"There's one more of us actually," Iris said as they walked along the beach toward their boat. "Maybe he can help you out more."
"How did you get here if you don't know what this place is?" Thomas asked.
"We know what this place is. Just not this specific island. The islands here are... different. Not really islands." She paused, glancing at him. "At least we found you on time. You could have died for real if you stayed too long."
"That didn't answer my question."
"Well, we were actually cast out by the captain. And Dante followed us. He was even the one who told us to come this way and take you."
There was something in her voice. Not quite appreciation. Something else.
"There he is," Callum said suddenly, his tone flat. "Be careful with him. I don't know why he hangs around with us."
"Because we're his only friends, Callum," Iris shot back.
Thomas could hear the tension. Callum's earlier energy had drained away, replaced by something heavier. Disappointment, maybe. Or jealousy.
"You're getting better these days," Iris said, her hand landing on Callum's shoulder. "At hiding your feelings. Trying to be cooler about it."
"Leave me alone," Callum muttered. "Before I tie you down too."
"Is that the only thing you know past your three-line poems as a beginner?" Iris mocked.
"I'm not practicing an easier route like you."
They reached the boat. It was small, wooden, battered by salt and time. A boy crouched beside it, working on something at the hull. He didn't look up as they approached.
He was taller than Callum, broader in the shoulders. Dark hair, sun-darkened skin, and clothes that looked like they'd been through hell. A worn coat over a simple shirt, trousers tucked into boots. His hands moved with precision, tying knots in frayed rope.
"This is the guy we found," Iris said. "He's not a poet though. And also, he's just a fisherman. What's so big about him?"
Dante glanced at Thomas. Just once. Then back to the boat.
"Let's go then," he said.
Iris blinked. "Nothing else?"
"What else is there?"
"We just take him like that?"
"Or let him die here?" Dante straightened up, wiping his hands on his coat. "We need to find the compass. Or else we're stuck here forever and we die."
"Is he gonna find it then?" Iris asked.
Thomas stayed back, watching. What compass? He didn't understand, but he wasn't about to interrupt.
Callum looked around, disinterested, arms crossed.
"Get us in the water," Dante said.
Iris sighed, then stepped forward. She closed her eyes, her lips moving.
"Old timber, born for tides and ocean spray, let heavy mooring feel the water's call. The sliding sands shall guide you on your way, be borne by grace before you sink or fall."
The sand beneath the boat shifted. The friction disappeared. The boat slid smoothly into the water, and they all climbed in.
Once they were floating, Dante turned to Thomas.
"You can swim underwater pretty well, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. We're looking for a compass. I'll guide us where it is. You need to get in and find it. Just go deep in the same direction, downward. Without that compass, neither you nor I can get out of here. And you can be helpful to the group."
Thomas frowned. "Can't you just find the way out yourself?"
"I've drained my fortitude a lot already. Getting here, fixing this thing, getting us where we need to go. I keep going at that rate, I might die. You don't want that, do you?"
Thomas hesitated. "Alright. But aren't there monsters down there?"
"You want to be a poet, right? I don't see a better way to start."
Dante turned forward, closing his eyes. His voice came out steady, rhythmic.
"The heavy water holds the memory well, where turning wave met metal swift and bright. Recount the moment when the needle fell, and grant our eyes the path held by the light. Let the tide surge where the true current ends, and guide this keel where lost direction tends."
The boat jerked forward. Dante's jaw tightened, his hands gripping the edge. Then the movement smoothed out, and they were gliding across the water in a new direction.
"We aren't deep in the Deadwater Reach," Dante said without looking at Thomas. "So no powerful monsters here. Just the water. And it isn't dark yet. So calm down."
The others were focused on the sea now, watching. They trusted him. Thomas could see it.
He thought back. Callum had recited a quatrain. Satire. The girl had recited a quatrain too. Pastoral. They said that was tier two. So tier one must be simpler forms. Couplets, haikus, maybe free verse.
And Dante had just used a sixtet. Narrative. To guide the water itself.
Thomas closed his eyes again.
The three of them noticed. No one spoke.
He imagined the room. The small room with the table at the center. This time, it came easier. The ocean breeze helped. The sound of the waves.
He was there. In the room.
A chair appeared. He sat down.
And then, a piece of paper floated in front of him.
Is this it?
Do I create a poem here? Now?
What should it be about? He liked lyrics better. But the narrative had been more powerful because it was more complex. Should he try something complex? That might hurt him.
Maybe an elegy. He'd been good at those kinds of poems back in school. The sad ones. The ones about loss. No, maybe those are too dangerous here.
Lines started forming in his mind. Naturally.
"The key is your desperation and your emotions," a voice said. Dante's voice, even though Thomas couldn't see him. "And if you just know the rules, the lines come by themselves."
The words appeared on the paper, writing themselves.
Speed runs thin through muscle, bone, and vein.
One breath to chase what deep waters conceal. Strike fast before the current holds me still.
Thomas jolted awake. His eyes snapped open.
The boat had stopped.
"We're here," Dante said. "Be fast."
Thomas looked over the edge. The water below was dark, but not pitch black. He could see down maybe twenty, thirty feet. Beyond that, shadows.
He took a breath, then dove.
The cold hit him immediately, but it was familiar. Welcome. He kicked down, deeper, following the direction Dante had pointed.
The pressure built in his ears. He equalized and kept going.
"Should I recite it here?" He thought, then he went on.
"Speed runs thin through muscle, bone, and vein. One breath to chase what deep waters conceal. Strike fast before the current holds me still."
Then he felt it.
A surge. A tingling in his legs, his arms, his chest. Like electricity running through his veins.
He was faster. Not just swimming faster. Moving faster. His kicks propelled him twice as far. His arms cut through the water like knives.
The poem. It worked.
He grinned despite himself, bubbles escaping his lips.
Down. Keep going down.
The light dimmed. The water got colder. But he could still see.
There. Something metallic. Glinting.
He kicked toward it, and that's when he saw the octopus.
It was small, maybe the size of his hand, wrapped around the compass. Its tentacles gripped the metal tight, and it stared at him with one dark, unblinking eye.
Thomas reached for it. The octopus recoiled, pulling the compass back.
He tried again. It lashed out, a tentacle slapping his wrist.
His lungs were starting to burn. The speed was wearing off. He could feel it draining from his limbs.
He grabbed for the compass one more time, harder this time, and pried it from the octopus's grip. The creature released it with a final snap, then jetted away into the darkness.
Thomas turned, kicking back toward the surface.
Then he saw them.
Shapes. Moving in the distance. Too many to count. Coming closer.
His heart pounded. The speed was almost gone now. His legs felt heavy again.
He kicked harder, pushing through the water, the compass clutched tight in his fist.
The surface was close. Just a few more meters.
The shapes were getting closer.
He broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming down his face. Hands grabbed him, pulling him into the boat.
"Got it?" Dante asked.
Thomas held up the compass, dripping and cold. "And I got something else coming for us too."