“Take it,” Zayan says. “Just in case.”
Vinicola’s fingers curl around the dagger like it’s a holy relic. For a second, I swear I see his eyes glisten with unshed tears. He opens his mouth, probably about to spout some over-the-top thank you, but I cut him off by pulling out the mini-raft I used to get him off the island in the first place.
“We’ll use this,” I say, watching his expression shift from gratitude to outright shock. “In case we need a lifeline.”
His eyes flicker between the raft and me, as if he’s struggling to piece together what he’s looking at. “What do we do with it?” he asks, genuinely confused. “Sit on it?”
“No, Vinicola,” Zayan answers for me, his tone as sharp as the dagger he just handed over. “We all hold onto it. The mist is too thick for us to swim separately. We might lose each other, and the guns can’t get wet. We need something to keep them dry.”
“O-oh,” Vinicola mouths. “So no deals, Miss Captain?”
“Not this time.”
He fidgets, clearly trying to shake off his nerves. “Well, at least the water’s not transparent now, huh?”
We secure the raft and stand at the edge of the ship, staring into the swirling mist that clings to the water like a death shroud. There’s barely a breeze, but the atmosphere feels suffocating. The rocky path ahead looks more like a butcher’s table than a route—jagged stones waiting to slice us open.
It will be a miracle if we don’t get torn apart by those rocks.
We lower the raft into the water and climb in, gripping the sides. The cold hits me like a slap, seeping into my bones and setting my nerves on fire. This isn’t Whisperwind Sea. This water feels foreign, hostile. The kind that numbs you from the inside out. Nothing like the warm, sun-soaked waters I know, where the sea doesn’t try to freeze you alive.
Every splash sends a shiver down my spine.
“We need to find a way up,” Zayan says, his voice tense.
For what feels like an eternity, we just drift there, trying to keep our leg muscles relaxed so that if any of us feels a sharp glide against the skin, we don’t press our limbs against it. Calling it difficult is an understatement. I’m so stiff from the cold that I feel like I’m turning into stone myself.
Then, finally, a break.
“There,” I point to a series of jagged rocks that form what looks like a natural staircase leading up to the wrecked ship’s deck.
“G-good eye, Miss C-captain,” Vinicola stammers, his teeth chattering loud enough to be heard over the waves.
We edge the raft toward the rocks, the waves crashing harder now. One by one, we climb out of the water, using the rocks to steady ourselves.
Finally, I’m in position to look up, and the sight makes my head spin. The ascent is nothing short of suicidal. The rocks jutout, slick and sharp, gleaming like wet knives in the mist. One wrong step, one slip, and we’re dead.
I pull the compass from my soaking boot, wiping it against my leg. The needle spins lazily, like it can’t decide what hell to send us into first. Then, it locks—straight ahead—toward the wreck’s foremast, deep in the jagged ruins of the ship.
But it doesn’t stay. It flickers, twitching to the left, struggling like it’s unsure of itself.
“Shit…” I hear a low curse behind me, and my heart skips a beat. I spin around.
“What’s happ—“ I stop mid-sentence, the words catching in my throat. I don’t need to finish. The answer is painted in blood. Zayan’s calf, just below the knee, is slashed wide open, a deep, angry cut that zigzags down his leg. Blood trickles down to his ankle, staining the rock beneath him.
“The damn rocks,” he mutters, his voice tense, barely masking the pain.
Fuck. I knew getting out of this unscathed was too much to ask for.
I move to his side, my fingers already tearing a strip from my shirt. My mind is racing, but I keep my hands steady. “Hold still,” I say, my voice betraying none of the panic clawing at the back of my throat. I wrap the makeshift bandage around his leg, pulling it tight, securing it as best I can. The fabric darkens with his blood almost immediately.
He’s watching me, those mossy green eyes boring into mine as I work. I don’t want to look at him—don’t want to acknowledge the way his gaze always feels intimate, even in the worst possible moments. But I do. And when our eyes meet, it’s like the whole world narrows to just this one moment.
“Can you walk?” I ask, my voice quiet, almost too soft for me. Like I care more than I should.
He nods, barely a tilt of his chin, but it’s enough. There’s that reckless look in his eyes again—the one that says he’d throw himself into the abyss if I asked him to. It’s the same look that got him into this mess. That same dangerous devotion that twists something inside me, something I don’t have time to unpack.
Why the hell am I so… fragile today?
