Era's excitement was short lasting- a couple of seconds. It took her that long to realise, there was no shore, no hangout and therefore no entrance.
No wonder the Kingdom had once been prosperous, it was impossible to invade.
It's design was like nothing she had seen before. On its stilts, it loomed like a behemoth on the horizon, a testament to the ingenuity and skill of a lost civillisition. Composed of 6 main islands, interconnected by a plexus of wooden streets, spiraling bridges and tiered platforms, held up by an imposing framework of thick wooden stilts, each encrusted with coral and barnacles from their time submerged in the sea. Cascading water poured from crevices and corners like a fountain, misting the surface of the water below it. The central island, taller than all the others, housed only the palace- a monolithic structure that bore a haunting beauty, cloaked in ivy, seaweed, and decay. The other islands hosted faded marketplaces, towering lighthouses, and residential quarters, their architecture a blend of practicality and opulence. The entire structure swayed slightly, as if breathing with the movement of the ocean.
It hurt Era's head to consider how the locals had once navigated themselves, and how she would. She decided the Jester's Crown would be in the palace, but before she made her way there, she would have to get onto the raised platforms which the islands lay on. Her gaze settled on the nearest wooden stilt, a narrow set of twisted rope ladders curled up its surface. They were slick with seaweed and algae, half-torn and under normal circumstances not worth the risk, but with no other way and time ticking, Era took her chances. Standing up on the boat, steadying her legs against the ripples of the waves, she leot onto the nearest stilt, finger's outstretched. Her body slammed into the structure, her feet akwardly curling to grip the surface. Her legs cut against sharp pieces of coral and urchin, but one of her hands had managed to grasp a fistful of rope. With an unflattering grunt, she swung her other arm up and hurled herself up until both feet could rest upon the first step.
Phew.
She hadn't done work like this since training in the Red Room. Once she was hired by her first agency, the physical labour all but stopped. It's an awful misconception spies need to be fit. Our whole spiel was the art of blending in, and nothing sticks out like a sore thumb more then an ultra fit, superhuman with a gun. In fact, the best of Eras colleagues had been softly-built people, with a stomach a little too big to call a pouch and one too many chins. Anyway, we've diverted off track-
Era was scaling up the rope diligently, worried with each step the ladder would snap under her weight. Since quitting, she'd put on a couple pounds- it was all the free wine.
Salty water sprayed obscured her vision, and loosened her grip against the rope, whilst the pesky wind rattled her limbs with every puff. She was glad to reach the top- unceremoniously shimmying onto the platform and resting on her back, heaving. Breath safely back in her lungs, she rolled over to scan her surroundings. She had managed to climb up onto a random street. It was lined with shops, residences and the like, it resembled any usual high street- in a horror movie. .
The places was entirely empty, the only sound- the whistling of the wind as it swept along the cracked roof tilting. The area wasn't damaged as much as neglected. It really did seem the island had withered away just like in the fable.
Chilling. No wonder Phoros had sanctioned Era retrieve the crown, he must have a particular aversion to creepiness. Hey, era empathised, but her own stomach was well enough trained to deal with a floating head or spooky creature.
The fastest route to the palace would be taking the central bridge which connected the two islands, era decided.
She rose to her feet, the creaking of the boards beneath her sounding unnervingly loud in the stillness. Each step forward felt like a breach of the silence that had long since settled over the island. She tried to ignore the thick sense of foreboding crawling up her spine and forced herself to focus on the task ahead: the Jester's Crown was waiting, and with it, Phoros's mandate.
Walking through the island took quicker then expected, it was well organised. This island must have been a purely residential area, because all roads led to the bridges which connected this island to all the rest. There must be a working island, a farming island, a recreational that people took to travel too and from home. The bridge to the palace was the longest, and the only one built at a treacherous angle.
The royal family must not have enjoyed guests.
Era tightened her arms around her, squinting against the wind as she stepped onto the bridge. It stretched before her like a broken spine, its wooden planks warped and weathered by time and salt. The structure swayed ominously with each gust, ropes creaking in protest as if warning her to turn back. But the palace loomed ahead, shrouded in mist and shadow, an immovable silhouette that dared her to continue.
Each step was deliberate. She kept her weight light, her movements slow, testing the planks before committing to them. The wind roared, fierce and unrelenting, whipping her hair into her face and biting at her exposed skin. Below, the waves crashed violently against the stilts, the sound echoing like thunder through the hollow space beneath the bridge.
The bridge groaned louder with every step, but she pushed forward, inch by inch.
They say to not look down in these moments.
The temptation was too great for Era to ignore. Her eyes flittered below- to the fatal drop between her and the angry ocean.
Bad choice.
Suddenly, with a splintering crack, one of the planks gave way beneath her foot. She yelped, arms flailing, as her leg plunged through the gap. For a moment, her heart stopped. The wind tugged at her body like greedy hands, threatening to pull her into the churning void below. Gritting her teeth, Era scrambled to pull herself up, fingers digging into the rough wood as the bridge swayed violently. Her breath came in ragged gasps, as she held on for dear life. ( literally.)
At times like these, delusions are more important than you realise. Era's next thoughts were simple: this was not how she was going out. It was much too predictable, and not an ounce bit flashy.
So, she forced her feeble heart to toughen up, and carefully hauled herself up.
The rest of the crossing felt endless, the tension growing heavier with each faltering step. But Era's thoughts remained assured. In fact, she refused to speed up based on the principle of her certainty, a belief which sailed out the window the moment she reached the other side and dropped to her knees on solid, firm ground. At least she'd never have to do that again.
The palace loomed ahead, its foreboding presence even more oppressive up close. Towering doors, scarred and weatherworn, stood sentinel beneath crumbling columns that leaned under their own weight, tangled in ivy and ribbons of seaweed. The ocean had taken her aggression out upon this structure, but even then it couldn't destroy all. The archways, though worn and chipped, still bore faint carvings—remnants of artistry now lost to time—echoes of prosperity.
Era approached cautiously, placing a hand against the heavy wooden door. It was warped and salt-stained, but when she pushed, it groaned open with an ear-splitting wail that sent a chill down her spine. The air inside was cold and stale, undisturved for centuries. The smell hit her next- the musk of decay and death.
She took a step.
Faded murals stretched across the towering stone walls, their vibrant colours long leached away. The marble floor, was cracked and littered by shards of splintered wood and remnants of furniture rotting where they had fallen. A vast chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, its jewels lost, and its metal skeleton rusting. A grand staircase spiralled up, it's destination shrouded in darkness. In fact, pools of darkness gathered in each corner, deep and staring. It was as though, the light feared to linger.
Of course, it only got creepier, Era sighed. No matter, creepy she can handle.
-------
Era awoke with a sharp intake of breath, the cold pressing against her back pulling her violently into consciousness. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed behind her eyes. She was slumped awkwardly against a door in a dim hallway, the wood rough against her shoulder blades. Her limbs felt heavy, her mouth dry.
What-where am I? she groggily thought.
She blinked rapidly, trying to focus on her surroundings, but the corridor stretched into shadow on both sides, as though it had no end. She tried to recall her last memories: the last thing she remembered was stepping inside the palace—its stale air, its suffocating silence. But now… now she was here.
What the fuck.
Her pulse quickened as confusion turned to alarm. She scrambled to her feet, her back pressed against the door as though bracing herself against some unseen force. "What happened?" she whispered hoarsely to herself. Her mind searched for answers, but the memory was a blank slate.
Era's pulse raced as she pressed herself against the warped wooden door. She took a shaky step forward, her boots scraping against the uneven stone floor. The sound echoed in the suffocating silence of the corridor, and for a moment, she froze, her eyes darting to the endless shadows stretching out before her. Something was wrong. The air felt heavier, thicker, as if the weight of the entire palace had settled on her shoulders.
Her gaze dropped, and her stomach turned cold. Etched into the stone floor, faint and uneven as though carved in desperation, were the words:
DON'T SLEEP.
The jagged edges of the lettering were unmistakable. They were hers.
Era's breath caught in her throat as she dropped to her knees, her fingers trembling as they traced the grooves. How? When had she carved this? Her heart pounded in her chest, a thunderous rhythm that drowned out any semblance of reason.
"No, no, no," she whispered, shaking her head violently. This wasn't possible. She would have remembered.
Wouldn't she?
Her stomach churned, a sickening mix of fear and confusion. The corridor suddenly seemed colder, darker, the shadows pressing closer. The edges of her vision blurred as panic clawed at her mind. She stumbled backward, her foot catching on the uneven floor. With a startled cry, she fell through the doorway behind her, the wooden frame giving way with a groan. She landed hard on her side, the breath knocked from her lungs. For a moment, she lay there, her body still and aching. The silence in the room was deafening, the darkness deeper. When she managed to lift her head, her eyes fell on the walls.
Her breath hitched.
A sprawling mural stretched across the room, its colours faded but still vibrant enough to captivate her. It was an elaborate and haunting depiction: a jester, gaunt and grinning, bowing as he was handed a crown by a regal figure—a king cloaked in gold and crimson. The king's face was inscrutable, his features obscured by cracks in the wall and centuries of decay. The jester's skeletal grin, however, remained eerily intact, his long, spindly fingers clutching the crown as if it were a prize.
Era staggered to her feet, her eyes fixed on the mural. The image gnawed at her mind.
That didn't make sense.
The longer she stared, the more the image seemed to shift, the jester's grin growing wider, almost alive. A chill ran down her spine. She reached out hesitantly, her fingertips brushing the wall. The paint was rough and cool, the texture gritty under her skin.
Then, she saw it.
Scrawled on her palm, written in smeared ink, were the words:
IT'S NOT MARLO. In blood.
Her heart skipped a beat. She stumbled back, clutching her hand as though it had burned her. The words were hers, the handwriting unmistakable. But she hadn't written them. She would've remembered.
Wouldn't she?
Her chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "What the hell is going on?" she hissed, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted back to the mural, then to her hand, and back again. Marlo. The name sent a jolt through her. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to thicken, twisting and writhing as if alive. The silence grew heavier, oppressive, a weight pressing down on her chest. The faintest whisper brushed against her ears, too soft to understand but unmistakably there. Era turned in a frantic circle, her mind spiraling. The mural, the etching, the writing on her hand—none of it added up. Time felt distorted, slippery. How long had she been here? How long had she slept?
She pressed her back against the cold wall, her fingers curling into fists as she tried to steady herself. Her eyes flicked to the mural again, drawn to the jester's haunting grin.
"It's not Marlo," she murmured, the words foreign and familiar all at once.
Her head throbbed, the ache behind her eyes intensifying.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to focus.
Panic wouldn't help her now.
She had to think, to make sense of this.
Somewhere, buried in the chaos, was the truth.