"You will not know her, for she took her vows only after your departure. Yet among our ranks, none shine brighter."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
Francis pushed off from the shore with a grunt, skiff sliding into the black water. The oars dipped in and out with a slow, steady rhythm. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, though there wasn't much to see, just the moonlight on waves and the faint outlines of distant islands. Logreef shrank behind him until it was little more than a dot, a terribly insufferable one.
An hour passed. Maybe two. Time blurred when everything looked the same. The only sounds were the scrape of wood, the churn of water, and his own breathing. He let his mind drift a little. Back to Camila, back to warmth, back to a bed that wasn't made out of rock. For the first time since setting foot on that cursed island, he felt something close to calm.
At least until the wind shifted.
A low groan rolled across the sea, so distant at first he thought he'd imagined it. The next gust came harder. The skiff rocked, lightly at first, then harder. Francis paused, one oar mid-stroke, listening.
Another rumble. Not far this time.
He spat a curse and rowed harder.
The sky gave him no warning—no slow buildup of clouds, no distant flashes, nothing. Wind punched across the surface of the water, tearing a spray of water into the air. The skiff bucked. Francis dug the oars in, muscles burning.
Then the waves rose. One slammed into the side of the skiff, cold as tonight's makeshift bed. He held on, teeth clenched, but another hit before he found his balance again. The bow swung sideways, caught in the pull of a rising swell.
"Not now," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Not now."
The storm didn't care.
Thunder cracked overhead—loud enough to rattle the wood beneath him—and the sky opened. Rain was the last thing he needed, but he wasn't exactly known for his luck. He tried to correct his angle, but the oars kept slipping, the skiff kept moving erratically. A wave taller than the rest rolled in, leaving him thoroughly drenched.
Francis didn't even have time to curse before a second one crashed into him.
The world flipped. Salt water flooded his mouth, nose, and ears. The skiff vanished beneath him, or above him—it was impossible to tell. He kicked, panic doing most of the work, and broke the surface just long enough to catch a shaky breath.
Another wave hit.
The sea rolled him over and over until up and down lost meaning once more. His fingers grazed wood—one of the oars, maybe—and then it was gone.
For a brief, desperate moment, he surfaced again. The overturned hull of the skiff bobbed a few yards away, half-swallowed by the waves. Francis reached out, tried to swim toward it, but the current pulled him sideways, spinning him into the dark.
The next surge dragged him under.
The sea dragged him down again. He kicked upward, teeth clenched, but the water pressed harder than his strength could manage. He broke the surface once—twice—gasping like a man waking from a nightmare, only to be pulled under again. His lungs burned. His arms slowed. The storm didn't relent.
The pressure built behind his ribs, sharp and merciless. Drowning was nothing like sailors claimed. It wasn't peaceful. It was panic tightening every inch of him, a pain that clawed through his chest as the last pockets of air slipped away.
He fought anyway. Instinct demanded it. But each stroke weakened, each kick lost force, until all he could do was let the water take him deeper.
Somewhere in that darkness, his thoughts drifted. Camila came to him first—her voice, the evenings he read to her, the soft light of her small home. The quiet meals. The shared warmth. He would have given anything to feel even a moment of that again.
But there was no reaching it now.
The truth settled in like cold iron: he was going to die.
Not with Camila beside him. Not in bed, or in a church, or even on land. He was going to die here—alone, swallowed by a storm, in a black patch of sea no one would ever find.
The panic came harder this time, but it couldn't change anything. The water closed over him again, and the darkness stayed.
***
Valeria woke at dawn feeling clearer than she had in weeks. The stress, the doubt—gone, or at least pushed far enough away that she could breathe again.
"Maybe I should unwind more often," she muttered, swinging her legs off the sorry excuse for a bed. Her clothes waited in a crumpled heap in the corner. She could've worn them to sleep, sure, but last night had left her too tired to bother.
She dismissed the... attendant the moment she no longer needed the company. Desperate she might have been, but she wasn't an idiot. The ice traps she'd set around the hut stayed exactly where they were the whole night.
She pulled on her clothes with slow, deliberate motions, already dreading the next part. The ice bath was routine by now, but she hated it all the same—not the cold, not the repetition. It was the simple annoyance of having to soak her clothes again afterward. Swimming back to the main island bare wasn't exactly an option, unless she wanted to traumatize an entire coastline.
She sighed and stepped outside, bracing herself for the plunge.
She took a small comfort in the quiet outside. No one was up at this hour—not that anyone ever was. As far as she could tell, the only souls awake this early were her…and that bartender.
Speaking of him. I should check whether he's shown up yet.
As she hiked down the rough trail, she noticed the fire from yesterday had mostly vanished. Humidity in these parts was certainly a sight to behold. Still, whoever caused that blaze had either been formidable, or incredibly stupid.
Her thoughts drifted to the stolen artifact. Returning it wasn't an option. Selling it on the black market was even worse; no one sane traded in Saint-level relics unless they had a death wish. Which left two paths: keep it, or toss it and cut her losses.
Both came with the same problem. If the Church had already traced the theft, her name was as good as a death sentence.
Ugh. So much for unwinding.
Regardless, all of that was a problem for the future version of her—preferably one with time, resources, and fewer nuisances breathing down her neck. For now, all that mattered was lying low and praying God wouldn't let the Church find her. Assuming He hadn't already forsaken this world. And the longer she spent at sea, the more likely that seemed.
She reached the shoreline a few minutes later. The tide had crept higher overnight, dragging seaweed and driftwood across the sand. The water was calmer than usual. Too calm, actually, with barely a ripple to it.
Valeria narrowed her eyes.
Something felt wrong. Not dangerous—just…off.
She stepped into the surf without hesitation, walking until the water reached her knees, then started preparing for the dive.
"Let's just get this over with," she muttered.
She plunged beneath the surface.
The familiar cold hit her instantly, but her gifts were enough of a deterrent. She swam out a few meters, the chill settling around her, when a faint shape caught her eye. She surfaced to get a better look.
A piece of wood drifted between the waves. At first, she dismissed it as debris. The sea always spat out junk. But as she swam closer, the shape sharpened.
An oar.
She straightened, scanning the water. Another scrap floated farther out. Then a third. All wrong for driftwood.
Didn't Francis borrow a skiff two days ago?
Her stomach tightened at the realization.
She looked toward the horizon and noticed that there was nothing noteworthy.
Just the remains of a skiff pulled apart by something stronger than it could handle.
"Well, that's unfortunate," she mumbled, lamenting the potential loss of a promising investment.
The waves lapped against her shoulders. The oar drifted closer, tapping her arm before she swiftly nudged it away.
She wasn't one for omens, but this wasn't a good one. Not for her plans. Not for her anonymity. Small communities talked. And in a situation like this, all it took was the right ear.
Valeria exhaled slowly.
Great. First, a mishandled heist. Now, a mysterious drowning of a villager who got too close. Whatever governed this new world really had it for me.
Unless.
She took another dive, this time pushing deeper, scanning the seafloor for any trace of a body. The water darkened the farther she went, but she kept searching. If he'd drowned recently—and with the potential he'd shown—there was still a chance. Slim, but enough to keep her moving.
After several passes, the sea yielded nothing. No body. No clothes. No sign of him at all.
She surfaced with a deep exhale as frustration grew. She lingered a moment, staring at the empty horizon, hoping—irrationally—that this was still something she could fix.
If only I'd paid better attention to his nightly habits.