Now, with her hand in mine and the memory of this morning still warm in my chest, running isn’t an option.
“We face it.” I draw her against me, turning her toward the keep. Toward the ruins we’ve spent the day trying to rebuild. Toward the handful of people who might or might not stand with us when those ships make harbor. “Whatever it is. We face it as one.”
The ships grow larger on the horizon. Someone’s coming to collect.
And we’re in no shape to stop them.
SEVENTEEN
AVIORA
The ships anchor in Dreadhaven’s harbor just after midnight.
I watch from the wall walk as their lanterns bob in the darkness—five vessels where there should be none, their hulls sitting low in the water with cargo or crew. The Wrecktide lets them pass without incident, its reefs navigable now that Oreth’s curse no longer guards them. One more consequence of our victory. One more thing that’s about to make my life considerably worse.
Zoric stands beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. He hasn’t said much since we spotted the sails at sunset—just watched, assessed, calculated in that way he has. Planning for fights he hopes won’t happen.
“Merchant vessels.” His voice is low. “The Murker Trading Consortium banner on the flagship.”
My stomach drops. I know that name. Know it the way you know the name of the person who holds your death warrant.
“Gyla.” The word comes out flat. Dead. “She found me.”
Zoric’s hand settles at my hip. A silent question. I lean into the touch without thinking—a habit now, these past two days.Finding comfort in his presence the way a shipwreck survivor finds comfort on shore.
“Who is she?”
“The woman who financed my last venture.” I keep my eyes on the ships. Can’t look at him while I say this. “The one that killed Finn.”
His hand presses firmer against my spine. Not pushing—anchoring.
“How much do you owe her?”
“Twenty-five thousand gold. Same as the bounty.” I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Plus years of interest. Call it thirty-five, if she’s feeling generous. She won’t be feeling generous.”
The number hangs between us. Twenty-five thousand gold. More money than most people see in a lifetime. More than Dreadhaven’s entire treasury held before the flooding claimed it.
“She can’t collect if you’re under my protection.”
“She can do whatever she wants.” I finally turn to face him. In the darkness, his features are hard to read—just the suggestion of sharp lines and deeper shadows. “Gyla Murker owns half of Saltmere. She has influence in every port from here to the capital. If she decides to make an example of me—of us—she has the resources to do it.”
“Then we don’t give her the chance.”
“Zoric.” I reach up, touch his jaw. Feel the muscle flex beneath my fingers. “You have five wounded survivors and a flooded fortress. You can’t fight a fleet.”
“Watch me.”
The words are so utterly him—stubborn, protective, willing to throw himself against impossible odds for someone he barely knows—that something gives way inside me. I rise on my toes and kiss him. Brief. Fierce. A thank-you I don’t have words for.
“Let’s see what she wants first.” I pull back before I can lose myself in him. “Maybe it’s just a friendly visit.”
Neither of us believes that.
Gyla Murker comes ashoreat dawn.
She arrives in a longboat crewed by eight men in matching livery—the deep purple of her trading house, trimmed in silver thread that catches the early light. The men row in perfect synchronization, their oars cutting the water without splash or sound, the kind of precision that speaks to training and discipline and money. So much money.
I watch from the harbor quay as the boat glides toward the dock. Zoric stands on my right, Thorne on my left. Brek and the other survivors have positioned themselves around the harbor—not threatening, exactly, but visible. A reminder that Dreadhaven isn’t entirely defenseless.
