Not a wreck. A pristine, 18th-century galleon. The Queensnake . Her wood is dark as oil, and her sails are folded, made of something that looks like petrified silk.

Kai: "I want to go home."

Kai tackles his dad. The floor splits. The Queensnake lurches, its petrified silk sails snapping open—but they are not catching wind. They are catching time . The ship pulls everything toward it: water, stone, pirates, and the two archaeologists.

Ren: "Dr. Morgan. You’re late. The prophecy said Tuesday."