“Ready?” Aviora appears at my side, blades at her belt, determination in every line of her body.
“No.” I reach for her, fingers threading through hers. “Ready’s never been a requirement.”
We head for the water. And the dead wait below.
ELEVEN
AVIORA
The water is black and cold.
Zoric’s men stand guard on the docks, watching with concern etched into each face.
I slip into it from the harbor platform, feeling the chill cut through my clothes in the first heartbeat. The second heartbeat, it reaches my bones. By the third, I’ve stopped feeling anything except the urgent need to keep moving.
Oreth’s dead army has retreated. I’m sure that’s not a good sign. Maybe he’s rebuilding, calling in the next wave that could easily overwhelm us. But we’re not waiting for that.
Zoric enters the water behind me, his bulk displacing water in a surge that pushes me sideways. I steady myself against the stone wall, find his hand in the darkness, and squeeze once.
He squeezes back. Then we dive.
The underwater passage swallows us immediately—narrow stone walls pressing close, the current fighting our every stroke. I can’t see anything. Can’t hear anything except the rush of blood in my ears and the distant, haunting pulse of the cursed gold somewhere ahead.
Forty-seven coins in the waterproof pouch at my belt. The entire contents of Dreadhaven’s vault, gathered over years ofsalvage and survival. They burn against my hip even through the leather, their hunger sharper now that we’re in Oreth’s territory.
Come to us.
I push the whispers down and swim harder.
Zoric’s hand finds mine again in the darkness—not for comfort this time, but guidance. He knows these passages. Mapped them years ago, before the curse took his first mate, before everything went wrong. His fingers tap against my palm in a rhythm I don’t recognize, and I realize he’s counting. Keeping track of distance, of time, of how much breath we have left.
My lungs are starting to burn.
The passage twists left, then right, then opens into something larger. I feel the space around me expand, the walls falling away, and for a horrible moment, I’m lost—floating in endless black water with no sense of up or down.
Zoric pulls me toward him. His body becomes my anchor, his grip on my arm the only thing keeping me oriented. We kick upward—or what I hope is upward—and break the surface gasping.
Air. Stale and damp, but air. I gulp it down, feeling my lungs expand, my vision clearing from the edges where darkness was starting to creep in.
“Way station.” Zoric’s voice echoes strangely in the enclosed space. “We’re about a third of the way through.”
I tread water, trying to get my bearings. The chamber is natural—carved by centuries of water erosion, its walls lined with phosphorescent growth that casts everything in dim blue-green light. Rock formations jut from the water at odd angles, offering handholds for those who need to rest.
I need a break. My muscles are screaming, my ankle throbbing where I twisted it during the shipwreck that feels like a lifetime ago. But we don’t have time.
“How much farther?”
“Another hundred yards. Maybe less.” He swims to one of the rock formations, pulls himself up enough to check something I can’t see. “The wards are still active. That’s good.”
“And bad?”
“They’re flickering. The curse is fighting them.” He slides back into the water, moves close to me. In the dim light, his face is all hard planes and shadows, but his eyes—his eyes are worried. “When we reach the hoard chamber, the wards won’t protect us. Oreth’s power is strongest there.”
“I know.” I reach up, touch his face. Feel the roughness of his jaw against my palm. “That’s the point. Draw him out. Make him think he’s won.”
“And then scatter the gold before he can complete the binding.”
“And then scatter the gold.” I let my hand drop. “Simple.”
