CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
"Not all maps lead you home. Some were drawn to trap you."
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The dawn broke slow and gray, but none of them could tell if it was truly morning. The sky had turned an unnatural shade—like ash dissolved into light—muted, dull, and watchful.
Kairo sat by the embers of their fire, turning the compass over in his palm. It spun without pattern, whirling like a child's toy. No magnetic pull. No true north. Just motion for motion's sake.
Ember stirred beside him. Her eyes looked hollow from sleep, or perhaps dreams. "Still spinning?"
He nodded.
Lewin approached from the trees, carrying his journal. "It's not just the compass. Look."
He laid the journal open. The pages that had held yesterday's thoughts were now blank—words erased or never written at all. Some were scribbled over with unfamiliar symbols. Others bled into each other, creating an unreadable mess of ink swirls.
Kairo frowned. "But I saw you write—"
"I did write," Lewin said sharply, then lowered his voice. "This island... it's not just alive. It's rewriting us."
They were silent for a moment, watching the fire sputter.
Then came the hum.
Soft at first, like the vibration of an old machine warming up, but growing with each breath of wind. The trees swayed, not in response to the breeze—but in sync with the sound. A low, unearthly frequency, too regular to be natural.
"Do you hear it?" Ember whispered.
Kairo stood, following the sound. "It's coming from the lagoon."
---
They crossed the jungle warily, machetes in hand, but the island seemed calmer now—as if it had drained its fury in the night. Yet, the silence was more terrifying than noise.
The compass in Kairo's hand began vibrating.
They paused near a strange outcrop where stone met root in a spiraled pattern, and Kairo held the compass up.
It spun faster.
"Wait…" Lewin muttered, pulling a second compass from his bag. One they hadn't touched since the start of the trip. He placed it on the ground.
It too began to spin.
Then stop.
Pointing due east.
Kairo checked his. Still spinning madly.
Lewin raised a brow. "Yours is cursed. Mine still listens."
"What do you mean cursed?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he turned eastward. "Let's follow this direction. Maybe something—some truth—lies that way."
---
Hours passed.
Or what they assumed were hours. Time was no longer linear here. Shadows didn't move predictably. The sun—if it could still be called that—hovered like a pale eye watching through the branches.
They came upon a clearing.
Half-buried in the moss was a dome-like structure made of cracked bronze and charred glass. A shipwreck? No. It looked too ancient. Kairo brushed moss aside and found writing carved into the metal:
> To those who sought control, the island gave them confusion. Let none leave with direction in their hands.
"Navigation chamber," Lewin muttered. "Or what's left of it."
The inside was circular, walls etched with constellations and what looked like cartographic lines—except they twisted in impossible ways. Some maps overlapped. Some rotated as they stared. It was a maze made of stars and time.
Ember traced one of the lines. Her finger trembled. "This one leads… nowhere. It loops back."
"They all do," Kairo said grimly. "That's the curse."
---
Later that evening, back at camp, they tested every compass again.
None worked now.
Even Lewin's had succumbed.
They sat in uneasy silence until Ember asked, "Why this punishment? Why the compasses?"
Kairo, still staring at the cursed one in his hand, answered slowly. "The island doesn't want us to leave. Or worse… it wants us to believe we can, only to break us in the trying."
Lewin nodded. "There's something else. I've read of cursed objects—artifacts tied to intention. If this compass is bound to you, Kairo… then it's feeding off your desire to escape. That's what powers it now."
Kairo tossed it aside, frustrated. "Then what? Do we walk blind?"
"No," Lewin said. "We follow something stronger than a compass. Memory. Intuition. The island may bend tools, but it can't fully erase what we carry inside."
Ember stared into the fire. "I saw Nara again. In a reflection. She didn't speak. Just… watched. But it felt like she was warning me. Not all paths forward are progress."
Kairo looked back into the trees, heart pounding. The jungle had grown thicker. Denser. It would swallow their path soon.
But something in his chest stirred—not fear.
Resolve.
He turned back to the others.
"We move at first light. Not where the compass points. Not where the maps lie. We find where she is. Where memory calls us."
And as the wind picked up again, bringing with it the scent of brine and ash, Kairo didn't realize the cursed compass hadn't stopped spinning.
It was no longer pointing nowhere.
It was pointing back—toward the ruins.
Toward the heart.
Toward a past long buried that refused to stay quiet.
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