nthlei".
A sunken city. A myth.
The crew gathered at the rail, staring into the water. The second fragment was down there.
Thomas stared into the depths, then at the faces of his crew. A slow grin spread across his face. "Alright," he said. "Looks like we have to learn to swim."
For an hour, The Venture's deck was silent. The crew stared at the turquoise water.
"This can't be done, Captain," Arthur said. "We're sailors, not fish. The pressure will crush our bones." The crew murmured in agreement.
Thomas returned to his cabin. He opened the chest of Lorenzo's books, flipping past pages of demonology. Not magic. Not ritual. Technology. His finger stopped on a page with a sketch of an ancient machine. A diagram of a campana urinatoris. A diving bell.
He called his officers and the head carpenter, Chips. He laid the sketch on the table. "We won't swim. We'll bring our own air."
Chips and his team took the largest spare water barrel, reinforcing it with three iron hoops. The inside was lined with tar and resin. Four broken cannonballs and a piece of a spare anchor were attached as weights at the bottom. On deck, Riggs designed a pulley system connected to the main cargo winch.
After two days, the "Venture's Bell" hung over the water, a construction of wood and iron attached to the ship by a thick rope.
Thomas chose his team: himself, Owen, and Marcus. Arthur would be in command up top. The three, wearing only trousers, armed themselves with daggers, wax-coated lanterns, and the charms around their necks.
"Are you sure, Captain?" Arthur asked.
"No," Thomas replied. He climbed into the cramped, dark bell, followed by Owen and Marcus. The air was stale.
Thomas looked at Arthur. "Give us an hour. If we don't signal, cut the rope and leave. That's an order."
Arthur nodded. He turned to Riggs. "Lower them."
With a groan of wood and metal, the bell began its descent. It touched the water's surface, then sank. Darkness and the sound of turbulent water enveloped them before the bottom of the bell passed the surface. They were enclosed in a pocket of air, surrounded by a wall of turquoise water.
Slowly, they descended into the abyss.
Total silence enveloped the "Venture's Bell" as it descended. In the small, tar-scented space, the only sounds were three pairs of lungs drawing in air and heartbeats pounding in their ears. The lantern light penetrated a few inches into the water below, its color changing from turquoise to deep blue, then pitch black. The pressure pressed on their eardrums. A chill seeped through the oak, making their muscles tense.
A gentle jolt stopped their descent. The bell was still.
Thomas inhaled the stale air, then ducked out of the open bottom of the bell. The lantern illuminated a floor of polished black basalt. Buildings loomed in the darkness. Their walls curved at sharp angles, spiral towers made of something that looked like green coral. Bioluminescent fungi on the walls emitted a pale light.
Y'ha-nthlei.
The compass needle in his hand pointed across the square, toward a zigurat temple with a gaping entrance.
"We have to be fast," Thomas said, his voice muffled. "Our air is limited. Owen, stand guard here. Marcus, come with me. Move from cover to cover. Hold your breath."
Thomas and Marcus took a deep breath and dived out of the bell. The icy water pierced their skin. Movement felt slow and heavy. They swam low over the square's floor, heading for the nearest pillar. Their lungs began to burn.
Humanoid figures emerged from dark doorways. Their skin was greenish-gray and scaly, large lidless eyes staring straight ahead. Webbed hands ended in sharp claws. They glided through the water.
One of the creatures ambushed Marcus, its claws grabbing his leg. Marcus struggled. Air bubbles escaped from his mouth.
Thomas unclipped his sword and drew one of The Twin Absolutions.
Magic had to overcome physics. He aimed at the creature holding Marcus and pulled the trigger.
There was no sound. The pistol unleashed a silent shockwave and a flash of white light. The water around the projectile's path boiled. The creature disintegrated into a cloud of steam and dust.
It worked.
With the second pistol, Thomas shot another approaching creature, pulled Marcus, and continued moving toward the temple. They reached the entrance, their lungs feeling like they would explode.
Inside, on an obsidian altar, lay the second fragment: a piece of crystallized lightning. Its energy made the water around it shimmer.
As Thomas reached out, a deep vibration resonated through his bones. Thomas snatched the fragment. Wild energy coursed into his arm. Outside, dozens of humanoid eyes glowed in the darkness, blocking their way.
Trapped.
Thomas held the fragment in one hand and a pistol in the other. He nodded at Marcus. With a muffled roar, Thomas dashed out of the temple, firing The Twin Absolutions into the crowd. The fragment in his other hand sparked with electricity in the water.
They reached the diving bell and jumped in, greedily sucking in the stale air. Thomas grabbed the signal rope and pulled it hard three times.
Emergency. Up. Now.
The bell jolted upwards. Below, dozens of monstrous faces stared at them from the darkness as the city was once again swallowed by the black abyss.
With a final lurch, the "Venture's Bell" hit the surface. The crew cranked the winch, pulling the bell onto the deck. Arthur pried open the door. Thomas stepped out, staggering as he inhaled the fresh air. In his hand, he clutched a piece of solid black crystal that felt cold.
Owen and Marcus crawled out, their bodies trembling, their eyes staring blankly. Doc Bones and other crewmen helped them up and wrapped them in blankets.
"Take them below," Thomas ordered, his voice hoarse. "Give them some rum."
For three nights, Thomas sat beside Owen and Marcus's hammocks as they raved about lidless eyes and crooked cities. He did not speak, only cleaned his pistols in the lantern light.
In his cabin, he placed the two fragments on the table. The first crackled with energy. The second pulsed with silence. He pushed them closer together.
When they were an inch apart, the air in the cabin became heavy. A low hum began. The two artifacts vibrated, pulling towards each other. A small whirlwind formed between them, lifting maps from the table. Droplets of seawater from Thomas's clothes lifted and froze into swirling ice crystals.
A sky storm and a sea storm. He separated the two and stored them in separate chests.
A few days later, the Caribbean sun shone on the deck. Cheers erupted from the crew.
Thomas gathered his officers in the cabin. The compass lay in the center of the table. "We have two pieces," he said. "Time to find the third."
He placed his hand over the compass, focusing his will.
Show me the next fragment.
The compass needle spun rapidly, then stopped, pointing southwest—toward the South American mainland. Arthur unrolled a map from the monastery. Thomas's finger traced the compass's direction on the map and stopped over a range of the Andes mountains. On one of the peaks, there was a mark with the words: "Incan Fortress in the Clouds."
Riggs whistled. "From the bottom of the sea to the top of a mountain. You really like to make us work, Captain."
Thomas smiled. "Looks like our next adventure will be higher up," he said. "Prepare the crew for a long voyage. Fill every barrel with fresh water and food."
He pointed to the Andes mountains on the map. "We're going to hunt a storm above the clouds."
Weeks passed in the routine of the open sea: sky, water, and discipline. In his locked cabin, Thomas practiced. He concentrated on the first fragment, and the candle flame on his table flickered. He focused on the second, and moisture from the air formed a small ball of water in his palm.
I'm learning the language of the storm.
On deck, the crew studied the looted books, identifying ancient symbols under Arthur's direction.
"Land ho!" the lookout shouted.
The South American mainland loomed on the horizon, a wall of green and brown. Far behind it, the snow-capped peaks of the Andes glittered. According to Lorenzo's map, they docked at the port of Santa Marta at night, flying a merchant flag. The air here was dry and dusty. Spanish architecture blended with indigenous buildings.
Thomas, Arthur, and a few crew members entered the shabby taverns. They didn't ask about the "Incan Fortress," but about mountain legends and spirits called Apu. After two days, in the most rundown cantina, they found a drunk old scholar named Mateo.
Thomas pushed a pouch of silver coins across the table. "I hear you know more about the mountains than any Spaniard in this city."
Mateo's clouded eyes stared at the coins. "The mountains hold secrets that are best left buried."
"I didn't come to bury secrets, I came to take them," Thomas said. "I'm looking for a path marked by the Sun Gate."
Mateo fell silent. "There's no gold at the end of that path," he hissed. "Only death."
"I'll pay you," Thomas said. "Just to show me where the Sun Gate is."
A week later, Thomas and his fifteen best crew members stood at the edge of a dense forest. In front of them, Mateo pointed to a faint path that sloped upwards. The buzzing of insects filled the air.
"The Gate is a three-day journey from here," Mateo said, his voice trembling. "May the Apu forgive you."
Thomas looked at the path before him, then at the peaks of the Andes hidden behind the clouds.
The next fragment waited up there.
"Show us the way, Mateo," he said, adjusting the backpack on his shoulders. "We've been sailing for too long. It's time to stretch our legs."