The Wanderer rocked violently, a fragile speck in the vast, storm-beaten waters. Spicer, the captain, stood barefoot at the helm, his wiry frame braced against the ship’s shuddering frame as waves slapped mercilessly at the hull. A deep-set grin carved into his face despite the danger, he looked more at ease here, at the edge of disaster, than he would lounging in a courtly bed.
“Wizards,” he muttered under his breath, eyeing his three passengers who clung to the mast in various states of distress. “Fools, more like.”
Makaira, the once-was court wizard, clutched the tail of a line in a white-knuckled grip, his cloak pulled tight against the biting spray of seawater. He had wrapped this line three times around his waist. He was a tall, fussy man, ill-suited to the hard edges of the Wanderer and already regretting every boast he’d made. “I tell you,” he had declared to King Frey, “I shall find a dragon, speak with it, perhaps even bend its will to serve you.” And now, barely a day out of Saaland, he feared it would be the waves he’d bow to instead.
Beside him, Joy—a newly appointed wizard who had only recently left the comforts of her study—wavered on her feet, clinging to the mast with one hand and her hat with the other. The wind had whipped her dark hair into a frenzy, and her face was pale, her eyes darting between Spicer and the horizon, as if uncertain which held more danger.
And then there was Shei, a bard whose life of small misdeeds and worse luck had somehow landed him on this ill-advised voyage. Lounging near the prow, he had hooked a leg under a plank, securing his weight. Even as waves broke over the sides, he hummed with a half-hearted bravado, masking his own unease with a forced grin.
“We’ll be fine, Makaira,” he said, though his voice shook. “Spicer knows these waters, don’t you, Captain?”
Spicer chuckled darkly, his eyes fixed on the storm-laden sky. “Know of them, aye. But that don’t mean they’re kind. The Crescent Isle’s just beyond this fury,” he added, as if that knowledge alone would steady the groaning timbers of his ship.
Makaira shifted uneasily, his pride deflating with every lurch of the boat. “You assured me this crossing was… challenging, but manageable. I had no notion it was—”
“I didn’t reckon you’d care to know just how many bones lie beneath this stretch.” Spicer’s gaze was unforgiving. “These waters don’t welcome travelers lightly, wizard.”
As if summoned by his words, the waves grew fiercer, rolling over the Wanderer and crashing against the deck. Joy lost her grip and stumbled forward, barely catching herself before falling overboard. Shei lunged, grabbing her arm with a quickness that betrayed his deftness.
“We’ve made it too far to drown here,” Shei muttered, helping her steady herself. “And Makaira’s got dragons to charm, remember?”
Joy gave him a weak smile. “If we make it to the Crescent Isle in one piece, it’ll be a miracle, let alone finding a dragon.”
Spicer’s laughter cut through the howling wind. “If dragons hear you coming, they’ll laugh just as hard, I’ll wager.” He pointed to the horizon, where a shadowed line of cliffs was barely visible through the mist. “There it is—the Crescent Isle.”
Makaira’s eyes brightened. “At last! There, do you see it?” But his excitement faded as the waves grew more chaotic, as if some unseen force stirred them into a frenzy. “Captain, are we safe to approach?”
“Safe?” Spicer snorted. “No one’s ever ‘safe’ here, wizard. The Crescent Isle’s got a hunger for men and ships alike.” He glanced at Shei, who had gone back to picking his fingernails, his expression tight. “Shei, best play a tune for luck, if you know one.”
Shei shook his head but began to sing, the faltering notes wavering over the chaos of the sea. Makaira muttered incantations under his breath, his fingers tracing symbols in the air. The wind shifted, and for a brief moment, the storm seemed to calm.
But then, as if mocking their efforts, a monstrous wave rose, its peak foaming with rage. It crashed into the Wanderer, sending Joy tumbling and nearly knocking Makaira from his seat, though the line held fast. Shei was drenched, the notes silenced, and even Spicer looked grim as he fought to keep the boat on course.
Makaira clung to his staff, his eyes wild. “Can’t you do something, Captain?”
“Against the sea?” Spicer barked a laugh, though his knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Not even your dragons could tame these waters.”
As if in response, the shadow of a cliff loomed closer, jagged and unforgiving. Crescent Isle had them in its grip, pulling them forward with an invisible hand. And then, as they drew near, the waters abruptly stilled, the fury of the storm falling away into an eerie calm.
Joy looked up, her face pale. “Did… did we make it?”
The Wanderer drifted forward, its timbers creaking in the silence. The air was thick, almost oppressive, and the island loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. On the shore, shadows shifted, half-seen shapes flitting between the twisted trees.
Makaira’s voice was barely a whisper. “This is… Crescent Isle.” He shivered, feeling the weight of the island’s silent watchfulness. “Captain, I… I thought there would be… people.”
“People?” Spicer’s grin returned, sharper than before. “This isn’t Saaland, wizard. The Crescent Isle’s folk don’t welcome strangers. You wanted dragons, did you not?”
Makaira’s bravado faltered, his gaze flicking to Joy and Shei, both as uneasy as he was. But he forced himself to nod. “Yes. We’ve come to parley with dragons. To serve the King.”
Spicer’s laugh was hollow, echoing over the silent waters. “Then you’d best be prepared, wizard. For the Crescent Isle holds no love for fools, nor for those who seek to stir its ancient spirits. Remember,” he said, as they began their slow approach to the shadowed shore, “dragons don’t bargain. They devour.”
The Wanderer drifted closer to the land, the shadows deepening, and the ship slipped silently into the protected lagoon of the Crescent Isle. The air thickened with a silence that held not just menace, but an ancient promise of ruin for those foolish enough to seek what should never be disturbed.
Spicer set an anchor and then collapsed onto a pile of nets. “Now we wait,” he warned, “No-one sets foot on this Isle without invitation.” The other three peered at the silhouette of the land before them and there was no-one to be seen.