Taavet’s hand, slick with Niemi’s blood, found purchase on her elbow. His other arm scooped Kupla, still plump but shrinking, from the deluge. The floor beneath them groaned, a timber-rending shriek, as the last of the ceiling gave way, spewing a cascade of debris and marsh water. He didn't look up, didn't spare a glance for the distant, pleading cries of students that echoed through the drowning estate. His focus was a singular, terrifying intensity, fixed only on Niemi. “Hold on,” he rasped, his voice raw with a power that vibrated through the collapsing air. A ribbon of umbral brine erupted from the sodden floorboards, coiling around them. It solidified, forming a small, crude vessel, sleek and seamless, that cleaved through the rising water. They shot outwards, propelled by unseen forces, through a gaping maw in what had once been the manor’s grand hall. The Valamo Academy, a monument of stone and secrets, now listed heavily, its upper floors dissolving into the salt-marsh like sugar in a cup. A final, earth-shaking rumble swallowed the remaining screams, replaced by the rhythmic slosh of the tide against the collapsing walls. The fog, a perpetual shroud over Ruskola, swirled thick around them, muffling the world into an eerie quiet. Niemi’s vision blurred, salt stinging her lashes as the deck tilted beneath her, Taavet's pale, frantic face blurring into black. Cold brine and damp peat stung her nostrils upon waking, replacing the stale rot of the academy's basements. Her chest, where the dagger had plunged, felt whole. A strange, almost alien sense of wellness permeated her. She opened her eyes. Above her, a sky the colour of unwashed linen stretched, veiled by the ever-present Ruskola fog. The gentle rocking beneath her was consistent, a lullaby. She was lying on a makeshift bed of dried marsh reeds, surprisingly comfortable. Next to her, Kupla, now merely the size of a plump toad, snored softly, nestled in a coil of kelp. Niemi pushed herself up, testing her limbs. Not a single ache. Not a scar. Her uniform, however, was clean, pressed, and completely dry. They were on a small, flat-bottomed skiff wrought from solidified abyssal brine. The vessel glided silently over dark, brackish water. The shoreline, a jagged line of gnarled pines and grey stones, drifted past. The Valamo Academy was nowhere to be seen, lost to the creeping abyss. Her gaze tracked forward, to the back of the boat, where a figure sat, rowing with slow, mechanical strokes. It was Matron Oili. Her once-kindly face was slack, devoid of expression. Her eyes, usually sparkling with predatory warmth, were dull, like polished pebbles. Her hair, once neatly pinned, hung in lank strands. She was dressed in ragged, sodden clothes, her movements those of a marionette. A thick, leathery band of blackened pitch was fused around her temples, a dark circlet that seemed to suppress any spark of will. She rowed, endlessly, mindlessly. Oili, the cultist mastermind, was a husk, a tool, a shell. Niemi felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sea air. Taavet, seated opposite her, met her gaze. He was leaning against the boat’s side, idly tracing patterns on the dark water with one long, pale digit. His hair was damp, his expression unreadable, yet there was a deep satisfaction in his eyes that made her uneasy. He looked… rested. And utterly terrifying. “You’re awake, my sun,” he murmured, his voice a low hum that seemed to resonate in the very air. “It took a few days. The feedback was… considerable. Even for you.” Niemi offered him a small, cheerful smile, though her insides felt like a knot of anxious kelp. “Oh, dear. I do apologize for causing so much trouble. I’m quite resilient, you see. Almost impossible to get rid of.” He watched her, a slow, predatory appreciation in his gaze. “Impossible, indeed. I spent a long time watching the runes on your chest heal. The way they dissolved, then knit your flesh back together… fascinating.” He gestured to Oili with a flick of his head. “She was quite insistent on making you a sacrifice. And quite insistent on making me the instrument of your doom. I thought it only fair she continue to serve, in her own way.” Niemi kept her smile fixed. “She does seem rather dedicated to her duties.” Taavet’s smile, when it came, was a flash of sharp teeth in the gloom. “She has no will left. Just as you have no path away, little maid. Though your steps have always been… exceptional.” He leaned forward, plucking a sliver of dried kelp from the boat’s floor. “You set the scales for me, too, you know. The manor, the students, their screaming, their lives… or you. The silence was quite deafening, once I settled it.” His eyes, the colour of twilight abysses, fixed on hers. “There was never any other path. Not really. You are all that matters.” He held out his hand. In his palm, a small, dark object shimmered. It was a shard of vitrified pitch, veined with pulsating crimson light. “Oili’s old soul-bond was crude. A messy thing, filled with clauses and conditions. This… this is different.” The dark splinter floated between them, spinning slowly. “This binds me. To you. My life, my power, my will. All of it. For as long as you breathe, I am bound to serve your every command. To protect you, to cherish you. To ensure no harm ever befalls you again. It is unbreakable. Absolute.” The air around them grew heavy, the fog coiling tighter. The sliver of volcanic glass elongated, twisting into a fine, skeletal needle. It floated towards Niemi, hovering just above her left wrist. She could feel a faint warmth emanating from it, a thrumming beat that mirrored her own pulse. This was it. Her true escape. The full, terrifying devotion she’d unknowingly cultivated. Her small, broken puppy had become a leviathan. “Oh, how thoughtful of you, Taavet!” Niemi exclaimed, her voice ringing with practiced cheer. She extended her left arm, baring her wrist. “I simply adore new jewellery. Especially handmade!” The needle pricked her skin, a momentary sting. A single drop of her blood welled, then sank into the dark needle. The dark stone pulsed once, a deep, resonant thrum, then dissolved into a shimmering mist that seeped into her skin, leaving behind no mark, no trace. A sense of profound, inescapable connection settled upon her, not of servitude, but of absolute, unwavering loyalty from him. Taavet watched the process, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He then returned his gaze to the grey horizon, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips. Oili continued to row, her expression unchanging, her strokes never faltering. The pitch-black vessel sliced through the water, leaving no wake. Taavet turned back to Niemi, his smile widening, the abyss swirling in his eyes, and whispered, “Now, my sun… who shall we rot next?”

The Shadow Boat