Ikarus said nothing. His gaze lingered as Arnette's voice rose in a low, steady chant. The air around her hummed, a low-frequency thrum that made her coat dance. She pushed one final, guttural word into the wind and slammed her palm against the sail.
The silver-veined leaves scattered for a heartbeat; they swirled in a tight, frantic orbit around the mast before snapping flat against the canvas—etching themselves into the cloth like living fossils. For a heartbeat, the world went still. Then, the air shattered.
A sudden, violent gust hit them.
The sail snapped taut, and the boat surged forward, the hull groaning as it fought to keep up. Arnette, green book still crushed to her chest, scrambled for the tiller to wrestle the rudder into line. The wind roared with the bite of a Northern gale, tossing the seagulls aside like scraps of grey paper.
Raphael let out a sharp yelp as the boat lunged, his small arms locking around his box of shells. His knuckles went white against the rope, but a sheepish, adrenaline-fueled grin broke across his face.
"Raphael! Back against the mast!" Arnette's voice cracked like a whip over the roar of the wind. She pinned him with a sideways stare.
Ikarus watched her fight the sea. Her wind art was precise, carving through the southern currents even with a child in tow. She was treating a dead man's request with the fanaticism of a soldier on a suicide mission. He caught the corded tension in her arms and the grim set of her jaw.
What a strong woman, he thought.
Arnette held the chant until the cliffs split the horizon. Sheer, jagged walls of blue-grey stone rose from the deep, slicing the ocean like rusted cleavers.
As they passed between them, the dark salt-water vanished. In its place lay a basin of vibrant, turquoise light, so clear that Ikarus could count the smooth stones on the seabed.
"We're almost there," Arnette said, pointing toward a shimmering cascade. The water caught the direct sun as it fell—a column of liquid white fire that seemed to prop up the sky.
"Dewdrop Island is just behind the veil."she said with a weary, fragile smile. The skin around her eyes was tight with exhaustion. The Arts had drained her, leaving her hands trembling against the wood of the tiller.
Ikarus stepped toward her, his shadow falling over the rudder. "Go sit with Raphael. I don't want to have to carry you off this boat." He reached out and took the tiller, his palm sliding over her skin as he moved her hand aside.
"You know how to sail a ship, Master?" she asked, her voice a thin, shaky thread. The currents had been unnaturally heavy, and she'd barely eaten in weeks—the oily, over-spiced delicacies of Paradiso were an insult to her milder palate.
"I do."
A slow nod was all she could manage before her strength finally gave out. She sank onto the deck beside Raphael, who had dozed off against his box of treasures. With a lingering touch, she pulled the boy close and caressed his head.
Arnette watched him. He sailed with a practiced ease that didn't match the papers. He was the treasure of the landlocked Capital, a man who should have been a stranger to the sea.
What a strange man, she thought.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Ikarus offered a thin, fleeting smile before his gaze drifted back to the thundering white curtain of the waterfall. He stood there, unmoving—a man who asked everything but offered nothing of himself.
A strange and lonely man, she corrected.
The boat lurched as it neared the veil.
Thud. Thud.
Raphael jolted awake, his eyes wide and disoriented as salt spray hit his face. Below them, the turquoise water began to retreat, exposing the bone-white ribs of coral rising from the seabed.
Arnette's breath hitched. The exhaustion that had clouded her mind suddenly shattered, replaced by a sickening realization. She had forgotten the tide.
"Master, we have to stop!" she shouted, scrambling to her feet. Her balance was shaky as the boat tilted. "The tide is hemorrhaging—the water is dropping! If we don't turn back, we'll be grounded on the reef."
She lunged for Raphael, her fingers digging into his shoulder as she pulled him toward the center of the deck. The boy looked up, his breath hitching. "Mommy? You're hurting me."
Arnette recoiled, her hand snapping back as if his skin had scorched her. She stared at the red marks her grip had left, guilt burned hotter than her fever; she had nearly led her son into a stone trap. "We have to wait for tomorrow!"
"Hm. But the island is only a few meters ahead," Ikarus said. He remained perfectly still at the tiller, his voice a calm, contrast to her panic. He squinted toward the mist. "I can already see the shoreline."
"Yes, but this reef is a nest for the blue-veined vipers!" Arnette's voice cracked. "If we ground the boat here, we're dead!"
"Is that so?"
Arnette looked at him, her fingers twitching with the urge to scream. He was taking her warning like a weather report.
She lunged toward him, her hands slamming over him, "Master, please," she rasped. "The boat won't hold!"
Ikarus looked down at her hand, his eyes tracking the way her fingers gripped his. He didn't pull away. "What exactly are you doing?" he asked.
"Don't be stubborn. Not this time…Ikarus." Arnette's voice was a ragged whisper. Her face had gone a sickly, translucent white. "I lived on this island for years. I know what the tide does here."
Ikarus didn't answer. He simply leaned his weight into the tiller, driving the boat forward until the white curtain of the waterfall slammed into them. She couldn't overpower him; she could only brace herself against the deluge.
Then, the world dropped.
The tide hemorrhaged out from the reef. A hideous, high-pitched screech filled the air—the sound of jagged coral teeth biting into the wooden hull.
Arnette wiped the water from her eyes and snapped her head toward the bow. A massive, serrated ridge of blue stone stood directly in their path, waiting to split them in two. She whipped around to face Ikarus, her eyes wild with terror.
"Ikarus! Are you insane!?" she barked at him, her voice nearly lost to the roar of the water.
Raphael huddled against the mast, his small hands white-knuckled around the rope. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the sight of a dozen black-and-blue vipers slithering through the exposed coral.
Ikarus stepped away from the tiller, leaving a panicked Arnette to scramble for the wood. He moved to the bow in a blur.
He shed his jacket with a single, fluid pull, revealing why he never let his skin see the sun.
Beneath the fabric, his forearms were a nightmare of integrated brass and silver—mechanical grafts etched directly into the muscle, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic hum. A thin silver chain hissed out of a hidden port in his wrist, a three-pronged hook dangling with a deadly clack.
Ikarus glanced back at the horrified Arnette and flashed a thin, razor-sharp smile. "Hold tight!"
Through the blur of her panic, Arnette's eyes caught a sudden, unnatural glint of steel. A cold, silver lightning that seemed to ripple beneath his skin.
He snapped his arm forward. The chain lunged with the speed of a striking snake, embedding itself deep into the blue stone of the reef and scattering the vipers in a chaotic tangle of scales.
He looped the slack around the mast tightly. Then, his arms screamed. Metallic gears shrieked and scalding steam hissed from his biceps as the pistons fired. The chain snapped taut. Under the violent force, the mast groaned and splintered as the boat flew, skipping across the reef like a thrown stone.
Ikarus retracted the chain in a blur of sharp clicks, his chest heaving as he gorged on the rush of power.
Thump!
The boat hit the shoreline, skidding over the white sand until it ground to a halt in the thick, salt-crusted dune grass. Ikarus vaulted over the side, his boots sank into the turf. He brushed a stray speck of sand from his sleeve, then adjusted his cuffs to hide the silver grafts.
Raphael scrambled off the deck, his legs shaking. He took two steps on the grass and began to wobble in a slow, dazed circle. "Uugh my head….it's spinning...."
Arnette stood abruptly, her knuckles white as she gripped the rail. Her face had turned a sickly, translucent shade of lime. "Ikarus!! Y-You...ugh."
She doubled over the side, her stomach hitting the sand in a violent, messy heave.
"Ew. Mother," Raphael said, wrinkling his nose. "That's gross."
Ikarus let out a low, rough chuckle. Seeing the ever-composed Arnette reduced to a gagging mess was a dark bit of theater. A needle of guilt flickered in his chest—he'd pushed the boat to its breaking point—but regret wouldn't come. Not when he finally stood in the sun-drenched sanctuary of his childhood.
An Island inside an island. Ikarus stood in the surf, his gaze climbing the towering ring of canyon walls encircling the land. A vertical labyrinth that seemed to trap the sunlight in a shimmering, humid haze.
Cough.
Ikarus looked back to see Arnette on all fours in the sand. Despite the nausea, she had already hauled their baggage onto the shore; the heavy trunks sat in a neat row beside Raphael, who was caressing her back with one hand while clutching his seashell box with the other.
Arnette finally pushed herself up. She composed her features, though the ghost of her sickness still lingered in the pale set of her jaw. She approached him with a slow, measured gait, wiping the last of the bile from her scowling lips.
She flicked a glance at his covered arms before locking her gaze onto his. "Shall we go to the town now?" Her voice held a sharp, biting edge. "Master Ikarus."
Ikarus let out a low, rough chuckle. The title felt like a curse coming from her now.
"Lead the way, Arnette."
Her glare was sharp enough to draw blood, but she didn't argue. She turned on her heel and marched toward the shadow of the trees, leaving the chuckling Ikarus behind.