The gods aren’t on our side this fishing trip. It’s already been four days, and we still haven’t come across a school large enough to fill the nets. To make the situation worse, we woke to find that low clouds had rolled in, bringing a fine, cold mist that affected our visibility and soaked us through.

I help Finn pull up the nets for the umpteenth time today, but all that fills them is algae and some small herrings. We haven’t even been able to fill half our barrels.

“I guess it’s a good thing that we managed to catch all those snappers last time,” Finn says. He is trying to keep his tone light, but I can tell that he’s as miserable as I am.

“Yeah, and it’s been a good season for growing vegetables, so we won’t starve.”

“Vegetables.” Finn pulls a face.

“You should eat more of them,” I laugh, “it’ll keep the scurvy away.”

“Real men don’t eat vegetables; we thrive off pure meat and fish.”

I roll my eyes.

“That’s it. I’m calling this trip off. We’re heading back to shore.”

We turn to where the skipper stands behind us. I hadn’t even noticed him come up from below deck.

“Are you sure?” Finn asks, “Things could pick up if the tide changes.”

I subtly try to nudge his ribs with my elbow to cut him off from saying more. I’m wet, tired, cranky, anxious, and want to go home.

Lucky for me, the skipper looks even wearier than I do.

“No, we’re done here,” he says adamantly. “We’ll make more profit by cutting our losses and just stick to fishing locally for a while.” His voice is more gravelly than usual. I wonder if the cold, damp air is getting to his lungs.

“Why don’t you go back below deck and rest up for a while,” I tell him. “Finn and I will sort everything out up here, and I’ll come and get you when we’re done.”

“Well, if you insist,” the skipper mumbles, removing the cloth cap from his head and wiping the moisture from his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

I watch as he shuffles over to the hatch that leads to the cabin. I suddenly notice how frail he looks. This job has weathered him, aged him beyond his years.

As I assist Finn with my netting, my thoughts turn to my father. The various descriptions of him that people have told me over the years aren’t enough for me to make up a clear image of him in my mind, but I still wonder how different he would have looked if he had still been alive and doing this job. How different will I look after another 20 years of fishing?

With the morale being low, we talk very little as we start the journey home. The skipper keeps to the helm while Finn focuses on the sails. With not much else to do, I busy myself by cleaning the deck and then the cabin. Though as hard as I try, nothing can distract me from the uneasiness that I feel in the pit of my stomach.

Without having to keep stopping to test the waters and lower the nets, the sail back will be much quicker, possibly only two or three days.

Unfortunately, by the start of the second day, the wind changed direction, and with it came a thick, putrid smoke that affected our visibility and caused the skipper to cough even more than usual.

“Where do you think it’s coming from?” I ask Finn. The uneasiness has developed into full-blown anxiety. I can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong.

“The Karatan volcano has probably erupted again. I heard the elders talking about how the smoke covered our islands for weeks the last time it blew.”

His words don’t offer any comfort. The Karatan volcano is too far from our islands to cause any damage structurally, but I worry about what the air quality could do to our people—to my mother. Would we have to evacuate to the mainland?

“It’s not the volcano.” The skipper joins us at the bow of the ship. “I was there thirty years ago when it went up last time. The smoke was a different colour. It smelled different.”

“The islands couldn’t be on fire, could they? I mean, there’s no way a fire could start that’s big enough to create this much smoke,” I say.

“No, of course not.” Finn places a hand on my shoulder. He can sense my panic.

“There was a fire big enough on the main island once,” the skipper says.

Finn and I both look at him in confusion before glancing at each other. We have never heard this before.

“It happened long before you two were born,” he continued, “and it started at the storage yard where they keep the sea sponge. An old sea dog named Armas Saltgrain staggered in there drunk and decided to extend his party by smoking some in his pipe. He fell asleep among the sponges, dropped his pipe, and within minutes—boom! The whole lot went up, and the summer winds spread it across the whole island.” The skipper looks forlorn as he stares into the smoky haze that blankets the horizon. “Aye, it was a great tragedy.”

“Why has no one ever told us about this?” Finn asks. He sounds as horrified as I am.

The skipper merely shrugs his shoulders. “I suppose it’s something people would rather forget.”

“Do you think it’s happened again?” I blurt.

The skipper flashes me a sympathetic smile. “We won’t know what has happened until we get to the islands. Try not to fret too much, Lass,” He says before returning to the helm.

Easier said than done. I knew it. I knew something was wrong. I’m suddenly angry and frustrated at how slow the boat is travelling, angry at the wind for not being in our favour, angry at the skipper for not cancelling the fishing trip sooner, angry at my dad for not being here to tell me everything was going to be okay.

I don’t even notice I’m crying until Finn pulls me against his chest and wraps his arms around me in an attempt to calm me down. I can tell he’s as worried as I am; he’s just better at dealing with it.

The next hour slugs by painstakingly slow, and I spend the whole time clinging to the railing at the bow of the boat. Occasionally, I hear the skipper barking out some instructions, but Finn takes care of those and leaves me in peace. I feel too sick to move. The crippling anxiety at the pit of my stomach feels like an anchor wedged between two rocks, rendering me paralysed.

As we draw closer to the islands, the smoke grows thicker. I try to identify it by the smell but inhaling it just sends me into a coughing fit. In a few moments, the shape of the islands will appear over the horizon. The sickening feeling worsens from my anticipation and fear of what I might see.

I feel Finn grip my hand in his, and we both keep our eyes fixed on the horizon. I hold my breath as I see the thick smoke plumes appear. There’s a wide expanse of them. When the islands come into view, they are shrouded in smoke. I drop to my knees.

“Oh, Heavens,” Finn whispers under his breath.

The visibility is poor, but the smoke plumes are rising from every single island. My heart rate rises even more than it was before, and my vision starts to swim. I focus on trying to breathe through the crushing feeling in my chest. I can’t pass out now. Whatever tragedy is occurring back home, I need to help them. I need to be strong.

“How?” I croak. How could this be happening?

“Curio is under attack,” the skipper says, his voice strained. “We need to change course. I need to get you two away from here.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Finn beats me to it.

“We can’t run away! People are suffering back home. We have to help them!” He shouts.

“I don’t think there’s anything left to save. We’ll be killed before we even get a chance to dock,” the skipper argues.

I stand, feeling the strength and determination that had left me before. “Take me to the islands, or I’ll jump off now and swim there,” I say.

He stares at me, his eyes filled with concern and fear.

“Please, sir. My parents and sisters are there. I need to see if they’re okay,” Finn chokes.

“My mother,” I gasp. Thinking about what she might be going through makes my stomach churn.

“Okay, I’ll take you to the islands. We’ll save as many as we can, then we need to get straight out of there. Finn, you take the spyglass and look out for the invaders,” The skipper says briskly before walking back to the helm.

Finn follows him to collect the spyglass, leaving me feeling at a loss of what to do. My adrenaline is pumping, and all I want to do is fight. And how are you going to do that? The little voice at the back of my mind says—my rationale pushing through the adrenaline. I can fight well enough in hand-to-hand combat, but I doubt my opponents will be unarmed and following fight rules this time. I need a weapon.

I busy myself looking around the boat for something that might inflict serious damage. The boat is only equipped with tools required for the trade, but I do find a spare heavy metal hook on a stretch of thick rope that could be swung at an attacker. I find a set of gutting knives In a chest that the captain stores by his office. They are short and are in need of a good sharpening, but they will do.

I join Finn at the bow and slip one of the knives into his spare hand; the other is holding the spyglass to his eye.

“How’s it looking?” I ask though I’m not sure that I want an answer.

“There’s nothing,” he replies. “No foreign boats. No signs of movement. There’s just … nothing.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” I’m willing to cling on to any hope I can.

Finn lowers the glass and turns slowly to face me. His eyes are closed, and when he finally opens them, tears pool from his eyelids. “I do see splashes of red,” he says. His voice is thick with grief, and the brief hope I felt sinks to the deep pit of my stomach like an anchor. Red means blood. It means death.

I don’t say anything more to Finn. I settle on the deck with my back to the railing and try to distract myself from imagining what we will see when we reach the shores. I wrap a length of the rope around my left wrist and clutch the heavy hook in my palm; there’s still enough rope left to get a good swing. In my right hand, I fiddle with the knife, getting a feel for the handle and the movement of the blade. I usually fight unarmed, but I still have experience using a mixed range of weapons, and I’m not honourable enough to not know how to fight dirty. Instead of focusing on my overwhelming anxiety, I focus on the many ways I intend on taking revenge. Like ore to precious metal, my fear gradually melts into anger.

“Rina, we’re at Scale,” Finn says quietly. I keep my eyes focused on the hook, and my mind focused on the anger. “I can’t see any sign of the intruders. Let’s split off and head straight for our families. The skipper is heading to Thornsea to look for surv … the others.”

My head snaps up to look at him. His expression looks fearless, but his voice is wavering. He’s not as tough as he’s pretending. I want to reassure him, but at that moment, I hear the boat bump against the dock. Without any thought or planning, I rise in one swift motion, sprint across the deck, and hurdle over the railing. My feet hit the wooden planks, and I keep running, past the fruit stall where I usually stop to buy mangoes for my mother, past the houses of my neighbours who had called out to wish me fair weather and a bountiful catch as I left a few mornings ago. The smoke on the island is thick. The soot clings to the sweat covering my skin, stings my eyes, and grips painfully at my lungs.

I try to keep my eyes raised to avoid looking at the scattered red puddles and the burning buildings around me. It almost works until my foot catches on something, sending me hurtling forward. I land on my knees and the rough stone of the road tears through the cloth of my trousers. My knee stings, but I can’t tell if the blood coating it is mine or from the blood-soaked road that I landed on. Instinctively, I look to see what tripped me. It’s an arm, a severed, bloody arm, with a blue sea glass bracelet around the wrist. It belongs to Nora Cuttle. I know this because she proudly showed it to me last week. Her husband gave it to her for their fortieth anniversary.

I fumble to unclasp the bracelet and look around for Nora’s body. She lays a few feet from her house, and her remaining hand is entwined with her husband’s. His head had been sliced clean off his body, and it sits under the hibiscus bush overflowing from their garden. Their front door hangs off its hinges. It looks as though they were trying to flee when they were slain. I numbly crawl over to them and place the bracelet across their hands. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

I stand shakily and slowly start walking again in the direction of my house, taking in the sights around me. Every mangled body and destroyed homes I see add another crack to my already fragile mind, but I can’t break now; I have to stay strong for my mother. Although I should feel none, I cling to the irrational hope that my house would be untouched and my mother would be inside.

I can tell from a distance that this isn’t true. In front of the mangrove tree in our small yard sits a flag displaying the Vardran colours of purple and orange. With my last burst of courage and hatred, I sprint forward until I reach my open doorway.

“Mam!” I call to her. My voice cracks. Silence. I don’t bother looking in the living room. She’ll be in the kitchen. She’s always cooking up medicine in the kitchen. My heart pounds, and my body shakes as I walk down the short, narrow hallway to the kitchen door; it’s slightly ajar. I nudge it open and gasp. I’m vaguely aware that I am clinging to the door frame for support, but it’s no use; my legs buckle under me as my vision swims. My body involuntarily convulses as I retch up bile from my stomach. Once the vomiting finally stops, I sit for a while as my body becomes paralysed by shock. I want to screw my eyes shut, but they are fixed on my mother, or what was once my mother. She is slumped against the stove, and her mouth hangs wide open as her soulless eyes stare at the ceiling. Her stomach has been ripped open so far that her organs and intestines are lain strewn across the kitchen floor.

“Mam,” I sob as I crawl to her. I wrap my arms around her stiff body and bury my head into the crook of her neck. I let the tears and the pain consume me, and I let my mind shut down.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear voices, but they sound distorted as though I was deep underwater. I don’t know how long I have been here, but my joints feel stiff. The shouting is getting louder, likely Vardran soldiers coming back to kill me. I won’t stop them; I don’t deserve to survive after my mother suffered here alone. I hold her tighter.

I become aware of footsteps in the room and fingers painfully digging into my upper arm, trying to haul me away. I refuse to budge. If I’m going to die, it’ll be with my mother.

Through the sound of ringing in my ears, I make out some words, “have to … coming back … leave.” Someone is shouting. Why aren’t they just killing me?

I crack open my left eye enough to peek through. Finn’s face is inches from mine. He’s franticly shaking me. “Just leave me here to die,” I croak.

“No, I’m not leaving you here! We have to go now. They’re coming back! We need to get back on the boat before they see us!”

“I can’t leave her,” I sob.

“There’s nothing you can do for her, but she’d want you to survive! Please, Rina, we have to go. She’s gone.” Finn’s eyes are pleading and filled with desperation and sorrow.

I don’t want to watch him die. I loosen my hold on my mother and allow him to haul me to my feet. My legs buckle, and he supports my weight before I fall. My eyes land on a book lying on the kitchen table, and my hand reaches for it. My fingers wrap around the worn leather-bound spine, and I hold it tightly to my chest. We stumble quickly through the house and out into the dry, smoky air.

I stare up at the thick grey cloud, and my eyes focus on the ship breaking through and starting its descent onto the main island.

“Hurry!” Finn urges, pulling me forward.

I strain mentally and physically to get my leg muscles moving the way they should. As we start to run, my eyes catch the purple flag fluttering on the post in my garden. The rage I felt earlier rears its ugly head inside me. I reach out and grab the course fabric as we pass, tearing it from the wood. As I stuff it into my pocket, something bumps my knee. The fishing hook still dangles from the rope tied around my wrist. It seems so long ago that I chose it as a weapon on the boat. I had forgotten about it. I grip the metal comfortingly into my palm and focus on running back to the dock. I don’t avoid looking at the bloody massacre this time, but I don’t process it either; my emotions have left me.

We reach the fishing boat as the airship begins docking on the main island. Finn helps me climb up onto the deck. The skipper is slumped against the wheel, his face filled with sorrow. I turn away and sit with my back to a barrel. I can’t comfort him right now.

Finn lifts the anchor and raises the sails. The boat glides out into the wide ocean, and I stare blankly out as the dead islands that I once called home dissipate into smoke and nothingness.