The wooden vessel creaked and groaned against the merciless waves that crashed against its hull. Pelting rain drove sideways across the deck, each droplet feeling like a tiny spear against exposed skin. The small trading vessel had not been designed for such treacherous waters, but desperation drove its occupants forward into the heart of the tempest.
Acastus clutched his daughter's frail body against his chest, sheltering her from the worst of the elements with his own body. Eight summers had passed since Galea's birth, but she had always been small for her age, seeming more like a child of five or six. Now, with illness ravaging her tiny frame, she seemed to shrink further with each passing day.
"Hold, my little flower. Just hold," Acastus whispered into her ear, though his words were torn away by the howling wind. "The island awaits us."
Galea's eyes fluttered open, glazed with fever. Her once-olive skin had turned ashen, marked with the telltale reddish-purple splotches that had appeared three days prior. The spots had first manifested on her arms, then spread rapidly across her chest and face. The village healer had backed away in horror, making signs to ward off evil.
"Death blooms," the old woman had whispered. "Nothing to be done."
Acastus had seen this affliction twice before in his thirty-five years. Once when he was a boy, it had taken his younger brother. Then five summers ago, it had swept through a neighboring village, claiming nearly all the children and many adults. No one survived once the spots appeared.
"Captain!" Acastus called out, his voice barely audible over the storm. "How much farther?"
The captain, a grizzled man named Phrontes with skin like weathered leather, squinted into the darkness. His four crewmen worked frantically to keep the vessel from capsizing, using primitive wooden bailers to scoop water from the deck.
"We're blind in this tempest!" Phrontes shouted back. "The cursed island hides itself! Always surrounded by storms, if the tales are true!"
Acastus clutched Galea tighter. The journey had already cost him everything. His home, sold. His fishing boat, traded. His wife's jewelry, bartered away. All to secure passage to a place many believed was merely a drunken sailor's fantasy.
Atlantea. Or Atlantis, as others called it.
An island hidden from the world by perpetual storms where miracles occurred. Where sickness vanished upon touching its shores. Where men and women returned changed, stronger, some with strange new abilities.
"Look there!" one of the sailors cried, pointing frantically into the darkness.
For a moment, the rain parted like a curtain, and Acastus caught a glimpse of something impossible—a faint blue glow on the horizon, pulsing with unnatural light.
"The sacred fires of Atlantea!" Phrontes shouted, a mix of triumph and terror in his voice. "The tales spoke true!"
Hope surged in Acastus's chest, but it was short-lived. A massive wave, taller than three men, rose from the churning sea directly ahead. There was no time to turn the vessel.
"HOLD FAST!" the captain screamed.
The wave crashed down upon them with the fury of an angry god. Wood splintered. Men screamed. Acastus felt himself lifted and thrown, as if he were nothing more than a child's doll. In that terrible moment, his only thought was for Galea. He clutched her tighter, twisting his body so that he would absorb the impact when they hit the water.
The cold sea engulfed them, and darkness followed.
Acastus fought against the powerful currents, kicking desperately toward what he hoped was the surface. His lungs burned. His limbs ached. But his grip on Galea never weakened.
Breaking the surface, he gasped for air, searching frantically for any sign of the ship or its crew. Nothing remained but scattered debris. The storm continued to rage around them, but in the distance, that strange blue glow still pulsed, like a beacon.
"Hold on, little flower," he gasped, adjusting his grip to keep Galea's face above water. She was unconscious now, her breathing shallow. "We're close. So close."
Acastus had been a fisherman his entire life. His arms were strong from years of pulling nets, his body accustomed to the sea's treachery. Using every bit of strength he possessed, he began to swim toward the light, kicking with powerful strokes while keeping his daughter secure with one arm.
The distance seemed impossible. Multiple times, waves crashed over them, driving them beneath the surface. Each time, Acastus fought his way back up, sputtering and gasping, always making sure Galea could breathe.
His strength began to fail as the night wore on. The cold seeped into his bones. His muscles screamed in protest. Still, he swam.
"Just... a little... farther," he panted, though he could no longer be certain they were making progress.
Then, miraculously, he felt something beneath his feet. Sand. A shallow seabed. With renewed energy, he pushed forward until, at last, his feet found purchase. Staggering, nearly falling with each step, he dragged himself and Galea toward the shoreline.
The blue glow was stronger now, seeming to emanate from the very sand itself. Strange, luminescent patterns pulsed along the beach, unlike anything Acastus had ever seen.
"We made it, Galea," he whispered, dropping to his knees at the edge of the tide. "We made it to Atlantis."
The last of his strength gone, Acastus collapsed onto the eerily glowing sand. His final conscious thought was a prayer to whatever gods ruled this strange place—save her.
Darkness claimed him.