You pad silently across the plank, breath slow, knife cold in your fist. The cleat gives with a muffled scrape when you slide the blade under the loop; the rope loosens, slips through your fingers, and the skiff shudders free with a soft scrape of wood on wood. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath—the lantern light trembles as the skiff swings on the slack.
A splash as the bow bumps the piling; the current takes it away from the dock, earning a sharp curse from the broad man. He turns at once, pipe clattering to the planks, eyes narrowing toward you. From the boathouse, the smaller shadow moves, blocking the doorway like a dark question.
Down the causeway, you can hear Mr Robinson’s boots on the boards—Dorothy’s whisper becomes a small cry of alarm. The skiff drifts toward a small lee by the reeds; if you can hold it, they will be able to leap aboard. If you hesitate, the boat could swing out into open water and be gone.
You plant your feet and wrap both hands around the line, bracing against the pier as the skiff bumps and strains. Mr Robinson lunges, boots scrabbling on the planks—he catches the gunwale and drops into the bow. Dorothy hesitates, fingers white on the rope, then scrambles in behind him with a stifled cry; for a second, the skiff rides low under their weight.
The broad man snarls, takes two long steps toward you, and reaches for the rope. The pipe falls from his mouth with a clatter; his hand is close enough to graze your knuckles. From the boathouse, a low, wet groan rises—something shambles into the lantern light, a crooked shape that smells of rot and salt. The pier narrows; you can feel the tide tugging at the boat and your own pulse.
You drive the knife home and shout. The broad man staggers—blood dark on his lip—and stumbles back from the pier’s edge, eyes wild. It seems you have them; then the shambling thing lifts its head and a thin, sickly light blooms where the broad man’s thumb presses a tiny carved token. A glyph crawls across the creature’s skull like ink on water.
Mr Robinson scrambles for the oars. Dorothy fumbles in her satchel and clutches a small iron disk; runes along its rim begin to glow faintly in her palm. The skiff rocks as the tide tugs; the broad man recovers and lunges forward, but hesitates as if something holds him in place—perhaps the token is binding him too.
Your shoulder burns as you shove; the skiff shudders free with a wet scrape and a gasp of wood. Mr Robinson scrambles to the oars, and you hurl yourself down into the stern, the tide already pulling you from the pier. The broad man stands frozen, token held tight, the glyph crawling over the shambling thing’s brow but failing to seize it wholly—its joints clack like dry bone, and it lurches toward the water’s edge, halted only by the pull of the stones beneath its feet.
Dorothy crouches, breathless, the iron disk warm in her palm; the lantern, guttering on the pier, sputters and dies. Ahead, the marsh melts into a black plane; to starboard, a faint glimmer suggests a channel leading out to the open sea, while to port, the broken line of cliffs promises shelter and the distant silhouette of a ruined boathouse. Behind you, the broad man raises his voice in a ragged curse, and something somewhere—wind or voice—answers with a long, low keening.
You shout for her to use it. Dorothy presses the iron disk flat to the skiff’s wet planks and speaks—one small, urgent syllable. The runes along its rim flare white-blue, and a pure, bell-like chord blossoms into the air. The sound shivers the reeds; it tastes of ozone and old sea salt.
A ribbon of light lashes across the water toward the pier. Where it touches the shambling thing, the crawling glyph on its skull peels away like old varnish; the creature keens once, joints unhinge, and it collapses into a sodden heap, limbs folding like torn cloth. The broad man stumbles backwards, clutching the carved token as if it burns; the token cracks and sparks, a blackened sliver falling from his fingers into the mud with a soft plunk.
Mr Robinson exhales a wavering, amazed laugh. Dorothy sinks back on her heels, the disk cooling in her palm; her face is pale, sweat-slick, and she breaths hard as if something invisible pulled wind from her. Behind you, the pier is quiet except for the slow drip of water and the hiss of the dying light. The tide still tugs the skiff; the channel to the sea yawns dark ahead, the ruined boathouse and cliffs lie to either side, and the broad man is on his knees, token broken at his feet.
You plunge your hand into the cold, smelly mud and feel the token’s shape before you see it—hard, rounded, and warm despite the muck. You lift it free; water runs off a fractured disk of dark wood threaded with silver filigree. The hairline crack glows faintly at the break, then dies to a dull, ember-red pulse under your palm.
A whisper—no, a memory—slides along your fingertips: salt on your tongue, the hollow echo of a bell, a voice intoning a single word you almost recognise and then lose. Your fingers tingle; the token hums like a throat clearing and becomes only heavy in your hand.
The broad man scrabbles, eyes wide. “No—please,” he rasps. “You don’t know what you’ve taken.” His fingers claw uselessly at the mud between you. Dorothy draws a breath so sharp it makes her shoulders shake. Mr Robinson says nothing; he simply watches you, every muscle coiled.
