After tending to Nierven, Yve moves down the street, currents carrying her past familiar spires and coral-lit paths. At the corner stands a reinforced structure, its massive sign carved clean and bold:
ANVARIS
Inside, metal hums. Energy pulses in a steady rhythm. A female siren stands over a machine, focused, a welder's mask hiding her face as she works.
"Hey, Selene."
Selene stiffens. She powers the machine down, then lifts her hands to remove the mask, turning with a tired half-smirk. "You're up early. What do you need?"
Yve tilts her head. "You're up early too. And… yeah. I need something."
Selene exhales, already bracing. "Alright. Out with it."
"I'm preparing for the voyage this afternoon," Yve says. "We'll be handing over care of the Chief of Harborville to my human families. Leaving them with that kind of responsibility without giving anything back feels… wrong."
Selene's expression sharpens. "And?"
"So I thought," Yve continues, careful now, "maybe you could come with us."
Selene lets out a short, sharp laugh. "You've lost your mind. I'm not going up there. Why would I ever go up there?"
"Not for long," Yve says quickly. "Just for the handoff. With your Artificer's gift, you could build what they need—tools, safeguards. Something to make caring for the Chief… manageable."
"No." Selene's voice cuts clean. "Absolutely not. Celestia, I'm not adventurous like you."
She turns slightly, pointing to a long, straight scar across her shoulder. "See this? Got it for breaking the surface once. Just once. Damn fishermen."
Yve's voice softens. "Alright. I hear you. I understand."
She hesitates, then asks, "Do you think the others might consider it?"
Selene doesn't pause. "Can't speak for them," she says, already turning back to her station, "but I'd bet good scales they won't either."
For the next few hours, Yve waited.
One by one, the Artificers drifted into ANVARIS—some pausing their work, others clearly annoyed at being pulled away. Each conversation ended the same way. Polite refusals. Flat refusals. A few barely-hidden laughs.
"She tried Lyra, who still bore a faint, webbed scar from a harpoon. She tried Greer, who spat that the air-breathers could drown for all he cared. One by one, the Artificers shot her down, their refusals a wall of 'no's built from old scars and fresh disinterest."
By the thirteenth rejection, her shoulders felt heavier than the water around her.
Darnell arrived late, moving like urgency didn't apply to him anymore. He listened without interrupting, arms folded as Yve finished explaining.
"Well," he said at last, unimpressed, "there's nothing interesting up there anymore."
Yve looked at him pointedly. "For you, maybe. You spent half your life up there."
"Yeah." Darnell shrugged. "Built an industrial maintenance company. Kept cities running, machines breathing. Had my fun." He gave a quiet chuckle. "Then it got boring, so I came back down."
Yve's voice tightened slightly. "Last time you were up there, they weren't dealing with Shriekers yet." She studied him. "Aren't you even a little curious?"
"Shriekers?" Darnell frowned. "What are those?"
"Mutated humans," Yve said. "They eat other humans."
Darnell made a face. "That's disgusting." He shook his head. "Not surprised, though. With how badly they poisoned their own world, I'm amazed they lasted this long."
"But wouldn't it be something," Yve pressed, "to see how they're surviving up there now? I mean really see it—how their systems are still holding together after everything."
Darnell exhaled through his nose. "Can't do it, Yve," he said firmly. "I've got too much unfinished work down here."
"Alright," Yve said quietly.
She lowered her gaze, disappointment slipping through despite herself. "Your loss."
Darnell hesitated—just a second—then said, "Try Duncan."
Her head lifted immediately. "Really? Where is he?"
"Probably in his bed, goofing off," Darnell replied with a grin.
After a bit more talking, Yve headed toward Duncan's place. The street quieted as she approached—less structured, more cluttered, scraps of half-finished projects lining the exterior.
She didn't hesitate.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A moment passes. Shuffling inside. Then the door cracks open. A male siren peers out, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded. "What?"
"Hey, Dunk," Yve says brightly.
Duncan squints at her, already irritated. "Arghhh— it's too early. What do you want?"
"Oh, come on, sleepyhead," Yve says. "It's ten in the morning. Everyone's awake except you."
"I finished late yesterday," he snaps, rubbing his face. "What do you want?"
Yve straightens. "Come with me to the surface."
Silence.
Duncan's expression goes blank as the words land. A few seconds pass.
"Nope." He shuts the door.
Yve just stares at it for half a beat.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Oh, come oooon," she calls. "You didn't even let me finish!"
"Why?" Yve shoots back. "You've always been interested in the surface. I'm literally giving you the chance—why wouldn't you take it?"
Duncan scoffs. "Because of what happened to you?"
Yve pauses. Just slightly. "I'm fine now."
"Yeah?" His gaze sharpens. "Then draw your sword. Right now."
Yve lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You don't trust my word? Seriously?"
"Because the Celestia Yve I knew a year ago," Duncan says evenly, "would've drawn her sword already at me for slamming a door in her face."
"Well," Yve crosses her arms, "I'm a changed siren now. I'm nicer."
Duncan snorts. "I'm not risking my life just to see the surface. I'm good here."
"Boy," Yve mutters, eyes narrowing, "you really are testing me, huh."
"Yep." He leans on the doorframe. "I'll go if you draw your sword."
Yve exhales sharply. "You know I can—but not now unless it's an emergency."
Duncan just stares at her, completely unfazed.
Yve glares. "Fine. What do you want?"
Duncan's grin returns. "Ha! Took you long enough. Come inside," he says, stepping back. "I'll show you."
They swim down a long hallway, lights embedded in the walls casting a soft glow over polished stone. Duncan slows, then stops in front of a reinforced door unlike the others.
He turns the latch and swings it open with a small flourish. "Welcome," he says proudly, "to my Lost and Found Treasure Room."
The space beyond is enormous. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, packed and overflowing—man-made tools, relics, strange mechanisms, jewelry, objects Yve can't immediately name. The far wall is covered end to end with mounted items: framed artifacts, preserved oddities from both above and below.
Yve drifts in and immediately freezes. "I know you're a hoarder," she says slowly, eyes scanning everything, "but damn!" She floats closer to a painting hanging slightly off-center. Her fingers lift—
Duncan snaps forward and grabs her wrist. "Whoa—careful," he says sharply. "Don't touch anything."
Yve stiffens, then nods once. "Alright. Sorry."
"And don't flick your tail hard," he adds, gesturing around. "See this? No waves. Not even a ripple."
She looks again—properly this time—and realizes the water inside the room is unnaturally still. Like it's been sealed off from movement itself.
"Modified the room," Duncan says. "Water stays calm. So just… behave."
Yve squints, then smirks. "No waves, no touching…" She glances at him. "Does it judge too?"
Duncan just stares. Flat. Patient. Unimpressed.
She exhales, drifting deeper. "You already have all this. What more could you possibly want?" She turns—and stops. "…Why the hell do you have a car down here?"
Duncan follows her gaze. "That's called a car?" he asks. "Didn't know that's what it's called. I just call it four wheels."
Yve lets out a short laugh. "Yeah, dingus. It's a car. And there are a lot of them up there. Nobody even really owns them anymore." Her expression shifts slightly, interest sparking. "If you came with me, you could display more. Different kinds. Different sizes."
Duncan tilts his head. "Really? How big?"
Yve spreads her hands. "Like… big. I think they call the bigger ones trucks."
"Truck," Duncan repeats, rolling it around in his mouth. "That's a stupid word."
She swims closer, hopeful now. "So… you coming?"
Duncan raises a finger. "No. That's not what I want."
He turns slightly and gestures. "Come here."
He leads her to a wide table fitted with a transparent organizer, neatly divided into dozens of slots. Inside: compasses, watches, rings, chains—carefully arranged, almost obsessively so.
Duncan taps the surface. "See this? Still got a lot of empty slots." He looks at her. "And you, my dear friend, have something that would fit very nicely in my collection."
Yve's expression tightens. Careful now. She already knows where this is going.
Duncan folds his arms. "Remember that school trip? The cave we stumbled onto filled with what you called trash and I called treasure?"
Yve exhales through her nose. "Yeah."
"And remember," he continues, "when I found that compass that doesn't point north?"
Yve shrugs. "Then you think I stole it."
"Think?" Duncan scoffs. "You absolutely did."
"Excuse you," she snaps back. "I didn't steal it. I got there first. I saw it before you did."
"Funny," he says. "If you saw it first, why didn't you take it?"
Yve lifts a hand. "Because I didn't know what it was. It had a time-looking thing on it. What if it was a bomb?"
Duncan's brow tightens.
"I figured you'd notice it," she continues. "I wanted to see if you'd go for it. If you did, then I'd know it was safe."
Duncan stares at her. "So if it was a bomb," he says slowly, "I would've just died?"
"No," Yve says immediately.
"And why not?"
"Because of your gift."
He snorts, but there's tension under it now. "I was still learning to trust my instincts back then."
"And you did," she says quietly. "You trusted yourself. You did good."
"I still could've died," he mutters.
"And you didn't."
A beat.
Then he points at the empty slot. "So I deserve that compass."
"Why?" Yve asks. "It doesn't even point north. I tried everything. It works—I just can't figure it out."
"Give me five minutes with it," Duncan says, confident. "I'll figure it out."
Yve arches a brow. You that confident, huh?"
"Yeah." He nods toward the slot. "Then it goes here."
She studies him for a moment. "Alright. Fine. But you tell me how it works first."
"Deal."
"And," she adds, sharper now, "you're coming with me to the surface."
Duncan pauses.
Then he grins. "Fine."
They shook hands—firm, deliberate.
~~~
Yve holds the compass out without ceremony.
Duncan takes it immediately, turning it over in his hands. His focus locks in almost instantly. "…It's broken."
Yve winces. "Yeah. I kind of used it for target practice. Shot an arrow at it."
He angles it toward the light, studying the casing, rotating it slowly. "It's tougher than it looks," he mutters. "Your arrow didn't even go through." He taps the glass once. "But yeah… it's broken. The hand doesn't move anymore."
Yve scratches the back of her head. "Yeah. Sorry."
He barely looks up. "No worries. I can fix it."
And just like that, he's gone.
Yve blinks. "…Right."
~~~
Inside ANVARIS, Duncan works without delay.
He opens the compass at his station, studying the internal structure with quiet intensity. The mechanism inside is unfamiliar—too refined to be accidental, too precise to be simple salvage work.
His expression tightens slightly.
He moves to a bare stone wall and begins sketching. Not casually—rapid, controlled strokes. Mechanical breakdowns, alignment theories, partial equations layered over each other as he works through possibilities.
He mutters under his breath, correcting himself when something doesn't fit, erasing and rebuilding sections without hesitation.
Then he stops.
Turns.
Leaves.
~~~
The library is quieter.
Duncan pulls down the Artificer's Book and flips through it with growing focus, scanning pages until something in the diagrams catches his attention. He pauses. Compares it to the compass components in his mind.
A beat passes.
"…There you are."
~~~
Back at his station, everything becomes precise rather than fast.
He forges a new glass casing—thick, reinforced, seamless. No flaws. He tests it under extreme heat, lowering it into a controlled stream of lava.
It holds.
He watches it for a long moment, then removes it carefully.
Next, he places the compass beneath an energy pulser, adjusting the alignment until it locks directly onto the internal mechanism.
Then he grips the lever.
Pushes it down.
A surge of energy strikes the device. The compass reacts instantly—needle spinning violently, blurring into a tight ring of motion.
Duncan didn't move. He waits it out.
Gradually, the spin slows.
Then steadies. It stops.
Locked.
He exhales once, subtle. "It works."
He pushes off from the station, compass in hand.
As he swims, he glances down.
The needle is already fixed in one direction.
He follows it. Through intersections. Past junctions. Around bends.
The longer he follows, the more the route starts to feel familiar. Too familiar.
Eventually, he slows. Looks up.
He's in front of his own house. "…Maybe it points to where you live," he mutters. "That's pretty lame."
As if offended, the compass hand shifts—just slightly.
Duncan squints. "Huh?" He reaches for the door and pulls it open. The moment it seals behind him, a familiar voice greets him.
"Hey—you're back." Yve floats near the center of the room.
"Yeah, yeah," Duncan replies, distracted, eyes already on the compass.
Yve drifts closer. The instant she closes distance, the compass jerks.
Then spins.
Hard. Clockwise, rapid, unstable.
Duncan blinks. "That's… weird."
"What's weird?" Yve asks.
He doesn't answer immediately. He watches the compass, then her. "Can you move back a bit? Slowly."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
Yve hesitates, then swims backward.
The spinning slows. Not fully—but noticeably. The motion becomes less erratic, more controlled.
At roughly five feet away—
It stops. Locked. Pointing directly at Yve.
Duncan's brow tightens. He lowers the compass slightly, then looks at her again. "Okay. Try it."
Yve takes it. The moment it's in her hand, the needle goes wild—spinning counterclockwise, then slowing, then snapping into a direction that doesn't make sense.
She frowns. "I think it's still broken. It still doesn't point north."
"Yeah," Duncan says. "Give it back."
He takes it.
Instantly, it spins again—this time clockwise—violent, unstable, then stops dead.
Pointing at Yve.
A beat.
Duncan exhales slowly. "…You are one mystery."
He moves away from her again.
At exactly the same distance—five feet—the compass stabilizes. Locked. Unmoving. Always pointing at her.
He raises a hand. "Don't move."
"Uh… okay?" Yve says, stiffening slightly.
Duncan starts circling her. Slow, controlled. Testing angles. Height. Distance. Above, below, behind. Every shift produces the same result—the compass tracking her like she's a fixed point in space.
He stops. Lets out a quiet breath. "…I think the compass wants you."
A short laugh slips out of him, more disbelief than humor.
Yve squints at it. "So it got a crush now, huh?"
Duncan doesn't answer. He's already thinking. "What time are we leaving?" he asks.
"At exactly 12."
"Yeah." He nods absently. "I'll prep my stuff. First I need to figure this thing out."
"Alright."
He gestures toward the door with the compass. "Go. It freaks out when you're in here."
Yve rolls her eyes, and swims out.
Duncan stays still, watching the needle locked on the empty space she left behind.
For the next hour, Duncan does nothing but test.
One by one, he hands the compass to other sirens—workers, apprentices, passersby. He watches the needle spin, hesitate, lock, reset. He notes everything in quick, precise bursts: distance, timing, direction stability.
No pattern holds. No consistency survives. He's still muttering to himself when a familiar presence drifts into view.
Duncan looks up sharply. "Master Merc—good thing you're here."
Master Mercedius slows, posture calm, composed, unreadable in the way only someone with real experience can manage. "What is it you want, boy?"
"Quick favor," Duncan says, already holding the compass out. "Hold this for a second."
Mercedius takes it. Lifts it slightly. His expression shifts almost immediately—recognition, faint but certain. A slow smile forms. "Ah," he says. "I used to have one of these."
Duncan freezes. "You know what that is?"
"Of course." Mercedius turns it gently in his hand. "Had one in my youth."
Duncan leans in. "I think it's broken. I tried fixing it but… I don't think I actually did."
Mercedius tilts his head. "Broken how?"
"Well first," Duncan says quickly, "it doesn't point north. Second, it randomly spins like it's having a crisis. I had other sirens hold it and the direction it locks onto is completely random every time."
A low chuckle escapes Mercedius. "That's because it's not a compass."
Duncan pauses. "It's not?"
"It's called a Willsign Dial."
Duncan repeats it under his breath. "Never heard of that."
"That's because it comes from the Firmament Realm."
Duncan's eyes sharpen. "Really?"
"I heard there are only ten of these," Mercedius continues. "Made by the greatest Artificer that realm ever produced. Scattered across existence."
He studies it again, more carefully now. "Though this one…" A pause. "It's still broken."
Duncan exhales. "Yeah. That's what I'm trying to figure out. What exactly is broken about it?"
"You can't fix it," Mercedius says simply. "Not fully. It requires a component that only exists in the Firmament Realm." A faint nod. "You did well enough. It still functions… barely."
Duncan drags a hand down his face. "Yeah, but I still don't get how it decides where to point."
Mercedius looks at him for a moment longer. Then, quietly: "It's simple."
Duncan looks up.
"It doesn't point north," Mercedius says. "It points to your desire."
A beat.
Duncan blinks. "My what?"
"Your desire," Mercedius repeats. "A place. A thing. A person."
That lands differently. Duncan's expression shifts—confusion first, then recognition creeping in like something he didn't ask to remember. "…Oh," he says quietly.
Mercedius flips the compass over and presses the backplate.
Duncan straightens. "What are you doing?"
"There's meant to be a secondary stabilizer here," Mercedius says, pressing again. Nothing. He exhales. "Doesn't matter. Still broken." He hands it back.
Duncan doesn't take it immediately. His eyes stay fixed on it a moment longer than necessary.
Duncan leans in. "Why? What does the stabilizer do?"
"It shows you a destination."
"A destination?" Duncan repeats. "How does that even work?"
Mercedius shakes his head. "I don't know how it works, boy. I am not an Artificer." He turns the compass slowly in his hand. "I only know it projects an image. Usually a place. Something tied deeply to your life."
Duncan's eyes brighten. "That's… actually incredible."
Mercedius studies him for a beat. "Not as incredible as you think." The tone shifts slightly. The humor drains out. "I triggered it once," he says. "By accident."
Duncan slows. "And?"
"It showed me my wife's grave."
Silence.
Duncan's posture stiffens. "…What?"
"A year later," Mercedius continues evenly, "my wife died. And her grave looked exactly like what the Willsign Dial showed me."
Duncan swallows. "That's… that's both terrifying and kind of—" He stops himself mid-thought. "I'm sorry."
Mercedius nods once, like it's already behind him. Then he places the compass back into Duncan's hands. "If you don't want to ruin your future," he says, "don't try to fix the button mechanism." A pause. "And if you do… don't ever press it."
He turns and leaves.
Duncan stays still. The compass sits in his palm, heavier than it should be.
For a long moment, he just stares at it.
~~~
"Look who decided to show up."
Duncan glances up at Yve's voice. His head is slightly bowed, fingers still curled around the compass, thoughts still tangled in what Master Mercedius said.
"Why the long face?" Yve adds lightly. "You decide you don't want to live anymore?"
"No," Duncan mutters. "I just… figured out how the compass works."
Yve brightens immediately. "Really? That's great! Then why do you look miserable?"
"Because—" He hesitates, then forces it down. "Because it's still broken."
She tilts her head. "But you know how it works now?"
"Yeah." He nods once. "Yeah, I'll tell you."
He looks down at the compass again. Yve notices the shift in him. The brightness fades a little. She swims closer and rests a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey," she says, softer now. "What's wrong? If you don't want to come, it's okay. If you're not feeling well, go to the Care Home. Get checked."
Duncan shifts just enough to break contact. "No—no, I'm fine. Just thinking."
"Okaaay…" she says slowly. Then, trying to ease it back, "There's still space for your luggage on my Tidecraft."
"No need," he replies quickly. "I'll just share a room with Lysander."
"Oh." Yve blinks. "Uh… alright."
Duncan turns and starts to swim off.
"Hey—Duncan!"
He stops. Looks back. The compass in his hand, still pointing at her.
Yve meets his gaze. "Thank you… for coming."
Duncan holds the look for a second longer than necessary, then nods once. Doesn't speak. And turns away. He boards one of the Tidecraft without another word.
Five Tidecraft line up, ready for departure. Each is pulled forward by pairs of Pegacampus at the front, their movements steady and synchronized.
At the first vessel, Raine stands at command, posture straight, focused, controlled. In the center Tidecraft, the reinforced carriage carrying the Chief sits heavily secured.
Raine raises a hand. A command. The Pegacampus surge forward.
Chains of motion tighten. Engines whirls to life. Currents shift. The Tidecraft groan softly as they begin to move as one.
And just like that—
The voyage begins.