The Lost Map of Karamor Island – Part I: The Gathering Storm
The year was 1872, and the port of Liverpool was alive with the restless hum of travelers, merchants, and sailors. Steamships moored beside wooden vessels, their masts cutting through the grey morning fog. Among the bustle of trade and sea spray, a single tavern stood out—the Salted Compass, a place where seafarers shared tall tales and sometimes, truth disguised as legend.
At a small wooden table near the window sat Captain Elias Warren, a man in his forties with a thick beard, weather-beaten skin, and eyes that seemed to have seen every ocean. In front of him lay an envelope sealed with dark wax and a single letter "K."
He had received it the night before—no sender, no explanation. Inside was a brief message:
> "If you wish to find what was once lost, gather your crew and come to the old lighthouse by dawn. Bring courage, for the sea remembers."
Elias had seen many strange things in his years, but something about that letter stirred the old hunger for adventure that had long been buried beneath debts and fading glory.
By the time the tavern clock struck six, three figures entered the Salted Compass—each one drawn there by a promise, a rumor, or perhaps fate.
First came Clara Holt, a sharp-eyed cartographer known in maritime circles for her unmatched skill in reading ancient maps. Her hands were always ink-stained, and she spoke little, preferring her compass to conversation. She carried a leather tube strapped to her back, containing fragments of old charts she'd collected from across the empire.
Then came Samuel Briggs, a former Royal Navy engineer. Tall and broad-shouldered, with soot-stained fingers and a grin that could calm a storm, Samuel had left the navy under questionable circumstances—some said he'd stolen plans for a revolutionary steam engine. He claimed he'd simply "borrowed" them.
Last came Thomas Reed, the youngest of them, barely twenty-three, but a natural-born linguist and scholar. He had spent years studying forgotten civilizations and lost expeditions. When he heard rumors of a map tied to the Karamor Island, a place whispered about in sailors' myths, he knew he had to be part of it.
"Captain Warren?" Clara asked, taking a seat across from him.
Elias nodded, motioning for the others to join. "You've all seen the letter?"
Thomas nodded eagerly. "A mysterious message leading us to a forgotten island. It sounds like something out of a penny novel."
Samuel chuckled. "Aye, and those novels usually end with everyone dead or mad."
"Let's hope this one doesn't," Elias replied with a grim smile.
He unfolded a piece of parchment on the table. It was an old chart of the Atlantic, but someone had drawn a faint red mark far from any known route—deep beyond the Azores.
"This," Elias said, tapping the spot, "is where I believe Karamor Island lies. A place sailors spoke of as cursed, but also filled with treasures from an ancient civilization."
Clara leaned closer, studying the ink. "This map—it's incomplete. Someone tore the coordinates off."
Elias nodded. "That's why we're meeting at the old lighthouse. Whoever sent this knows more. If this is a trap, we'll find out soon enough."
The four gathered their things and left the tavern, stepping into the biting wind that howled through the harbor. The sky was darkening with heavy clouds, and the scent of rain filled the air.
The old lighthouse stood at the edge of the rocky cliffs outside the city—abandoned for years, its lantern shattered, its walls streaked with salt. Inside, the air was cold and still.
A single lantern burned on a table in the center, beside a wooden chest covered in dust.
"Looks like we're expected," Samuel muttered.