The rain began without warning, hammering the ship on the coast of Blacktide Harbor until sea and sky became one sheet of silver.

From the ghostly attic of the ship, Mira Vale watched the storm roll in. She liked storms, because they made people careless.

She knelt beside her bed and pried open one of the many loose floorboards. Underneath it was a tin cylinder - one she herself had placed there, and it contained a map made out of old parchment signed by the vanished cartographer named Arlen Thorne.

Most of the map marked familiar waters. She had memorized it all, except for one mark, a broken circle at the edge of the known sea.

Lightning in her window flashed once, twice. For an instant, the circle on the map shimmered in the light. Mira froze and tilted the parchment closer to the window.

Flash. Hidden lines emerged within the symbol—ink that only revealed itself in the flicker of the lightning. It was like a hidden second map layered over the first.

A map within a map.

Then came a shout from above her.

“Fire!”

Smoke coiled across her window. Loud bells clanged. Her stairwell was filled with flame. It seemed too fast, too deliberate. This wasn’t an accident. After she started trying to escape through her window, a sharp knock rattled her door. “Mira Vale,” a calm but firm voice called. “Open the door. We need to discuss the map.”

Her blood ran cold.

The map in her hands pulsed faintly with warmth. New lines flared across the map - this time not across the sea, but through Blacktide Harbor itself. A new glowing path led from the boat to a point across the harbor. Pointing to a ship she had never seen before.

Wayfarer.

It had to be. This is what her father had told her about all those years ago, before he died and she was left all alone. This was what she had been waiting for. The door that protected her from the calm voice collapsed inward from a group of men breaking in. Tall black figures stood, surrounded in smoke, quickly walking toward her. Mira didn’t hesitate. She shoved the map inside her jacket, climbed out through the window onto the rain-slick roof, and crawled her way up to the top deck where the chaos was. She ran back and forth on the dock, escaping the grasp of each person, and was only guided by the frequent burst of lightning. Far in the distance, half-veiled in storm, waited a ship with a full black hull and unfurled sails. A single lantern burned at its prow.

Wayfarer.

She realized that she had to escape, but how?

After another flash of lightning, she found two lifeboats placed down in the waters, ready for launch. Behind her, boots thundered across the dock, chasing after her. Crew members yelled out, telling each other to stop her from getting on the life boat. After she untied the boat from the ship, she began slowly paddling away, to the dark figure that she had sworn she had seen. Eventually she got to the ship and boarded, but there was just one problem:

They were catching up to her in a life boat of their own.

She had seconds to get to the strange ship moving. Seconds to start moving and to discover what was on the map, or seconds to instead waste and to lose everything.

The lantern on the ship flickered in the wind.

Once, twice.

And then it went dark.

The lantern’s glow vanished so completely that for a heartbeat Mira wondered if she had imagined the ship at all.

The deck beneath her boots creaked once, low and hollow, as though the vessel had drawn a breath and was holding it.

Behind her, oars slapped hard against the water. The pursuing lifeboat was close now—too close. Men shouted through the storm, their voices sharp and purposeful.

“There! She’s aboard!”

“Board her before she cuts loose!”

Mira spun, searching the deck in frantic sweeps of her eyes. The Wayfarer was larger up close than it had seemed from the harbor, its black hull drinking in the stormlight. The sails were furled tight, bound by ropes that looked older than the harbor itself. No crew. No wheelman. No sign of life.

Just the dark.

“Come on,” she whispered, clutching the map through her jacket. “Move. Please.”

The parchment burned hotter against her chest.

Lightning split the sky.

For an instant, the deck blazed silver—and she saw them.

Faint lines etched into the wood. Curving sigils that snaked along the planks, up the mast, and across the coiled ropes. They matched the hidden lines she had seen inside the broken circle on the map.

Another flash. The symbols pulsed.

The map inside her jacket answered with a warm, steady glow.

Understanding struck her like the lightning itself.

“It’s not a ship,” she breathed. “It’s a key.”

Boots slammed onto the Wayfarer’s side rail. One of the men from the lifeboat hauled himself up, water pouring from his coat. His eyes fixed on her immediately.

“Hand over the map,” he said, voice calm even as rain streamed down his face. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with.”

Mira backed away, shaking her head. “Neither do you.”

Two more men climbed aboard behind him. They spread out, confident, certain the storm and the empty deck had trapped her.

The first man stepped forward. “There’s nowhere to run.”

The map flared hotter, almost painful now.

Mira tore it from her jacket and unfolded it with trembling hands. Rain struck the parchment—but instead of soaking through, the droplets slid off as if the surface repelled them. The glowing path across Blacktide Harbor shone brighter than ever, converging on the very spot where she stood.

And then the broken circle at the edge of the sea blazed like a tiny sun.

A new line erupted from it, racing across the parchment and up her wrist like a thread of fire. She gasped as the light leapt from her skin to the deck, racing along the etched sigils she had glimpsed before.

The ship shuddered.

The men froze.

“What did you do?” one of them barked.

“I think,” Mira said, heart hammering, “I woke it up.”

The sigils ignited one by one, glowing faintly gold beneath the rain. Ropes snapped loose of their own accord, whipping upward as if caught by invisible hands. The sails unfurled with a heavy rush, catching wind that hadn’t existed a moment ago.

The mast groaned. The hull lurched.

The Wayfarer moved.

“No!” the calm-voiced man shouted, lunging toward her.

Mira stumbled back as the deck pitched. The harbor water around them churned. The pursuing lifeboat rocked violently, its oarsmen shouting in alarm as the sea dragged them sideways.

“You’ll doom us all!” the man yelled. “That ship doesn’t belong in this world!”

“Maybe,” Mira shot back, gripping the glowing map tighter, “neither do you.”

The lantern at the prow flickered back to life.

This time, its flame burned a deep, steady blue.

Wind roared from nowhere, slamming into the sails. The Wayfarer surged forward, slicing through the rain-silvered water like a blade. The harbor receded behind them in seconds, the dock lights blurring into distant smears.

The men aboard staggered, grabbing for railings as the ship accelerated unnaturally fast. One slipped, barely catching himself before sliding across the deck.

“Stop it!” another cried, fear finally cracking his composure. “Turn it back!”

“I don’t know how!” Mira admitted, half laughing, half terrified.

The map pulsed again.

The glowing path shifted, no longer pointing through the harbor but straight ahead—toward open sea. Toward the storm’s darkest heart.

Thunder rolled. Lightning revealed towering waves, yet the Wayfarer cut through them as though they were no more than mist. Water split and reformed around the hull without ever touching it.

The calm-voiced man straightened slowly despite the chaos. His eyes fixed on the map, not with anger now, but with something colder.

Recognition.

“So,” he said quietly, “Arlen Thorne’s daughter lives after all.”

Mira’s breath caught.

“How do you know that name?” she demanded.

He gave a thin smile. “Because your father stole that map from us.”