But the fae have numbers. For every dragon we bring down, two more surface. I watch as the Sunrise Dream goes down with all hands, pulled under by three sea dragons. The screams are brief and the silence that follows is deafening.
A Myrkheim warrior mage stands atop a massive fiend-orca. Chains of light extend from his hands to guide the beast. He sends it ramming into our smaller vessels.
“We can’t hold much longer, Your Highness,” Admiral Torven says quietly. “The crews are exhausted. We’re running low on depth charges. Silver Fin hasn’t responded to signals in an hour.”
The sailors of Völundr are some of the finest I’ve ever seen but they’re exhausted. Three days of constant battle will wear down even the best warriors. Their movements are slower now, dulled by fatigue.
There’s no end in sight.
A fae ship pulls alongside us. Grappling hooks fly across the gap. I meet the first batch of warriors with my shadow, tearing through their throats before they can draw their blades.
But more keep coming.
Rhianelle’s knights rally around her.
“For Aelfheim!” Eyepatch shouts, sword drawn to protect his queen.
The deck becomes a slaughterhouse. I plant myself between Rhianelle and the tide of fae warriors pushing forward. Shade and the wolf work in brutal silence beside me, tearing apart any fae warrior who gets close to Rhianelle. The grimsbane moves like living shadow, striking low and vanishing beneath swinging blades. His wolf is a blur of teeth and fury, dragging shrieking fae warriors from the press before they can close in.
No one reaches her.
And still —
Ship by ship, the Völundr fleet is being destroyed. I watch the Morning Star crack in half as a dragon surfaces directly beneath it. Sailors pour into the churning water. Some are pulled under immediately.
“We can’t hold,” Red says, appearing at my shoulder. “They’re wearing us down.”
We can fight with everything we have but with three to one odds and dwindling supplies, we’re going to lose.
A fae blade slashes toward Rhianelle’s unprotected back. I blur across the deck, intercepting it with my claws. The impact sends tremors up my arms but I hold. The fae warrior snarls and presses harder.
A sailor points toward the horizon, his voice breaking with despair. “More ships!”
My heart sinks. More fae reinforcements.
We’re fucked.
But the sails that appear through the smoke aren’t Eirik Bloodhound’s black sails.
They’re golden.
More sails rise from the mist to the north, marked with the crest of the seagods.
Kashran ships.
“He came…” Rhianelle whispers, her exhausted face transforming with hope.
Kahedin’s flagship, the Silver Crown, cuts through the water. At the prow stands the warrior himself. Kashran’s fleet crashes into the enemy line like a tide reborn.
The impact is devastating. Frost and flame rip across the sea as Kashran mages strike. A wall of water rises between Eirik’s fleet, cutting off their coordination. Sea dragons caught in the divide shriek as they’re pulled in different directions by competing currents. Fae ships shatter, unable to withstand the assault.
Kahedin raises his arms and the sea responds to him. A circle of mages on his ship chant in unison. They’re calling to something old. A being that sleeps in the deep trenches where sunlight has never touched.
“They’re calling to Kraethys,” Rainer mumbles in awe.
The water between the fleets begins to churn. Something is rising from below, massive enough to displace entire ships with its approach.
Tentacles break the surface.
