Prologue
They say it always begins with a woman, that chaos on the seas. Though countless men have tried to tame the Lady, only her own kin have ever earned her favor.
For none but they can grasp the depths of her fury.
And none but they will ever feel the heart of her storm.
She is but one with all the others.
And they are a part of her.
1
Gypsy
In this life, if the salt doesn’t kill you, the stupidity of so-called sailors surely will.
The crate I’m dragging through the sand feels like it’s about to fall apart any second. Wobbly, creaking with every step, and every time I stop to catch my breath, the wood shifts dangerously beneath the weight—or lack of it. No surprise, really. The damned thing barely survived the sail. Even before that, it looked like it had seen better days.
I remind myself, for what must be the hundredth time, that I should pick my treasures more carefully. But when you’re left with no choice, you don’t get to be picky. There hadn’t been any time for waiting, or planning, or even scouting for some other crew to rob. I had to act then and there.
“If I’d known my father would drop me on the island with a delay, I might’ve made a different plan,” I mutter, tugging harder at the rope, frustration growing with every step. “Hell, I wouldn’t have decided to rob privateers of all people for a quick coin.”
Getting dropped off at the harbor a couple hours later than I originally intended, had already been a setback. But noticing only pathetic excuses for sailors crawling the docks had been a gut-punch. Small-time, washed-up pirates with no sense of direction or ambition, only looking to survive another day, weren’t exactly ideal targets.
I had to improvise.
So, of course, when I saw privateers docking for a quick layover, I made my move. Desperation, mixed with a bit of luck, guided my hand as I slipped aboard unnoticed. I didn’t need much, just something valuable enough to trade off. But instead of treasures, I ended up with a crate of half-decent rations.
Good thing the captain of their ship had a gold ring stuck on his finger. It had turned out to be the only saving grace.
Still, I need to drag this crate like a goddamn fool, fighting the sand and the sun and the gravity that’s pulling me off the dunes.
“Is it worth it, Gypsy?” I grunt. “Could’ve just taken the ring and run. But no, now you’re dragging glorified breadcrumbs across an island like a common pack mule.”
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. As miserable as it is, this crate holds rations—nothing like treasure, but enough to trade. And with my father tightening his grip on me, I don’t know when I’ll get another shot at Old Betty’s. He’s been watching me too closely, like he knows I’m up to something.
This might be my only chance, all hinging on this damn crate.
I pull harder, gritting my teeth. Then, I hear it—a wet crack, followed by a groan that sends a shiver down my spine. I freeze, glancing down at the crate. The wood’s splintered, a jagged crack running down its side.
Of course. The useless privateers didn’t even bother coating the wood in tar. Just let it soak in seawater like a bunch of clueless idiots.
“Fucking amateurs,” I mutter.
It’s the basics. You coat the wood with tar or wax, or the seawater soaks in.Basics.
I glance up, the sun beating down on my already sweaty skin. I don’t have a choice but to keep going. It’s either this, or I end up stranded with nothing to show for it. Hauling this crate by hand is out of the question—the bottom’s barely holding together. Gravity’s doing me no favors either.
I dig my heels into the sand, the rope biting into my shoulder. By the time I reach Skullcove Haven, I’ll have burns to match the blisters already forming on my hands, but there’s no turning back. The sun’s slipping lower, and I’ve got a meeting to make before nightfall.
For the next few hours, it’s just me, the waves, and this damned crate. The water hums in the background, its rhythm almost soothing—if not for the burning in my muscles. I match my breathing to the rise and fall of the sea, zoning out enough to forget the ache in my back.
The beach stretches on forever, the dunes never-ending. By the time I reach the top, the sky’s alive with oranges and pinks, the southern horizon flaring like a wound across the clouds. Kaiterra, we call it. Home to pirates, rogues, and thieves. Legends and scum alike—including me. Made up of eight seas and its countless archipelagos, each ruled by its own law or, more accurately, lawlessness. It’s the only world I’ve ever known.
I pause at the crest of the dunes, letting the view sink in. Below, Skullcove Haven’s coastline unfurls, cliffs plunging into the sea, smooth rocks jutting out like marbles. The jungle spreads out far around it, darkening like the belly of a beast as the sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the canopy. Ships dot the horizon—some merchant, some pirate—all painted in the warm glow of the setting sun.
It’s all quite beautiful, really. Majestic. There’s a scent of freedom in the air, mingling with the salt. You can feel that this is the place where deals are made, and lives are lost with equal ease in your very lungs.
