When I hear the sound of the fishing boat bumping against a dock, I have no idea of where we are or how long we have been sailing. I remember that, at some point, Finn lifted and carried me into the cabin, where he set me down on a bed of spare sails. I have stayed curled up here since. I had tried closing my eyes to sleep a few times so that I could escape reality, even for a few hours. But despite my best attempts, my brain refuses to shut off, and images of blood-soaked tiles and severed limbs swim across my closed lids. Instead, I stare blankly at the wood knots of the cabin wall. I don't think about my mother or the islanders that I have known my whole life—who I will never see again. The pain and anguish of their loss are inside me, but I don't address it. I circle around it cautiously as though it was a predator waiting to pounce and consume me if I wandered too close. I make sure I keep far away, always observing and never approaching. I'm safe in my state of numbness. I hear heavy footsteps outside and the door to the cabin open. I expect to see Finn, but it's the skipper who stands in the doorway. The skin above his beard is red and puffy, and his eyes are forlorn. "We're here, sweetheart. It's time to go," he says. I have never heard him talk to me with such kindness before. It's strange how tragedy makes everything so different. I climb shakily to my feet and shuffle out of the cabin into the harsh daylight. I don't know where we are, but it's raining hard. Finn stands at the edge of the boat by the dock. His eyes are staring out at nothing in particular. Rain drips from his limp hair and runs down his face, but I doubt he notices. We all hop off the boat onto the dock without bothering to lower the exit ramp. Waiting for us is a tall, dark-skinned man wearing a long oilskin jacket with a deep hood that shelters his head from the rain. The skipper hands him a small pouch of coins, and the man silently nods before retreating back to the small, weathered shack at the foot of the dock. Finn takes my arm in his, and we follow the skipper to the small town. Despite the fog swirling in my mind, I make the realisation that this is the first time I have stepped foot on the mainland. After everything that has happened, the moment is far less monumental than I ever imagined it to be. I still distract myself by looking at my surroundings, trying to establish the difference and similarities. The plants and vegetation look the same, but that's probably to be expected. I lost sense of time in the cabin, but I know we didn't travel far enough for the climate to change. The houses appear to be a similar style to the ones back on the islands, but the wood looks more solid, sturdy. The larger public buildings, however, do look different. They were built from a mixture of stone and wood. They look better equipped to withstand a hurricane. The cobblestone we walk on is also different from the roads back home—what used to be home. The stones were laid much more carefully in circular patterns, and carriage wheels and heavy footfall have smoothed them down. The street we walk along opens up to a wide-open area framed with buildings. A wooden signpost to my left reads Seatoller Town Square. I furrow my brow slightly in confusion. The area is circular, not square. In the center of the circle sits a rough stone statue of a fish. Several market stalls surround the statue, but they are all shut down and covered by waterproof tarps, probably because of the rain. I look around curiously through the windows of all the shops and facilities as we pass by. There's such a wide variety that I feel as though I have been deprived my entire life without knowing it. There's a bakery selling dainty pastries and cakes that look like forms of artwork, a glassblower's workshop with vibrant marbled glass vases in every size and shape imaginable, a cobbler with expensive-looking leather boots, a fishing shop with a variety of rods and bait, and a store with crates of fresh produce. Everything looks so organised and neat. We pass an apothecary where some locals queue out in the rain. One is a young mother carrying a screaming young baby, another is an elderly woman who coughs repeatedly, and at the back stands a middle-aged man with his arm in a splint. None of them look our way. Next, I spot a tailor shop, and my chest tightens painfully. While the style of the dresses and shirts displayed in the window is different from the Curian style, the colours and fabrics remind me of my mother. The predatory grief inside me snarls as I get too close to its boundary. I mentally step back by snapping my gaze from the windows to keep it fixed at my feet. I don't look up again until the skipper stops at an open doorway. From the inside, I can hear hearty chatter and the sound of cutlery clinking and mugs being placed. "Why are we at a tavern?" I ask. "Are we just going to drink our problems away?" Drinking might ease the pain for a while, but it won't bring back the people we lost. "No, lass," he replies. "It's not a tavern; it's an inn. We're going to stay the night while I sell the sprats we caught. Then we'll stock up on supplies and get as far away as we can." The skipper walks briskly inside, followed by Finn. Before I enter, I glance up at the squeaky metal sign. The paint on the image is partially rusted and flaking, but it shows a slim, tall, and round white building set near the edge of a cliff. Yellow streaks of what looks to represent light are projecting from the top of the building. Underneath the image, I make out fancy lettering that reads The Lighthouse Inn. "Rina!" I hear Finn calling me from inside. It's the first time I've heard him talk since we left the islands. The first thing that hits me when I walk into the Inn is the smell of ale and cooking fish. The second thing that hits me is the sudden warmth. I hadn't noticed just how cold I was. Finn and the skipper are sitting at a small round table in the corner of the room. The large, bald-headed bartender narrows his eyes and keeps them fixed on me as I pass. I briefly wonder what his problem is until I remember that I'm still covered in blood. Ignoring him, I take a seat at the table. The skipper stands and walks to the bar to order drinks while Finn and I sit in silence. It's awkward, but I don't know what to say, and Finn looks like he doesn't want to talk anyway. He's deep inside his own head, processing everything that has happened. I don't want to process those painful memories. I want a distraction. I tune into the conversations of the people around us. It's strangely comforting hearing them chatter about their mundane daily lives, untainted by tragedy and destruction. One group of people stands out more than the others. They are sat two tables down from us, but their rough, heavily-accented voices carry further than the others. They are loud and rowdy. I glance over at them from the corner of my eye. There are two women and an elderly man. One woman appears to be in her fifties, and the other in her twenties. Probably her daughter. They all have long, unruly dark hair and wear brightly-coloured woolen shawls. From their conversation, I deduced that they are travellers passing through on their way to the nearest city to sell their goods—silk sailcloth for warships, apparently. The skipper returns with three mugs of tea, and the bartender follows behind with a board of cheeses and a basket of bread. Finn and the skipper pick at the food, but I can't stomach any. I take a few sips of the tea to soothe my parched throat. “The inn owner's brother is the fishmonger; he's willing to buy our barrels," the skipper breaks the silence. "I'm going to head over there now to unload them and arrange a price." "Do you need help?" Finn offers. "No, lad. Rest up here. I'll be back in an hour or so, and then we'll see about setting sail tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. I wanna put as much distance between us and the islands as I can." "Where are we going?" My voice comes out as a croak. "There's a fishing town far up north called Baycliff. It's famous for its hauls of cod and swordfish. We should find refuge there," he says. I nod acceptingly and go back to my silence. My mind is whirling. I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them. We have been waiting for the skipper for nearly an hour when Finn announces that he's going to the restroom. I watch as he slowly walks around the tables to an open door next to the bar. As soon as he disappears through, I rise from my seat and walk to the table where the travellers sit. They stare at me in disdain as I approach. I don't blame them. "Yes?" the woman says questioningly. Her voice is coarse. "Please, I need your help," I beg. "I can pay you." The rain is still pouring as we load the supplies onto the boat. It’s getting dark, and the clouds have turned from grey to a rich indigo blue. “That’s the last of them,” says the skipper. “Finn, you haul the anchor. Rina, you can raise the sails.” I lower my head and sigh, bracing myself for what is to come. Finn and the skipper are already aboard, but I stay on the dock. “I’m not going with you,” I say finally. I keep my head lowered. I don’t want to see their reactions. “What do you mean you’re not coming with us?” Finn sounds outraged. “C’mon, lass. There’s nothing left here for us, and it’s not safe,” the skipper pleads. “I know.” I lift my gaze to look him in the eye. “I’m not staying here. I’m going to Bise.” “Bise?” Finn questions. “What’s in Bise?” Bise is the capital city of the Kingdom of Linaria, the enemy territory to Vardra. “My mother’s sister lives in Bise. She’s the only family I have left now so I’m going to stay with her for a while.” I reply. “Didn’t she run away there to become a witch? Are you sure you want to live with her?” Finn blurts. “She might be … unhinged.” The corner of my mouth lifts. “She’s a Curian just like us. I’ll be fine with her. I’ll find a way to send you a message once I get there to let you know that I’m safe.” “How exactly are you going to get there?” the skipper asks. “Bise is far north from here. It will take a month at least on foot.” “There are some travellers heading to Bise first thing in the morning. They have a caravan pulled by horses, and they agreed to let me travel with them. I just need to borrow a few coins to pay them for their troubles.” The skipper nods sadly and fiddles with his pouch of coins. Finn jumps off the boat in one swift movement and pulls me into his arms. I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. “Please don’t do this, Rina.” He whispers in my ear. “You don’t know these people. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.” “You won’t lose me.” I pull back from his embrace and try to put on my most reassuring smile. “I’ll be safe and sound, and I’ll come and visit you as soon as I can.” “Promise me?” Finn holds out his right hand. I clasp it in mine. “I promise.” “Here, lass.” The skipper holds out a bag of coins. “This is your share of the earnings.” “Thank you,” I say, slipping the bag into my pocket. Luckily the pockets of the trousers are large enough to carry what few belongings I have. I need to remember to buy a cheap satchel once I reach the city. “I’m sad to say goodbye, but I understand why you need to go. Family is important. I just hope you manage to find a peaceful life.” He says sadly. “Please take care of each other,” I say. I hug both men briefly, but I don’t drag out the goodbyes. I’m afraid that if I stay any longer, they will see through my facade. I cross the desolate town until I reach the main road. As promised, the traveller’s caravan is parked on an open grassy space next to the road where two large horses graze. The caravan is unlike anything I have seen. It is circular and long and is painted a vivid green with red, blue, and green intricate patterns. As I approach, the three travellers are sitting around a campfire cooking what looks to be a pot of stew. “You’re just in time for dinner, honey. Come and grab a bowl of stew to warm you up, and I’ll grab you some fresh, clean clothes. You’re about Magda’s height, so hers should fit you.” The older woman says. She told me at the inn that her name was Mim. The younger woman is her daughter, Magda, and the elderly man is her father, Fredrick. Though they are louder and more rambunctious than I’m used to, they seem friendly. I trust them. I take a seat on one of the wooden stools around the fire, and Magda hands me a bowl of stew with a smile. She seems shy around me. Fredrick pokes at the wood on the fire with an iron stick while Mim busies herself in the caravan. Although I still have no appetite, I don’t want to appear rude or ungrateful, so I eat a few spoonfuls of stew. I’m surprised by how good it tastes. “I’ve set you out a bed in the caravan,” Mim says as she returns to her stool. “Thank you for your kindness. I am very grateful for your hospitality,” I say politely. “Don’t mention it. We’re always happy to have company. Get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll pack up and start moving at the crack of dawn,” she says. “How long will it take for us to reach Winstar?” I ask. “About two days if the horses are in good spirits,” Fredrick replies. “Good,” I say. The sooner I reach the city, the better. My need for revenge is burning more fiercely inside me with each minute that passes.