Ellie shivered as the first rays of sunlight barely pierced through the morning fog on the Island of Emberfall. Her crossbody bag felt heavy against her hip as she stood on the dock; the old wood beneath her boots felt spongy. The humidity made every breath feel like drinking soup.

"Take these, lass." Finnegan extended a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. "Dried fish, hardtack, and some of that seaweed brew you fancy."

Ellie patted her bag. "I've packed my own supplies, but thanks."

"Aye, but an extra bite never hurt anyone where you're heading." He gazed past her toward the distant shoreline where Thornveil Wilds waited, a dark smudge against the horizon. "Those waters . . . they're not natural. Three ships lost last moon alone."

"I remember." Ellie's hand went to her neck where her dragon pendant used to rest—now around Pryce's neck, if he still wore it. "The Wavecutter went down near the southern point. They said the water just . . . opened up and swallowed her whole."

"And that's not the worst of it." Finnegan's said. "Something's stirring out there. The waters remember old magic, and they don't take kindly to visitors."

"The waters might not take kindly to visitors," Ellie said, checking the supplies in the small skiff's hold, "but they remember my bloodline. Dragon blood runs in these veins, thin as it might be."

"It's not just the waters I'm worried about, lass. That cave where you lost the compass . . ." Finnegan shook his head. "Aurathorn still claims those lands."

A memory flashed through Ellie's mind—the cave's darkness, the sound of massive wings, the desperate scramble through underground tunnels with the dragon's roar shaking loose stones from the ceiling. She'd dropped the Seafarer's Sigil there, its blue glow disappearing into the rushing waters of an underground river.

"I don't have a choice. My son is out there, being led astray by silver-tongued Dragonkin. Every moment I waste—"

"Is a moment he slips further from reach," Finnegan finished. He pressed the bundle of supplies into her hands. "At least take these."

Ellie tucked the bundle into her bag. "Thank you, old friend."

She untied the skiff and pushed off from the dock, Finnegan's voice carried across the water.

"Watch for the sunken ships, lass! They mark the safe channels—where there's room for one ship to sink, there's room for another to sail!"

Ellie adjusted the sail, catching the breeze. The canvas snapped taut, propelling the skiff away from the Island of Emberfall and toward the forbidding shoreline of Thornveil Wilds. Somewhere in that darkness lay the compass that could lead her to Pryce.

The mist thickened as Ellie sailed, transforming the waters into an alien seascape. Through gaps in the fog, she caught glimpses of masts reaching up from the depths like grasping fingers—the graveyard of ships that had misjudged these treacherous channels.

"Keep the wreck of the Stormchaser to port," she said, recalling grandpa Joe's teachings. "Then three lengths past the Wavecutter's crow's nest . . ." Her voice trailed off as a dark shape loomed in the mist—the twisted remains of a merchant vessel, its hull split open like a rotten fruit.

A flash of memory struck her: five-year-old Pryce, sitting on her lap as she mended nets, asking about the ships that never came home. "But why do they sail here if it's dangerous, Mama?"

"Because sometimes," she'd answered, "the most important journeys are also the most dangerous."

The skiff scraped against something underwater, jolting her back to the present. Ellie's hands flew to the mainsheet, adjusting the sail's tension as she steered around a partially submerged figurehead—a woman with empty eyes and algae-draped hair.

The shoreline of Thornveil Wilds emerged from the mist like a wall of darkness. Ancient trees loomed overhead, their branches twisting together to block out the strengthening daylight. The air grew colder, heavy with the scent of something else—something old.

Ellie dropped the anchor over the bow, letting the rope play out until it caught. The skiff settled into position several yards from the pebbly shore. She released the dinghy tied to the stern, lowering herself into the smaller craft. The dragon blood in her veins, diluted though it was, might be enough to power the compass—if she could find it. But first, she needed to reach that cave.

The dinghy's bottom scraped against the stones. As Ellie stepped onto the shore, the pebbles shifted beneath her feet.

A distant roar echoed from the mountains, making the air itself tremble.

"Aurathorn." Ellie instinctively crouched lower. "Still guarding your territory, old one?"

The cave's entrance should be just ahead, hidden behind a curtain of moss. That's where she'd lost the compass, fleeing from Aurathorn. That's where it had fallen into the underground river, disappearing into the darkness.

Ellie paused at the cave's entrance. The moss parted like a beaded curtain as she entered the cave. The temperature dropped sharply, her breath forming clouds in the air. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, ancient runes flickered to life along the cave walls—symbols visible only to those with dragon blood flowing through their veins.

"The old stories are true."

A pulling sensation grew stronger, as if the compass itself called out to her, beckoning her forward into the depths of the cave.

The runes along the cave walls glowed dimly, their ancient magic responding to Ellie's presence. "Come on, show me the way."

The cave remained silent except for the steady plip-plip of water dripping from the mineral-encrusted ceiling. Then she felt it—a warm pulse, like a heartbeat. The runes brightened, creating a path forward.

"Problems, dearie?"

Ellie whirled around, knife raised. There, perched on a boulder she could have sworn wasn't there a moment ago, sat a familiar figure. His patchwork cloak seemed to catch light that didn't exist, and a mischievous grin spread across his face.

"Pipwhistle," she said, lowering the knife. "Still appearing where you're least expected, I see."

The Quibnocket laughed. "Lost something shiny, did we? Again?" He produced a copper coin from thin air, making it dance across his knuckles. "Such a habit you have, dropping precious things in precarious places."

"I don't have time for games, Pip. My son—"

"Ah yes, young master Pryce." Pipwhistle's expression grew serious. "Flying off with dragons and danger, just like his mother. Though you at least had the courtesy to keep your feet on the ground."

He hopped down from the boulder, his movements fluid as water. "Been watching your progress, I have. Quite the show—blood magic in Thornveil Wilds!" He clucked his tongue. "Might as well ring a dinner bell for all the nasties lurking about."

A distant roar emphasized his point. Loose stones rattled on the cave floor.

"Aurathorn grows restless," Pipwhistle whispered. "And he's not the only one interested in your little treasure hunt. The Dragonkin have been sniffing about too, yes they have. Left their marks all over." He gestured to a wall where Ellie now noticed strange symbols carved into the stone.

"The compass. Do you know where it is?"

"Know where it is? Oh, my dear . . ." He reached into his cloak. "Sometimes the safest place for a treasure is in the hands of a thief."

Ellie gasped as Pipwhistle withdrew the Seafarer's Sigil from his cloak. The compass looked exactly as she remembered—tarnished bronze worked in sinuous, dragon-shaped designs, its central capsule dormant and dark.

"You've had it all this time?" Ellie stepped forward, then stopped as Pipwhistle danced backward, wagging his finger.

"Kept it safe, I did! Safer than the bottom of a river, wouldn't you say?" His laugh tinkled through the cave. "Though I must admit, watching you was quite entertaining.

Another roar shook the cave, close enough now that small stones rained from the ceiling. Pipwhistle glanced up, his smile dimming slightly.

"Big fellow's getting closer," he said. "And he's not alone. Can you feel them?" He cocked his head. "The Dragonkin scouts are moving through the trees like shadows. They know what you seek."

"Then help me, Pip. You obviously know something I don't."

"Don't I always?" He flourished his hands, and suddenly the air was filled with dancing lights—illusions of the compass spinning and multiplying until the cave looked like a starlit sky. "Dragon blood alone won't wake it, not anymore. The old magics are fading, diluting." The lights merged into a single point. "But there are . . . other ways."

"What do you mean?"

"Magic is like soup, dearie. Sometimes you need to add a little spice." He reached into his cloak again and pulled out a small vial filled with a silver liquid. "Moonflower dew, caught at midnight. Mixed with dragon blood . . ." His grin widened. "Well, that might just be potent enough to point you toward your wayward fledgling."

The cave trembled again. Closer. Much closer.

"Time grows short," Pipwhistle said, suddenly businesslike. "What say you, Ellie Harper-Green? Ready to make some real magic?"

"Do it."

Pipwhistle's movements became precise, almost reverent—so different from his usual theatrical flourishes. He uncorked the vial with his teeth, then held the compass over her palm.

"Three drops of blood," he said, picking her finger before she knew what happened. "Then three drops of dew. The old way. The true way."

As Ellie's blood dripped onto the compass, the carved dragon designs seemed to twist. The third drop hit the central capsule, and a faint blue glow sparked to life.

Pipwhistle added the Moonflower dew with expert precision. Each silver drop merged with her blood, creating swirls of luminescent blue.

A bone-shaking roar split the air—so close now that dust and pebbles cascaded from the cave ceiling. Pipwhistle's eyes darted to the entrance.

"Company's coming," he said. "Lots of company. Best hurry this along." He grabbed Ellie's bleeding finger and pressed it against the compass face. "Now, speak your blood's truth. Call to your son."

"I don't know the words—"

"Your blood knows. Let it speak!"

The compass grew warm under her palm. Words rose to her lips, words she somehow knew but had never learned.

"By blood and bone, by scale and sky," she heard herself say, "show me the path to my own."

The compass flared with brilliant blue light. The carved dragon coiled around its edge came alive, its tail sweeping around to point northeast.

"There!" Pipwhistle released her hand and backed away. "Follow that bearing, and you'll find your boy. But Ellie . . ." His smile faded completely. "What awaits you there . . . it's not just your son you'll have to save."

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, Pipwhistle cocked his head, listening. "They're here." He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the cave was filled with identical copies of Ellie and himself—perfect illusions scattering in different directions. "Run, dearie. I'll keep our guests entertained."

"Pip—"

"GO!"

Ellie clutched the compass and ran. Behind her, she heard Pipwhistle's musical laughter, followed by shouts of confusion from multiple voices—Dragonkin scouts, no doubt, trying to distinguish reality from illusion.

A massive shadow passed over the cave entrance—Aurathorn, descending. The dragon's roar shook the very ground, but Ellie didn't stop. She burst out of the cave into weak daylight, her feet finding the path back to the shore more by instinct than sight.

The compass burned against her palm, its blue light steady and strong.

She reached the shore and shoved the dinghy into the water and leaped in. When safely in the skiff, the current caught her, pulling her away from shore just as a terrifying screech split the air. Through the mist, she glimpsed Aurathorn landing at the cave entrance, massive wings stirring the fog into phantasmal shapes.

But the dragon didn't pursue. As Ellie finally sailed away, she heard Pipwhistle's voice carried on the wind: "Safe journeys, dearie! And remember—when the time comes, trust the blood!"

The words faded, leaving Ellie alone with the glowing compass. She set her course northeast, toward Drakemere Island.