“There’s no need to feel threatened, Alaric,” Veyrion said, maddeningly calm. “It’s just a nickname. Among friends.”
I bared my teeth in something that wasn’t a smile. “She doesn’t need friends like you.”
Veyrion’s glacier eyes flicked over me, assessing. Then his grin widened, deliberate, dangerous. “Oh? And she needs friends like you?”
The world narrowed to the space between my hands and his throat. Fury and shame collided—because Saints help me, he wasn’t wrong. Not after what I’d confessed. Not after what I’d taken. Not after lies and secrets. My crew shifted uneasily behind me, tension sharp enough to crack the deck boards. I forced myself still, even as rage clawed at my chest.
But even through the heat of it, Nerina was out there. And whatever poison laced Veyrion’s words, whatever arrogance dripped from his grin, would have to wait. Nothing else mattered.
At last, Veyrion spoke, quiet and cutting. “Whatever you think of me, this isn’t about us.”
He was right. Saints help me—he was right. I turned to my crew. “Prepare theBlack Marrow. Now.”
When I looked back, his men were already moving for his ships, and his eyes—glacier blue and unyielding—met mine like a vow.
For this—for her—we would stand on the same side. Not as allies. Not as friends. But because losing her would destroy us both.
Lanterns flared across the harbor. Ropes were cut, anchors lifted, oars dipped. Two fleets moved side by side—serpent and shadow—before the open sea swallowed them both.
I turned, ready to snap another order at Garen, only to find him staring across the gap between our vessels—at Eira. She stood at Veyrion’s side, hair whipping in the wind, eyes cold as the ice cliffs we’d left behind. She met his gaze across the water with pure disdain, then turned her back.
Garen clutched the railing like a man struck by lightning. “Gods,” he whispered, dazed. “She’s magnificent.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, praying for patience. “She’s going to gut you.”
He didn’t blink. “Aye.” His grin turned foolish. “And I would thank her for the honor.”
Then his grin faded. “Do you think she’s all right, Cap'n?” His voice was quieter now, stripped of humor. “She’s strong, aye—stronger than any of us gave her credit for. But out there… alone…”
The words trailed off, unfinished but heavy.
52
Nerina
Covenant Ship
Two days.
Two days since I’d stolen Veyrion’s ship. Two days of fighting canvas that weighed more than I did, of hauling sails meant for ten men. Two days of the sea battering me hollow, until I felt no sturdier than the hull beneath my feet. My body was a patchwork of bruises and cuts—knees split open from being thrown across the deck, one shoulder screaming from a rope that had torn free and nearly dragged me with it.
The rations were barely edible. Hardtack so stale it splintered my gums. Dried fish that tasted of rot. I chewed and swallowed only enough to keep from collapsing, washing it down with water gone sour in its casks. Hunger hollowed me. Thirst rasped my throat raw. Fatigue pressed behind my eyes until every horizon blurred.
Ymirskald had spoiled me. I found myself missing warm stews thick with salt and spice, bread torn fresh, meals meant to be shared. I hated to admit it, but of all the things I’d left behind, I missed Veyrion’s cooking the most.
I had no right to be here. No skill. No crew. Only raw need and the memory of maps traced in candlelight—Alaric’s charts, Skeldrhall’s council table, whispered tides and storm routes burned into my mind. Ymirskald lay north. Thalassia, south.
So I sailed south, trusting stars I barely understood. The sea was merciless. Every shift of the deck rattled through my bones. I moved not with grace, but desperation. My hair hung wet and matted down my back, salt crusting the strands stiff. My clothes clung to me, heavy with brine and sweat.
On the horizon, the sky tore open in a snarl of black clouds. Lightning clawed through them in jagged veins of white-blue light. Thunder cracked so loud it rattled the mast, vibrating through the serpent ship’s bones. Waves surged like cliffs of water, rising high enough to blot out the horizon. Each swell slammed down with the roar of a collapsing mountain, the ship climbing and plunging, her timbers groaning, shields along the rails rattling loose. Spray stung my face, salt slicing into raw skin. I tightened my grip on the wheel—but the sea bucked harder, tearing at my hands until blood slicked the wood.
The wheel spun free, nearly smashing my fingers as the ship lurched sideways. A wall of water crashed over the rails, drowning the deck, hurling me flat. I staggered upright,coughing, clawing for the rigging. Blood streaked the ropes, washed away in crimson ribbons with every wave. My body shook with exhaustion, every muscle screaming for surrender. I had seen storms like this before—on the Black Marrow. But there, it took all of them: Alaric shouting orders, men swarming the rigging, ropes flying, curses and sweat and blood. An army against the sea.
Here there was only me. Two trembling hands. A body past its limit.
The wind shrieked, flattening waves into walls of spray. Lightning split the sky, blinding. Thunder slammed through my chest. Heat flared across my forehead, cutting through the storm. Silver light ghosted across the rigging. The Quartz in my satchel thudded in rhythm—hard and steady, like a second heart.
Stand. Fight.
