Grace stared at a mountain of sea charts on her desk, running her fingers over the yellowed hemp paper. Under the flickering candlelight, the shipping routes marked in red-inked lines resembled dried blood.
When Dustin entered, he saw her sliding a thick collection of leather-bound ledgers into a rosewood case. Between the pages, words like “freshwater supplies” and ” ration calculations” revealed her meticulous planning for their upcoming voyage.
“Any news from the fishermen?” he asked. Grace glanced toward the window, where dusk was settling outside.
“Sadie just returned from the fishing harbor. She found an old fisherman named Jonah Quade. Three years ago, he spotted what looked like a mirage near Wailing Deep. He swore he saw grand palaces floating in the clouds and a stone marker engraved with the words ‘Elysium Isle.'”
She paused, then drummed her fingers on the desk.
“But he said that the phenomenon only lasted half an hour. When he looked again, even the sea fog had cleared.”
Dustin walked toward her desk and picked up a sea chart marked with the words ” Wailing Deep”. Next to the whirlpool-shaped area circled in ink were the fishermen’s scrawled notes.
“In June, strange winds rise, and no ship ever returns once it enters. A giant creature lurks below, and one can even hear a wailing sound at night.”
As he ran a finger over the jagged script, he chuckled softly.
“This is more accurate than the maps in the palaces.” Three days later, they arrived at the fishing port of Westhaven. It was shrouded in a salty, briny morning mist.
Grace stood on the deck of the Wavebreaker, dressed in sleek black gear, watching as the soldiers loaded the last batch of supplies onto the ship.
Sealed jars were stacked along both sides of the deck, filled with compressed rations and herbs. The water barrels below deck were reinforced with lead lining and stocked to last three months. Even tools and weapons for facing all kinds of dangers were fully prepared.
“Mr. Quade.” Grace looked at Jonah, who was hunched near the rail. His grip tightened over a faded safety amulet until his knuckles had gone white.
“Are you sure it’s located west of Wailing Deep?” she asked. He nodded weakly. His cloudy eyes fixed on the churning waves ahead.
“No doubt about it. That’s where my third son was buried. The sun was blazing that day, then suddenly, this white fog rolled in. Through the mist, the island appeared, and it looked like a heavenly palace, and so grand.”
He suddenly broke into a coughing fit and doubled over.
“But that fog was strange. Any net it touched was completely rotted to tatters by the next day.”
Dustin suddenly pressed his hand against the ship’s iron anchor and tapped the rusted ring lightly. Deep vibrations traveled up the chain, as though something stirred in the depths below. He studied the horizon where storm clouds gathered like spilled ink across parchment.
“Raise the anchor.” His voice cut through the rising wind. “If we don’t leave now, the typhoon will trap us in the harbor.”
The soldiers scrambled around the winch, hauling the heavy iron anchor. A trail of bubbles marked its slow ascent to the surface.
As the white sails of the Wavebreaker billowed in the morning breeze, Jonah suddenly slumped against the deck planks. He stared at the waves trailing behind them and muttered to himself, “I shouldn’t have come… I really shouldn’t have…”
The first five days at sea were calm. Occasional flocks of seagulls skimmed the bright blue waves, while the sunset painted the ocean gold.
Grace would climb to the crow’s nest every day and scan the horizon with her spyglass. Meanwhile, Dustin stayed below in the cabin, studying an ancient manuscript about the legends of Elysium Isle.
On the sixth day, the afternoon sky suddenly darkened.
The helmsman was the first to notice the changes. He saw the compass needle spinning wildly, and the brass face of the compass was so hot it burned his hand.
Before he could shout, the ship began to shake violently, as if grabbed by an invisible giant hand and tossed repeatedly.
Grace slammed into the rail as the ship rocked. Her pendant hit the railing with a sharp crack, a fine fracture appearing across it.
“It’s a waterspout!” someone screamed, pointing at the distant sea.
A thick column of water shot up from the waves toward the sky. Lightning twisted and flashed inside the dark clouds, each strike lighting up the fierce whirlpools on the ocean surface.
Rain pelted the deck like shards of ice. The sails tore apart in the fierce wind, groaning as they ripped.
Grace leaped up to the top of the mast. A golden light gathered in her palm, forming a shield that barely blocked the broken mast. She looked down and noticed the sea had turned black as ink.
Towering waves slammed against the deck, and among the spray floated shards of ice. Though it was midsummer, the water felt as cold as winter.
“Everyone, hold on tight!” Grace shouted. Her voice was shredded by the raging wind, but carried undeniable authority.
The soldiers frantically grabbed the iron chains along the ship’s rail. Some were swept overboard by massive waves and were swallowed by the whirlpools before they could even scream for help. Just then, the lookout let out a piercing scream.
“Tentacles! Tentacles!” Grace looked up and saw several thick gray tentacles rising from the churning waves. Each was as wide as a bucket, covered in suction cups, with bits of bone caught in the cups.
One slammed violently onto the deck, punching a hole through the solid teak wood. Two soldiers failed to dodge and were caught fast by the suction cups. Their screams ended abruptly as their bodies were torn in half, blood splattering the sails.
