I move fast.
There’s a small fishing skiff abandoned on the shore. No ropes, no ties, just sitting there with a couple of buckets and an old net. Whoever owns it is probably already at the market. I raise an eyebrow, give the docks one last glance, and shove the boat into the water.
The damn thing’s heavier than I thought, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion from yesterday’s ordeal catching up to me. But soon enough, the waves lift the skiff, and I jump in before my boots can get soaked and the compass in my pocket gets ruined.
The boat reeks of fish—stale, rotting fish. I wrinkle my nose, but the moment the sea air hits, it’s like a balm, washing away the stench and pulling me back to where I belong. One day on land, and I’m already aching for the sea. The endless sky, the waves rolling beneath me—it’s the only thing that ever makes sense.
This is where I’m meant to be.
I grab the oars and start rowing. Shouts break out from the shore—the skiff’s owner, no doubt, realizing his boat’s gone. He’s yelling, but I’m already navigating the shoals, too far for his voice to matter.
“Sorry, mate,” I mutter. “I need this more than you.”
More precisely, I need that schooner. It’s just too damn perfect to let slip through my fingers.
Whether I make it or not? That’s down to luck and timing. If the crew catches me, I’ll have to cut my way through. If they don’t, I’ll still be fighting, but at least surprise will be on my side. Either way, someone’s bleeding by the end of this. But at least they’re not Marauders.
First, though, I’ve got to make it through these cursed shoals.
I guide the skiff into the narrow channel, watching as the water grows shallower with each stroke. Can’t rush it now—one wrong move, and I’ll be stuck. The seabed’s clear as day, every stone and ripple showing in the sunlight, so I keep my eyes wide open, following the current. My hands stay steady on the oars, even as the skiff scrapes the sand beneath me. I shift my weight, push off, and get clear.
The water deepens, and the skiff glides forward, cutting through the sea like it’s meant to.
Hell yes.
But this is the easy part.
The schooner’s close now—too close to risk the skiff bumping against its hull. My hands move without thinking, pulling the compass from my pocket. It glints in the sun, catching the light like a beacon, dazzling for a second. I press my lips to it, a quick kiss for luck.
“Don’t you dare fail me,” I whisper to it before tucking it securely into my boot. Then I strap my duffel to my waist. My supplies might get soaked, but if there are more provisions on board, it’ll be worth the gamble. I draw my dagger from the sheath on my thigh and clamp it between my teeth.
And then I hit the water.
The shock of the seawater against my skin is a slap in the face, cold enough to wake up every nerve. It sharpens me, brings everything into focus. But nothing, nothing could prepare me for what happens next.
Something yanks at me from below, pulling me toward the schooner before I even have a chance to kick. My body twists, my head dips under, and I’m swallowed by the sea. Salt stings my eyes, my pulse hammers in my chest, and my clothes drag at me like dead weight. There’s a hum, deep and bone-rattling, vibrating through the water, right into my core.
What the hell…?
Panic claws at the edges of my mind, but I force it down. It’s just a current. Just the sea playing tricks. But that sound—it felt like a heartbeat. The ocean’s heartbeat.
I’m fucking losing it…
I shake it off, kicking hard to break the surface. I’m too damn tired to listen to the foggy thoughts in my head right now. Two days without sleep, and I’ve walked more in the past day than I have in the last month. My senses have every right to fail me. I just need to focus on swimming, that’s all.
So, that’s what I do.
As a result, the schooner looms closer, faster than I expected, and now that I’m near, the details come into focus—polished brass, sleek lines, and that fresh scent of pine and salt. She’s a beauty. Too much of a beauty, actually. Too new for these waters.
I dive under again, surfacing in the shadow of her hull. My fingers latch onto the rough wood, and I start to climb. Every muscle in my body screams from hauling that crate yesterday—not to mention scaling those goddamn rocks and shoving the skiff into the sea. But it’s manageable enough that I don’t fall down.
I drag myself over the railing, keeping low, crouching as I press against the side of the ship. The slick wood is cold under my palm, and for a moment, the only sound is my ragged breathing.
Then, I hear it.
“Thought you were so sly, huh?”
The dagger I’d been holding between my teeth slides smoothly into my hand.
