Amar rode in the prow of the boat, bound with jagged ropes and chained by her neck to the rail. Oars creaked and groaned as the long boat slid across the fog-shrouded waters, still as glass in the fallow light of morning. The clouds above were heavy with rain and the light of the sun only came down as a ghostly radiance, like a memory of spring.
All around them rocks jutted from the waters of the bay, and the rowers turned deftly to evade them, she saw how every man watched the surface sharp and wary, looking for the slightest disturbance. These waters were avoided for a reason, and they were all afraid. There were eight men in the boat, each with their hands set to the rough oars. And then there was Amar, daughter of a King and bound for the shunned isle ahead, and death.
The island emerged from the mist like a shadow, first the low, rocky shore, the hills green and dark and wet. The stones were heavy with moss right down to the waterline, and as she looked, Amar saw the spiral designs etched into the rocks, half-hidden by the thick growth. Once this island had been a place for men, and their worship of ancient gods now long forgotten. Now it was a place for death.