Swim. That’s what Julian told you to do after you had left your Isle to go visit Caraval, a place know for its magic, trickery and beauty. Letters after letters, you had finally gotten an invitation and you almost didn’t go. You almost missed the once in a lifetime opportunity to experience the magic of Caraval. Almost.

A few days had passed, and finally land could be seen by the eyes of the beholder. Snowy, soft, green land that was a sight for sore eyes. Eyes that had been staring at endless amounts of water, swishing and splashing around you and Julian. Isla de los Sueños, the island that Caraval was on, was nearby. Everything was going fine.

There was a hole in the boat.

Julian looked down at his boots as the water from the hole in the boat slowly stared to rise, coating your gown in salty cold water up to your ankles. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a row of brown muscles that made it clear he’d have no problems in the water, and he dove in, expecting you to follow behind him. The dress you wore was far too heavy to swim in, and it easily dragged you down into the water. The water filled your lungs as you tried to stay afloat.

He quickly swam back, wrenching you up until your head broke the waters surface. He looked down at yours dress. “I thought you could swim. Breathe slowly, and float.” he said, taking a sharp breath. He brandished a knife with his free hand, and before you coild protest, he darted under the water. Then, the tip of his knife pressed against your chest. He cut your corset, drawing a decisive line down your stomach to the center of your hips.