He didn’t answer at first. Then, slowly, he turned back toward me. There was a flicker in his eyes—pain, maybe, or something sadder. A shadow of guilt, too—like he’d left more than memories behind in Shadeau, and hadn’t looked back.
"She was part of my life before the curse," he said finally. "We were... close."
His voice cracked, and for a heartbeat he looked like a man drowning in memories. “But greed changes people. Or maybe it just shows you who they really are. We made promises. I broke them. And there are consequences to that.”
His voice went flat, like stone skimming water. "Some things you can’t undo."
I studied him, heart thudding. "Did you love her?"
His silence was answer enough. Jealousy curled low in my stomach before I could stop it. It was ridiculous—selfish, even—but I hated the way her name lingered on his lips. Hated that someone else had once known parts of him I hadn’t yet touched. I scoffed, anger flaring hot and bright. "So that’s what this is about. You’re still angry at an old lover."
His eyes snapped to mine, colder than I’d ever seen them. "This isn’t about her. It’s about you throwing yourself into situations you don’t understand and playing games you know nothing about."
"I’m trying to help," I hissed.
"Then stop offering yourself," he growled. "You don’t know what you’re worth. But they do. Séraphine does.."
I clenched my fists, the mark on my forehead pulsing hotter. "Maybe I’m tired of everyone else deciding what I’m worth. Maybe I want to decide for myself."
His voice dropped low, trembling with fury. "And maybe I’m tired of watching you risk everything—my crew, my ship, yourself—because you’re chasing answers with no map."
The silence between us crackled. The alleys were narrow and slick with moss, reeking of rot and old rum. Strange spices stung our noses in some corners, while others reeked of sour blood and brackish water. Music drifted in snatches—low drums, stringed instruments moaning like ghosts, voices chanting in languages I didn’t recognize. Smoke clung to our clothes, thick with the scent of burnt herbs and candle wax.
Alaric moved slower with each step. His steps grew heavier, his body fighting every movement.
It was nearly dawn. The last vestiges of night clung to the sky like bruises, bleeding violet and ash across the skyline as Shadeau exhaled something darker.
That was when he collapsed.
He dropped to his knees in the middle of a deserted street, a strangled sound ripping from his throat. I spun around in panic.
“Alaric!”
His face was ghost-pale, drenched in sweat, lips bloodless. He convulsed, barely conscious.
“No—no, no—” I knelt beside him, trying to hoist his weight up. He was so much heavier than me, all muscle and burden, but adrenaline tore through my limbs like fire.
I reached into his coat, trembling fingers searching until they closed around the small glass vial Morgra had given him. The potion. My hands moved on instinct—I uncorked it and tilted it toward his lips.
Nothing.
I clenched the vial tighter, my heart pounding. Morgra said only a drop—no more. The warning echoed in my head, warring with the sight of him trembling in my arms. What if another drop saved him? What if it killed him? My fingers itched to tip thevial, to pour until he breathed easier, but fear held me still. I didn’t know which choice would kill him faster. I shoved the potion back into his pocket, my chest heaving. There wasn’t time. I had to move.
I’m smaller than he is, but not slight—and he still towers over me, all broad shoulders and hard-earned muscle from years of hauling rigging and wielding a cutlass. Twice my knees buckled. Once I lost my grip entirely, his weight slamming him into the wall before I dragged him back. He outweighed me, every staggering step pulling me sideways, but I held. My legs shook, my back burned, and I wedged my shoulder beneath his arm and forced us forward—inch by brutal inch. Still, I got him upright, slung one of his arms over my shoulders, and turned us toward the port. We stumbled through the streets. Each step was agony—his for the pain, mine for the fear. Shadeau wasn’t safe at the best of times, and I couldn’t linger with a dying vampire draped over me.
It became a race I couldn’t afford to lose. Against the potion bleeding from his veins. Against the first light creeping toward the horizon. Against whatever hunted the streets when night began to thin.
Every shadow deepened. Every footstep behind us felt too close. His forehead pressed against my neck, his weight dragging me down like an anchor.
The docks were close—I could smell the salt off open water—when the cobblestones caught my boot. I pitched forward, dragging him with me. We hit the ground hard. My palms scraped raw; his body slammed down beside me with a sound that punched the air from his lungs.
I lay there for a heartbeat, chest heaving.
Ahead of us, the path opened wide. No walls. No corners. Nothing left to brace against.
The Black Marrow stood in the distance, her dark sails stark against the paling sky. Close enough to see. Too far to reach easily.
Panic surged, hot and choking. I forced it down. I rolled him onto his back, hooked my arms beneath his, and dragged. My muscles screamed. Cobblestones scraped my boots as his weight slowed me, inch by brutal inch. I shifted my grip, angled him so his legs wouldn’t snag, and used the slight slope toward the water to keep us moving.
