The skiff was never meant for this kind of water.
It rode low in the shallows, every wave slapping its hull with the dull, wet sound of palm against flesh. Ira kept the oars moving in long, even strokes, trying not to think about the weight of the sea beneath him. The Midreach didn't drown people by pulling them under — it pulled them sideways.
The locals called them crosscurrents, but they weren't like any current Ira had known. They ran at strange angles, invisible until they had you drifting toward a reef or a rusted ship's skeleton. Once you were in one, you could row until your muscles screamed and still find yourself sliding away from your goal.
It was late morning when he reached the first of the sunken markers — a toppled stone pillar, its surface carved with the same curling linework he'd seen on the map fragment. He ran his fingers over it, the grooves deep enough to hide a coin.
"Still here," he muttered to himself. "Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
Beyond it, the sea changed color.
The clear blue gave way to a green haze, darker and thicker, the light struggling to reach whatever lay below. Shapes moved under the surface — shadows of broken towers and walls leaning at impossible angles. He thought he saw an archway, its keystone still in place, before a deeper swell rolled over it and blotted it from sight.
The first current hit him just after noon.
One moment, the skiff was tracking neatly toward the jagged silhouette of the spire. The next, the bow swung hard to port, the oars dragging uselessly in the water.
"Oh no you don't," Ira growled, leaning into the stroke. His shoulders burned, and salt stung his eyes. The spire ahead seemed to be drifting sideways with every pull, like it was deliberately sliding out of reach.
"Not going to lose me that easy."
The current fought like something alive, twisting the boat so he had to row harder on one side. He stopped once, panting, and let the skiff drift. Beneath the slap of waves and his own breathing, there was a sound — faint, rhythmic, almost like breathing. The sea moving in and out of some vast hollow space.
"That's not normal," he said under his breath. "Not normal at all."
By the time the current released him, the sun was hanging low in the west, staining the water orange. His hands were raw, the oar handles slick with salt and blood. The skiff rocked gently as the tide carried him closer to the spire.
From this distance, the Drowned City no longer looked like a ruin. It looked like a crown cast into the shallows, each jagged point reaching for the sky. The central spire was the tallest, its upper half a patchwork of collapsed balconies and weathered stone. A bell hung in a broken arch near the top, swaying in the wind though no rope moved it.
"Not welcoming, are you?" Ira murmured.
He let the oars rest and took out his brass compass. The needle shivered, pointing not north but… elsewhere. Directly at the spire.
His father's coordinates hadn't been wrong.
The tide was with him now, pushing him forward in slow, steady surges. The green water deepened around him, hiding the shapes beneath. The breathing sound returned, louder now, in sync with the swells.
It felt less like the sea drawing him in and more like the city itself was pulling.
He thought briefly of turning back. He could still row to Lamsport, sell the fragment to some other fool, and let them vanish chasing ghosts.
But the Swap was coming. In nine days, the world would rearrange itself, and everything that was familiar would scatter like sand in a storm. If the vault was real, if the map inside truly showed what came after, then no tide, no current, no half-drowned city could keep him from it.
"Alright," he said, setting his hands back on the oars. "Let's see what you're hiding."
The skiff slid forward, toward the black shadow at the spire's base — the beginning of the climb.