"Another."

  Zareth slammed the empty shot glass onto the sticky wooden counter. The sound was a pistol crack that cut through the tavern's roar.

  Opposite him, a mountain of a man with tattoos spiraling up his neck stared at the empty glass in disbelief. The man’s face was already flushed a deep crimson, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  "You... you finished it?" the man slurred. He pointed a trembling finger at the bottle. "That is 'Sea Devil's Urine.' It’s fermented in the bladder of a venomous urchin for ten years. It kills sailors."

  Zareth wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tastes like it, too. Pour the next one."

  The bar erupted.

  "He's a monster!"

  "Look at him go!”

  “That lad is drinking Quark under the table!"

  The burly man stared for a second longer, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. He slammed his massive hand on the table, rattling the glassware.

  "I yield! I yield!"

  The man pushed his own half-finished glass away. "By the Goddess, I’ve never seen a young pup put away poison like that. You have a stomach made of iron, lad."

  Zareth smirked. It wasn't his stomach doing the work. Inside his mind, Borealeth and Ignivaros were lapping up the potent energy of the alcohol, screaming for more fuel to burn. The liquor barely touched Zareth’s bloodstream before the dragons incinerated it.

  "I’m Victor Quark." The man extended a hand the size of a ham hock. "Captain of the Storm Striders. And I know a mainlander when I see one. No islander drinks with that kind of... desperation."

  Zareth shook the hand. "Zareth. I’m the stray Luv Stinger fished out of the ocean."

  "Ah! The sleeper!" Victor’s eyes widened. "Stinger wouldn't shut up about you. Said he caught a rare fish."

  Victor signalled the bartender for a round of water to wash down the bile. He leaned in, and his demeanor shifted from festive to serious.

  "So, Zareth. You survived the Meikai waters. Not many do. Even my fleet struggles out there."

  "Is it that bad?" Zareth asked.

  "Bad?" Victor scoffed. "Let me tell you about last week. We were escorting a convoy from the mainland. Smooth sailing until we hit the Deep Trench. The water turned black. Then, tentacles thicker than this building rose from the depths."

  Victor shuddered. "The Historian Kraken. A nasty bastard. It doesn't just sink ships; it collects them. It crushed two of my escort vessels like they were made of paper. We fired harpoons, but they bounced off its hide."

  "How did you survive?"

  "The Aegis Imprint. Our flagship has a defensive Imprint grafted into the keel. The shipwrights activated it just in time. A golden dome covered the vessel, but the impact still cracked our ribs. We limped home, but we lost the cargo."

  Zareth swirled his water. "What cargo is worth risking a Kraken attack?"

  Victor sighed and looked around the bar to ensure no one was listening too closely.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "The future of Aquaunia, or so the Governor says."

  Victor leaned his elbows on the table. "Look around, Zareth. We are self-sufficient, yes. Our farmers and fishermen work hard. But the population is growing. The island isn't getting any bigger. Food shortages are already starting. The younger generation... they feel trapped. They want to see the world, but the Weather Veil keeps us caged."

  He took a sip of water.

  "Our leader, Barov Earl Karsteen, is a good man. He sees the writing on the wall. He decided to partner with the Convent."

  Zareth’s eye narrowed. "The Convent?"

  "Aye. The Elders protested, called it heresy to deal with outsiders. But Barov ignored them. The Convent offered to build a portal here. A teleportation array. It would bypass the sea entirely. We could trade freely. No more starving. No more dying at sea."

  "And the price?" Zareth asked. "The Convent doesn't give charity."

  "Smart lad," Victor nodded. "The price is our knowledge. They want the secrets of the Ancestral Imprints. They say it will help them fight the Tumors on the mainland."

  Victor clenched his fist. "My recent voyage was to bring the Convent's engineers and the materials for the portal. But thanks to the Historian Kraken, the materials are now sitting at the bottom of the ocean. The Governor’s plan is dead in the water until we retrieve them."

  "You're going back?"

  "In a week or so. My men need to heal, and we have funerals to attend. But we have to go back. The island depends on it."

  "Interesting," Zareth muttered.

  Lil Sinbad, who had been busy stacking coasters, piped up. "Speaking of funerals and stuff, the Rite of Tides is in a few days. It's a big ceremony. I can take you if you want, Papa."

  Zareth finished his water. "Maybe. I've had enough excitement for one day."

  He stood up. The room spun slightly, but he steadied himself. "Thanks for the drink, Captain Quark."

  "Anytime, Zareth. Stay safe on dry land."

  Zareth and Lil Sinbad left the warmth of the tavern and stepped into the cool night air. They wandered through the winding streets until the dirt roads turned to wooden planks.

  They stood at the end of a long pier. The ocean churned below them, dark and restless. Moonlight danced on the whitecaps. Further out, a thick wall of fog and lightning marked the boundary of the Weather Veil.

  Sinbad sat on the edge of the dock and stirred the water with his stick. The boy said softly.

  "Grandpa Stinger used to tell me stories about a sailor named Sinbad. He sailed the seven seas and fought monsters. That's where I got my name."

  He looked up at Zareth. "Are you mad that you didn’t get to name me?"

  Zareth looked out at the horizon. "I don't care about things like that."

  He looked down at the boy. Six months ago, this child was a silent, flesh-eating infant. Now he spoke with the vocabulary of a teenager and showed emotional depth.

  'The Imprint of Knowledge,' Zareth thought. 'Just how potent is it? It accelerated his mental growth by a decade in mere months.'

  Zareth shifted his arm. A cold sensation drew his attention.

  "Damn."

  He lifted his right arm. The bandage around his forearm was soaked. He must have spilled some of the Sea Devil's Urine on himself during the contest.

  "Help me with this, brat. It's sticky."

  Zareth began to unravel the wet gauze. As the layers peeled away, he noticed something on the underside of the fabric.

  "Hold on."

  He held the bandage up to the moonlight. The cloth was covered in intricate, glowing blue markings. They weren't just stains; they were runes painted onto the fabric itself.

  "I know those!" Sinbad pointed. "Those look like Big Sis's doodles."

  "Doodles?"

  "Yeah. I snuck into her private study. She has scrolls of these designs all over her desk. She called this one the Squama Lepis Suppression Imprint."

  Zareth’s eye widened.

  "Squama Lepis..."

  He looked at his arm. The skin beneath was pale and human. There were no scales. No black veins.

  'This woman... Mishane. She didn't just wrap me in cloth. She crafted a specific magical seal to counteract the biological mutation. She analyzed Vanderznak’s work and created a counter-measure from scratch.'

  Hope, sharp and dangerous, pierced Zareth’s chest.

  'If she can suppress it with bandages and an eyepatch, she understands the nature of the curse. That means... she might be able to reverse it.'

  He clenched his fist. 'I have to talk to her. With enough study, she could cure me completely.'

  SCREEEECH!

  A spike of pain drove itself into his skull like a railroad spike.

  Zareth staggered and gripped his head.

  "NO!"

  The voices in his mind erupted.

  Ignivaros roared, "Do not dare! You ungrateful worm! You want to return to being weak? We are gods!"

  Borealeth hissed. "That woman is a threat. She binds us. She stifles our glory. We must burn her. We must eat her Imprints and tear her throat out!"

  "Destroy her!" Ignivaros bellowed. "Before she destroys us!"

  Zareth groaned and leaned against a piling. The dragons were thrashing against the mental cage, terrified of the cure Zareth so desperately wanted.

  "Papa?" Sinbad stood up, alarmed. "What's wrong? Your face is pale."

  Zareth took a ragged breath. He forced the dragons back into the dark corners of his mind.

  "It's nothing," Zareth lied, straightening up. "Just a bit of a hangover. Let's go home. I’m feeling tired."