“Some make it out. Most don’t.” I gesture at the chains. “The ones who don’t usually end up out there. Part of the problem instead of the solution.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can see her processing—calculating odds, assessing risks, building a mental map of the terrain. The same thing I did when I first came here, before the fortress became my home and my tomb.
“The sea caves you mentioned,” she doesn’t look at me, “where are they?”
“Beneath us. The entrances are scattered along the cliff face, most of them underwater at high tide. There’s a network of tunnels connecting them to the foundations—some natural, some carved. The oldest passages have ward markings that the builders left behind.”
“Ward markings?”
“Protection against the drowned. They glow when the dead draw near.” I’ve seen them flare in the darkness, blue-white fire racing along stone walls, the only warning before frigid hands reach from the shadows. “They don’t stop Oreth, but they slow him down. Give us time to seal the passages.”
“And the hoard? Where is it?”
The question I’ve been dreading. I point toward the open water, past the chains, toward the dark mass of the Wrecktide visible on the horizon. “Out there. In the deepest part of the reef maze, in a cavern that was old when this fortress was young. That’s where we found it. That’s where I sealed it.”
“With Oreth inside.”
“With Oreth inside.” I push the words out. “I thought I was protecting people. Containing the curse. Instead, I gave him years to build an army.”
She turns to face me. This close, I can see the exhaustion beneath her composure—the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. She’s running on willpower and spite, same as me.
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have known. Should have killed him properly, burned the gold, done something more than running away and hoping the problem would stay buried.” The words come out harsher than I intend. Years of guilt, compressed into a fewsentences. “I was a coward. And now people are dying because of it.”
“People were dying before. You said the curse has been active for centuries.”
“Active, yes. But contained. Manageable. Ships avoided the area, and the drowned stayed in the deep, and the worst that happened was the occasional fool who dove too deep or anchored too close.” I grip the stone ledge, feeling the roughness against my palms. “Now Oreth commands them. Directs them. Uses them as weapons instead of just letting them drift. That’s on me.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t offer empty comfort or meaningless reassurance. Just stands there, watching me with those sharp eyes, and for a moment, I wonder what she sees. A monster trying to play hero? A man drowning in guilt? Or something else entirely?
“Show me the rest.” Her voice is quiet. Almost gentle. “The ward fires. The defenses. Everything you use to keep them out.”
I nod. Lead her away from the harbor, back into the passages, grateful for the distraction of duty.
FOUR
ZORIC
We spend the morning walking the keep.
I show her the ward fires—braziers positioned at every entrance, filled with fuel that burns blue when lit, driving back the drowned with light they can’t tolerate. I show her the armory, such as it is—weapons salvaged from wrecks and raids, maintained by guards who know better than to let their blades rust in the constant salt spray. I show her the Great Hall’s defenses, the shutters that can seal the windows, the chains that can barricade the doors.
She takes it all in. Asks questions I don’t expect—about patrol routes, signal systems, evacuation procedures. Questions that reveal a tactical mind underneath the survivor’s instincts.
“You’ve planned sieges before.” I don’t mean it as a question.
“I’ve survived them.” She runs her hand along a shutter mechanism, testing the hinges. “Different skills, but there’s overlap.”
“Where?”
“Here and there. Saltmere, mostly. The docks aren’t peaceful territory.” She moves to the next window, not looking at me. “Turf wars, debt collections, the occasional naval raid. You learn to read a battlefield or you end up part of it.”
I store the information. Saltmere. The dock-scum tattoos make sense now—the coiled rope, the anchor. Marks that identify her to people who know the codes. She came up hard in a world that eats the weak and spits them out.
Like me.
“The guards.” She’s moved on, her attention shifting to the men visible through the hall’s windows—my crew, such as they are, going about the morning’s work. “How many?”
