Insistent. Threading through me like a demand.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t sure whether I was the hunter or the hunted.
Or which truth excited me more.
9
Nerina
The Black Marrow, On Course to the Forgotten Trench
The cabin was too quiet—save for the ship’s creak and the low groan of the hull. The air hung heavy with brine and damp wood, but beneath it lingered smoke and aged leather, a scent that clung to the space—ghosted with its captain.
The silence didn’t comfort me. It crowded my thoughts, threatening to drown me in questions I couldn’t answer yet.
I sat at the desk, fingers tracing the worn grain while I stared at my new legs. Their weight still felt wrong—an anchor pulling me into a reality I hadn’t chosen.
I had no idea what waited beyond the Veil, but I never imagined this: legs, a pirate ship, the Forgotten Trench … with the pirate who saved me.
The thought almost made me laugh.
Never in my wildest dreams had I pictured myself here—far from Thalassia, far from my mother’s control, from the Tidekeepers watchful eyes, far from the path I’d been told was mine. And yet I was here—something new, something unknown—stepping into a story that had never belonged to me.
My fingers slid along my thighs, feeling smooth skin where iridescent scales had been. It didn’t feel like mine yet. Still… a part of me thrilled at the freedom of movement.
Would I ever feel whole again? Had I surrendered something sacred in my escape? The guilt bit down. Was I allowed to feel that? To enjoy something so foreign when it came at the cost of everything I’d known.
My toes wiggled beneath the desk—exhilarating and disorienting.
If I learned how to use them—how to move without hesitation—maybe I’d stop feeling unsteady. Maybe I could carve a path that was truly mine. A new way to exist.
For the first time, I wasn’t bound to the currents.
A single lantern flickered, throwing long, wavering shadows. Papers and maps sprawled across the desk, edges curled from salt air. An ornate compass lay among them, its needle twitching, never settling. Along the shelves, bottles of rum and ink stood beside sea-worn books—histories, legends, places swallowed by time. A pair of cutlasses hung crossed on the wall, edges catching the lantern’s dim gleam.
Below them rested a leather-bound journal. Its cover was worn soft from years of handling; the spine cracked; the page edges curled as though it had been opened and closed too many times to count.
Everything in the room spoke of Alaric—precision threaded through disorder. The maps weren’t merely scattered; they were marked. Notes and symbols meant nothing to me. Several books had corners bent—one page after another—searching, never satisfied.
The journal felt different. Too personal for a man who survived on secrets. What mattered enough to keep it close, even at sea?
I shouldn’t.
I knew I shouldn’t.
My fingers brushed the worn leather anyway.
Warm. Recently handled.
I hesitated.
Did I want to know what lived inside?
What did Alaric really want with the artifact? Was he lying about the Trench—or worse, telling the truth? Would it reveal the origin of my mark and the power I barely understood, or confirm my fears?
Thoughts tightened into a spiral until my chest constricted. I replayed our conversation—his smirk, his careful wording. Alaric carried mystery and authority with the same ease he carried a blade.
And now I was bound to his course, sailing toward a place that should not exist.
