The sea was black that night, a restless mirror swallowing light. The small boat cut through waves like a wounded animal, every swell threatening to throw them into the deep. Salt spray bit their faces. The roar of the wind drowned out everything except the pulse of survival.
Soufiane held the tiller tight, eyes fixed on the faint horizon. The island behind them had vanished into smoke — a ghost swallowed by distance. He didn't know if it was truly gone, or if something beneath that burning rock was still watching.
Amal sat near the bow, drenched, her axe lying across her knees. She hadn't spoken since they left. The firelight in the distance reflected in her eyes, small and furious.
Julien coughed hard, pressing a rag to his side where shrapnel had cut deep. "If we don't find land soon… I won't make it."
Cynthia knelt beside him, checking the wound under her flashlight. "We'll stop when we reach the current," she said firmly, though her hands shook. "There's a drift that should take us toward the Spanish coast."
Zahira looked up. "Spain?"
Soufiane nodded. "If the maps are right. If the sea hasn't changed."
He said it like a prayer, not a fact.
Younes lay curled beneath a tarp, wrapped in Cynthia's jacket. His breathing was soft, shallow. Every time lightning flashed, his small face lit up — peaceful, too peaceful for what he had seen.
Amal broke the silence. "That voice… in the tunnel. You think it's gone?"
Soufiane didn't answer immediately. He glanced at the compass, then at the sea. "No," he said finally. "Things like that don't die easily."
Julien groaned softly, his breath coming shorter. "You think it was human once?"
"Maybe," Soufiane said. "Maybe she was the last one trying to stop it."
The waves grew harsher. Wind screamed through the lines. Cynthia reached out and gripped the edge of the boat as it lurched. "Soufiane! We can't keep going in this storm!"
He looked at the sky — clouds swirling unnaturally, glowing faintly blue. His stomach dropped. "That's not a storm."
Zahira followed his gaze. Lightning didn't fork — it pulsed in spirals. And in those flashes, dark shapes moved across the sky like shadows under the clouds.
Cynthia whispered, "They followed us."
Amal grabbed her rifle. "Then let them try."
But before they could prepare, something hit the boat — hard. The hull cracked. Water rushed in fast.
"Hold on!" Soufiane shouted, turning the tiller sharply, trying to keep them from capsizing.
A black tendril burst from the sea — not a creature, not a machine, but something in between. It slammed into the deck, tearing through the boards like paper.
Amal swung her axe, slicing deep into the thing's flesh. Black ichor splattered, sizzling against the metal. "Get off my damn boat!" she screamed.
Soufiane grabbed the flare gun, fired into the sky. The red light illuminated everything — the monstrous tendrils, the storm above, the endless horizon.
For a moment, he saw it — the outline of something enormous rising just beneath the waves.
The sea split.
Cynthia screamed. Julien grabbed Younes, shoving him toward Zahira. "Go! Jump if you have to!"
"Julien, no—"
But it was too late. The next wave struck, flipping the boat.
---
Cold swallowed them.
Soufiane sank, lungs burning, eyes open to a blue abyss. He saw light — that same faint glow from the tunnels — pulsing beneath him. He kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.
"Zahira!" he shouted. "Younes!"
No answer. Just waves, rain, and fragments of the shattered boat.
Then — a light.
Far away, dim but steady, a beacon shimmered through the fog. A lighthouse, still burning on the edge of a ruined coastline.
He swam toward it, teeth clenched against the cold, until his arms were numb. One by one, shapes began to surface — Amal, coughing; Cynthia dragging Younes; Zahira clinging to debris, eyes wide and terrified.
They reached the shore together, collapsing onto wet sand.
The lighthouse loomed above them, its beam cutting across a landscape of silence.
Soufiane fell to his knees, breathless, staring at the distant hills. For the first time, the air smelled different — dry, faintly of dust and earth.
Amal whispered, "Spain."
Soufiane nodded slowly, but his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon — where faint orange light flickered among the ruins.
"Or what's left of it."