The ghost ship. Oreth’s flagship. The same vessel we used to raid, before everything went wrong.
“He’s early.” My voice comes out flat. Controlled. “The drowned don’t move during daylight.”
“Something changed.” Thorne’s hand rests on her blade. “The men are ready. What are your orders?”
I study the approaching ship. No crew visible on deck—no movement at all except the impossible slide of that ruined hull through the waves. But I know they’re there. Waiting. Watching.
And at the prow, a figure stands motionless. Too far to see clearly, but I know the shape. Know the posture. Know the manwho used to stand in that exact spot, scanning the horizon for ships to raid.
“Hold the chains.” I push myself to think tactically. To ignore the sick twist in my gut. “Nobody opens the gate. If he wants to talk, he can do it from the water.”
“And if he attacks?”
“Light the ward fires. Fall back to the keep. Standard siege protocol.” I don’t look away from the ship. Can’t look away. “This is what we’ve been preparing for. Years of waiting, and now he’s come to collect.”
Aviora appears at my shoulder. I feel her presence before I see her—warmth in the cold wind.
“Oreth?”
“Oreth.”
The ship reaches the chain boom. Stops. For a long moment, nothing happens—just the creak of ruined wood, the slap of waves against the hull, the distant cry of seabirds fleeing the wrongness.
Then the figure at the prow moves.
He steps forward, into the light, and I see what years of death have made of my first mate.
He was beautiful once. I remember that—remember the face that charmed merchants and terrified rivals, the easy smile that hid ambition sharp enough to cut. That face is still there, but wrong now. Preserved but twisted. Skin the color of drowned flesh, gray-white and faintly luminescent. Water streaming from his hair, from his clothes, pooling around his feet in a perpetual reminder of how he died. Barnacles clustered along his jaw and temples, shells growing from his own flesh.
And the gold. Chains of cursed coins wrapped around his torso, fused into his skin, glinting with that sickly phosphorescence I remember from the cavern. He’s become part of the hoard. The hoard has become part of him.
“Zoric!” His voice carries across the water—wrong, wet, resonant in ways that human voices shouldn’t be. “My old friend! It’s been too long!”
My hands curl into fists. Beside me, I feel Aviora tense.
“You know why I’m here!” Oreth spreads his arms, chains clinking. “The girl stole from me. My gold. My property. I want it back.”
I glance at Aviora. Her face is pale but composed, her attention fixed on the dead man who’s been hunting her for months.
“The gold isn’t yours.” I pitch my voice to carry. “It belongs to the sea.”
“The sea gave it to me. Rewards for faithful service.” That smile—gods, that smile. The same one I remember from a thousand raids, now twisted into something nightmare. “The sea and I have an understanding, old friend. I bring it sacrifices; it gives me power. The girl’s crew was a start. Your little fortress will be the main course.”
“Try taking it.”
“Oh, I will.” Oreth’s gaze shifts, finding Aviora with predatory precision. “But I’m not unreasonable. Send her out. Just her and the coins. I’ll let the rest of you live. For now.”
The offer hangs in the air. One life against all of Dreadhaven. The mathematics of command—cold, brutal, logical.
I should consider it. Should weigh the lives of my guards, the fishermen who depend on our protection, the coastal villages that look to Dreadhaven as their shield. One thief, weighed against dozens of innocents.
But I look at her—at the woman standing beside me, defiant despite her fear, carrying guilt that mirrors my own—and something in my chest refuses.
“She’s under my protection.” The words come out before I can stop them. “You want her, you come through me.”
Oreth’s laugh echoes across the water—wet and wrong, the sound of something that shouldn’t exist anymore. “Still playing hero, Captain? After everything you’ve done? After everyone you’ve killed?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s not wrong. The blood on my hands would fill this harbor. The lives I’ve taken, the ships I’ve burned, the crews I’ve sent to the bottom—none of it justifies playing protector now.
