The cavern trembled as Ivan and Lysander emerged from the sunken caves, the Prime Tome a leaden weight in Ivan’s satchel. Dawn—or whatever passed for dawn in this realm—painted the sky in bruise-purple hues. The air reeked of salt and sulfur, a reminder that the ocean here was less a body of water and more a living, malevolent entity.
Lysander adjusted his goggles, squinting at the rusted compass. “The Nautilus Key lies east. Through the Drowned Marshes and into the Leviathan’s Maw. Cheery name, right?”
Ivan rubbed his temples, the Tome’s whispers still gnawing at the edges of his mind. “Let me guess: it’s worse than it sounds.”
“Oh, it’s a paradise,” Lysander drawled. “If your idea of paradise includes quicksand made of teeth and mangrove trees that scream.”
---
The marshes sprawled before them, a labyrinth of brackish pools and skeletal trees draped in bioluminescent moss. Ivan’s boots sank into the muck with each step, the ground emitting wet, sucking noises. Strange lights flickered in the distance, and the air hummed with insectoid chirps that felt… deliberate.
“Don’t touch the water,” Lysander warned, prodding a half-submerged skull with his boot. “The things in there don’t like visitors.”
“Noted,” Ivan said, eyeing a ripple in the nearest pool. “Any other—”
A guttural roar cut him off. Something massive surged from the water—a hulking creature with slimy, amphibious skin and a mouth ringed by rows of serrated teeth. Its webbed claws slashed at Ivan, who barely dodged.
“Marshling!” Lysander yelled, hurling a dagger. The blade lodged in the creature’s throat, black ichor spraying. It collapsed, twitching.
Ivan stared, heart racing. “What. The. Hell.”
“Deep One spawn,” Lysander said, retrieving his dagger. “The marshes are their nursery. And we’re the babysitters.”
---
By nightfall, the Tome’s whispers crescendoed into a migraine. Visions assaulted Ivan: Barnacle Dude standing atop a ziggurat, chanting as tentacles burst from sacrificial victims; the Veil of Dreamless Sleep dissolving into ash; his own hands, blackened and clawed, clutching the Nautilus Key.
*You are a thread in the Tapestry,* Q’alath’s voice echoed. *Pull too hard, and you will unravel.*
“Hey.” Lysander snapped his fingers, pulling Ivan from the trance. “Stay with me, kid. That thing’s eating your brain.”
Ivan wiped sweat from his brow. “It’s showing me… the Key. The cult’s close. They’re accelerating the ritual.”
Lysander’s jaw tightened. “Then we move faster. But first—” He tossed Ivan a canteen. “Drink. It’ll dull the Tome’s voice.”
The liquid burned—like vodka infused with crushed nettles. Ivan coughed. “What *is* this?”
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“Marsh-root extract. Side effects include temporary blindness and existential despair. But it’ll keep you sane. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Ivan repeated flatly.
---
They camped in the hollow of a petrified tree, its trunk etched with faded warnings in R’lyehian. Lysander kept watch while Ivan fought to stay awake, the extract fogging his thoughts.
A rustle in the undergrowth. Ivan tensed, but it was only a scavenger—a six-legged rodent with too many eyes. He relaxed, then froze.
Lysander stood at the edge of the firelight, speaking low into a tarnished silver locket. “…don’t have much time. He’s stronger than the others. But I’ll deliver him. Just… keep her safe.”
*Deliver him?* Ivan’s blood turned to ice.
He feigned sleep as Lysander returned. The scholar’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before he settled into fitful rest.
---
At dawn, the marshes gave way to a jagged coastline. A colossal sea arch loomed ahead, its curve resembling the gaping maw of a stone leviathan. Waves crashed against its base, spewing foam tinged green with phosphorescence.
“The temple’s inside,” Lysander said, tightening his bandolier of explosives. “Tides are low. We’ve got an hour before it floods.”
Ivan eyed the arch. “What’s the catch?”
“The temple’s guarded by the Drowned Choir. Cultists who… harmonize with the abyss. Their song liquifies brains.”
“So earplugs?”
“Earplugs won’t save you. But *this* might.” Lysander handed him a vial of murky liquid. “Hallucinogens. Mess with your perception enough to counter the melody. Side effects include… well, you’ll see.”
Ivan pocketed the vial. “You’re full of *great* ideas.”
---
The temple’s interior was a cathedral of coral and bone. Pillars carved with leviathans supported a vaulted ceiling, where bioluminescent jellyfish drifted like living chandeliers. At the far end, an altar held the Nautilus Key—a spiral artifact glowing with inner light.
Twenty robed figures stood in a semicircle, their hoods thrown back to reveal faces fused with barnacles and starfish. They began to chant, their voices merging into a melody that vibrated in Ivan’s teeth.
*Drink,* Lysander mouthed.
Ivan downed the vial. The world kaleidoscoped—colors bleeding, sounds warping. The Choir’s song became a cacophony of screeches, bearable but nauseating.
“Go!” Lysander shoved him toward the altar. “I’ll distract them!”
Ivan sprinted, legs wobbling as the hallucinogens twisted the floor into a living wave. The Choir turned, their song sharpening. One lunged, but Ivan ducked, grabbing a coral shard to parry the next attack.
*The Key. Just reach the Key.*
A cultist tackled him. Ivan slammed his elbow into its throat, the barnacles crunching under the blow. He scrambled up, fingers brushing the Key’s warm surface—
A dagger pressed to his spine.
“Clever little thread,” Barnacle Dude purred, stepping from the shadows. “But this tapestry ends here.”
---
Lysander appeared behind Barnacle Dude, blade raised. Ivan’s breath hitched—*is he helping me or—*
The scholar’s knife plunged into Barnacle Dude’s shoulder, not Ivan. The cultist hissed, whirling to face his new foe. “Traitor!”
“Takes one to know one,” Lysander spat.
Ivan seized the Key. Its light flared, searing his palm. The temple shook, cracks splintering the walls as seawater geysered from the floor.
“Run!” Lysander roared, hurling a bomb into the Choir.
They fled as the temple collapsed, the Key’s glow guiding them through the chaos. Behind them, Barnacle Dude’s laughter echoed, unhinged and venomous.
“This isn’t over, little thread!”
---
On a cliff overlooking the ruins, Ivan clutched the Key, his hand blistered. Lysander slumped beside him, a gash bleeding across his ribs.
“You saved me,” Ivan said. “Why?”
Lysander opened the locket, revealing the photo of the woman and child. “My daughter. The cult took her. Said they’d return her if I delivered you.” His voice broke. “But I couldn’t. Not after…”
Ivan’s anger cooled. “We’ll get her back. Together.”
Lysander nodded, though his eyes held doubt.
As they trudged onward, the Key pulsed in rhythm with the Tome. Ivan’s vision blurred—a glimpse of the Veil of Dreamless Sleep, floating in a starless void. And beside it, the Mi-Go Scout, its fungal claws outstretched.
*The next artifact,* Ivan realized. *And the next nightmare.*
