The fog thinned to a strange kind of clarity—light bleeding from below instead of above. Eli leaned over the side and saw it: a massive plate of black iron chained into the bedrock, the links twisting outward like ribs.
At its center was an opening—a circle of still water framed by runes or maybe barnacles pretending to be language. The glow came from within, not bright but deep, a color the human eye wasn’t built for.
Something moved behind it, slow as thought. Not a fish, not shadow, but presence—a pulse felt through hull and bone. The skiff rocked gently, an invitation or warning depending on how much you still believed in luck.
Eli didn’t blink. He reached for the gaff again, lowering it through the circle. The tip vanished without resistance. Then the chain trembled, and the sound in the air turned low and human enough to mean stop.
He froze, arm halfway extended. The air smelled of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. The circle’s glow pulsed once more, in rhythm with his heart—and when he pulled the gaff back, a single drop of dark water clung to the hook, refusing to fall.
It hissed when it touched the deck, leaving a black scorch the size of a coin.
He didn’t breathe for a full minute, afraid of what he might inhale. The sea below stayed patient. The chain creaked again, as if something large was rolling over to face him.
And then, from nowhere, he heard Maggie’s voice—soft, certain, asking why he’d come back when he was supposed to let her rest.
