Ragusan Vessel Santa Giulia, East Adriatic, 1554
Dawn came pale and cold. A thin line of light split the horizon where sea met sky. Gulls screamed and wheeled overhead as the tide pulled against the mooring ropes. Elena stood at the edge of the dock, her shawl drawn tight against the wind. The smell of salt and tar filled her lungs.
The ship was smaller than she expected—a narrow merchant vessel, its hull stained from years of voyages. Sailors moved briskly along the deck, calling to one another in Croatian, their voices carrying over the creak of wood. The air thrummed with the rhythm of work and waves.
Niccolò Da Costa stood beside her, his breath visible in the morning chill. "You'll head east to Ragusa," he said. "The captain is honest enough, and he owes me more than coin. Stay quiet, keep your papers close, and tell no one where you're from."
Elena nodded, though her heart felt as though it were twisting in her chest. "How long will it take?"
"Four days if the winds are kind. A lifetime if not."
He handed her a small oilskin pouch. "There's a letter inside, and two maps of the coast. You'll find a friend at the harbor—Marija. She runs a print house for navigational charts. Tell her Da Costa sent you."
"Thank you," Elena said softly.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Your father taught me once that maps are not meant to imprison truth. They are meant to guide those who seek it. Remember that, girl. Draw what must be remembered."
She wanted to ask if he believed Luca was still alive, but she couldn't. The words would break her.
Instead, she stepped aboard. The deck rocked gently under her feet, the sea murmuring against the planks. As the ropes were cast off, Da Costa raised a hand in farewell.
Elena raised hers in return, and then the ship began to move.
By midmorning, Venice had disappeared into the haze, reduced to a smudge of gold and gray on the horizon. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke and salt, the last breath of the city she had fled.
The captain, a weathered man with a scar down his cheek, barked orders in a voice roughened by salt and years. "Hold fast, lads! The wind's shifting!"
Elena kept to herself, seated near the stern, clutching the oilskin pouch. The other passengers—a pair of merchants, a priest, and two sailors returning home—paid her little attention. She watched the coastline slip past: narrow cliffs, pale beaches, the distant flicker of whitewashed towns.
Every so often she took out the compass and checked it, the needle steady toward the southeast. Each time she opened it, she half expected it to point back toward Venice, but it never did.
As the hours passed, she began to feel the rhythm of the sea: the heave and roll, the groan of the timbers, the slap of waves against the hull. It frightened her and comforted her at once.
By evening, the sky burned red and copper. The captain called for the sails to be reefed, the wind rising to a steady, restless hum. Elena leaned against the railing and watched the sun sink into the water, her eyes stinging from the spray.
For the first time since her father's arrest, she allowed herself to breathe deeply.
And then she heard it.
"Venetian, aren't you?"
The voice came from behind her—low, accented. She turned. A young man stood there, perhaps five years older than she was, his clothes plain but well-made, his dark hair pulled back with a leather tie. He held a coil of rope in one hand, his eyes curious.
"What makes you think so?" she asked carefully.
He smiled slightly. "The way you look at the water. Like it owes you something."
She hesitated, then said, "I was born there."
"Not many leave."
"Not many have a choice."
He nodded, as if he understood more than he said. "I'm Tomas. Sail under Ragusan colors now, but I've seen your canals. A fine city, full of ghosts."
"Elena," she said.
He tilted his head. "Elena of Venice. Then welcome to the Salt Road."
The days blurred into a rhythm of light and motion. Mornings brought pale skies and cold air; afternoons shimmered with sun so bright it turned the sea to glass. Tomas showed her how to read the wind, how to gauge distance by the curve of the horizon.
At night, when the stars burned white above the dark water, he taught her to find direction by the constellations. "The sea remembers what men forget," he told her. "Every star, every current, every stone. The mapmakers only borrow its memory."
She listened, memorizing every word.
One night, as the ship rocked gently beneath the moon, she took out her father's compass and held it between them. The needle glimmered faintly.
"It's beautiful," Tomas said. "Old."
"It belonged to my father."
"Where is he now?"
Elena hesitated. "In Venice. Or beneath it."
Tomas looked at her, then said quietly, "Then you carry his north."
She turned the compass in her hand. "Sometimes it doesn't point north."
He smiled. "Then it knows more than most men."
On the third night, the weather changed. Clouds gathered low and dark, the wind picking up a sharp, cold edge. The captain ordered the lanterns doused and the sails drawn tight. The Santa Giulia pitched and groaned as the first heavy drops began to fall.
Elena gripped the railing, heart pounding. The sea no longer moved with rhythm; it lunged and snarled. Waves crashed over the deck, salt stinging her eyes.
"Below deck!" Tomas shouted, catching her arm.
They stumbled down the narrow stairs as the ship lurched violently. Barrels rolled; ropes snapped. The air below was thick with damp and fear.
Elena clutched the pouch to her chest, whispering the words she had seen on the fragment: Draw so that no tyrant may find what he seeks.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky like the cracking of worlds.
Hours passed—perhaps less, perhaps more. When the storm finally broke, it did so in silence, the wind fading into exhaustion. The ship rocked gently again, a ghost adrift on the dark sea.
When Elena climbed back to the deck, dawn was breaking in streaks of silver. The sails hung torn, but the ship still floated. The men moved quietly, checking lines and damages.
Tomas stood near the bow, his hair wet, his face drawn but alive. When he saw her, he grinned wearily. "Well, Elena of Venice, it seems the sea has decided you may live."
She laughed softly—surprised by the sound of it. "And you as well."
He nodded toward the horizon, where faint cliffs were visible in the growing light. "Ragusa. We'll reach it by evening."
That night, as they approached the harbor, the water turned calm again. Lanterns glimmered along the distant shore, and the air smelled of rosemary and salt.
Elena stood at the bow, her heart heavy and hopeful all at once.
The compass needle pointed straight ahead, unwavering.
For the first time, she didn't feel lost.
The world was wide, yes—but so was her purpose.
She would find her father. She would finish his map.
And she would draw the truth, even if the world burned again to hide it.