We have company.
“Zoric.” The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off stone walls, resonating through the water. “My old friend. I wondered if you’d have the courage.”
Oreth rises from the gold.
He’s more terrible here than he was in the harbor. More real. The chains wrapped around his body are clearly part of him now—gold fused with flesh, coins embedded in skin that’s gone gray-white with death and cold. Water streams from his form in constant rivulets, pooling around him, never quite draining away. His eyes blaze with curse-light, and when he smiles, I can see the skull beneath the preserved flesh.
“And you brought the girl.” His attention shifts to me. “How thoughtful.”
I don’t respond. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I reach for the pouch at my belt, feeling the coins inside respond to the hoard around them—straining, yearning, aching to rejoin their kin.
“The gold won’t save you.” Zoric’s voice is steady. Controlled. The voice of a man who’s been preparing for this moment for years. “We’re here to end this.”
“End it?” Oreth laughs, and the sound fills the chamber with cold. “My old friend, this is just the beginning. The girl is mine now. Her blood will buy me life. And you—” His smile sharpens. “You get to watch.”
The drowned materialize from the water around us.
Dozens of them. More than we fought in the passages, more than the entire army that assaulted Dreadhaven. They rise from the depths in a ring, cutting off any retreat, their luminous bodies pressing close. Zoric’s back finds mine, both of us turning to face threats on every side.
“We’re outnumbered,” I murmur.
“Noticed that.”
“Any brilliant tactical insights?”
“Don’t die.”
“Helpful.”
Oreth is moving closer, chains clinking, that terrible smile fixed on his face. The drowned don’t attack—they’re waiting, holding us in place until their master is ready.
I think about the plan. I have to get close to the hoard. Need to open the pouch and throw the contents as far as I can, mixing Dreadhaven’s gold with the treasure that Oreth has been guarding for centuries.
I need time. And Oreth isn’t giving us time.
Unless...
“Take me.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Zoric stiffens against my back. “Aviora?—”
“On one condition.” I keep my voice steady, my attention fixed on Oreth. “He goes free. You let him leave, and I don’t fight. I give you what you need.”
Oreth’s smile widens. “Willing sacrifice. Even better.”
“Aviora, no—” Zoric tries to reach for me, but wraith hands hold him back, cold strength he can’t break. His face is anguished, stricken, everything he’s been holding back suddenly visible. “Don’t do this. We can find another way?—”
“There is no other way.” I don’t look at him. Can’t look at him, or my resolve will crumble. “This is what I’m for, Zoric. This is why the curse chose me. Months of running, and it was leading me here all along.”
“You’re not a sacrifice?—”
“No.” I step forward, toward Oreth, toward the hungry gold that’s been calling me since Saltmere. “I’m a weapon. And it’s time I started acting like one.”
The dead captain studies me with those pale, lightless eyes. Looking for deception. Looking for the trap he must suspect is coming.
“You expect me to believe this,” he says slowly. “That you’d give yourself up for him. For an orc you met two days ago.”
“I’m not giving myself up for him.” I keep walking. Slow. Steady. Each step taking me closer to the hoard, closer to the moment where everything changes. “I’m giving myself up because I’m tired. Because I’ve been running for years and fighting for months and I don’t have anything left.”
