Winter does not forgive. Without whale oil, the village is a tomb of ice. I then remembered my grandfather’s fever dreams in his logbook: an island where the beasts are so vast their oil could ignite the world for a decade.

In the depths of his old chest, a yellowed note warns:

'Many will seek the prize, but the sea only accepts those who know how to observe. At the rocky pier, ten ships await. Only one has the soul required to cross the abyss.'

The logbook’s clue: