“Don’t let go,” she shot back.
She lifted the shell again. Sebastian Jr. clung stubbornly, tiny claws dug in like he, too, refused to let her face this alone.
“Okay,” she whispered to it. “One more secret.”
The shell thrummed—and then, as if some unseen barrier shattered, the sound poured out.
It wasn’t just noise. It was a song, the way the sea is a drink of water—too big for the body, too old for the ears. Notes that weren’t notes at all but memories: a city of light beneath the waves, hands raised in prayer or defiance, the shadow of something vast passing overhead, the taste of fear when people realize they have angered something too big to name.
Rose’s voice joined it.
This time, the words weren’t foreign. They were Atlantean, yes, but she shaped them with a human mouth, a human grief. The melody rose and fell like the swell of the ocean, calling, commanding, promising an end to chains.
The Leviathan stilled.
The great golden eye dilated, then narrowed again. The bioluminescent scars along its body flared, particularly the jagged patch under its jaw.
“Val!” I shouted hoarsely. “Now!”
“Fire!” Val screamed.
The starboard cannons roared as one. Smoke and flame belched from their mouths, recoil shuddering through the deck. The shots tore across the water in a deadly arc, slamming into the Leviathan’s side.
It bellowed, the sound shaking the teeth in my skull.
Most of the cannonballs bounced off its armored hide or sank uselessly into its flesh—but several struck the glowing scar. The brilliant patch of bioluminescence flickered violently.
Rose gasped, nearly collapsing. I tightened my grip.
“Again!” Val yelled. “Reload! Aim for the scar!”
The crew scrambled, hands moving with the frantic efficiency of people who knew their lives depended on every heartbeat.
The Leviathan recovered faster than I liked. It swept its massive head toward us, jaws yawning open. Rows upon rows of teeth glistened in the dark, serrated and long enough to use as spears.
“Down!” I shouted.
A torrent of water blasted from its maw, a shockwave of pressure and spray that hit the Wraith like a wall. The deck tilted. Men and women went tumbling. The rail we clung to splintered.
My grip slipped. Rose’s feet went out from under her.
For a split second, I knew we were going over the side.
A hand clamped on Rose’s arm from the other side, wrenching her back.
Inu.
She had her sword sheathed, both hands locked around Rose’s wrist, heels digging into the deck, muscles straining.
“I told you,” Inu grunted, “we would test that later.”
“Good timing,” Rose wheezed.
The Leviathan reared again, closer this time. Its head loomed directly above us, that scar gleaming like an invitation.
But its focus had shifted. The golden eye rolled not to the shell, not to Rose, but to Oscar at the helm.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed.
