“Now he’s dead. Has been for years.” A pause. “Turns out death didn’t stick.”
He walks into the darkness without waiting for a response. After a moment, I follow—because what choice do I have?Behind me, the storm rages. Below me, the dead press against iron chains. And somewhere in this fortress of salt and shadows, answers wait.
The coins pulse against my hip. Hungry. Patient.
What have I gotten myself into?
The passage twists upward, stairs appearing and disappearing in the intermittent torchlight. The orc moves with the surety of someone who knows every stone, every turn, every shadow. His stride is steady despite the steepness—the rolling gait of a man who learned to walk on shifting surfaces. A sailor’s walk. A captain’s walk.
I notice details because that’s what keeps me alive. The way his shoulders fit the corridor with inches to spare on either side. The salt stains on his leather armor, the careful placement of weapons at his belt and back. The gold beads in his hair catching light whenever we pass a torch.
Trophies.
He’s a pirate. Former pirate, maybe, given the fortress and the patrols and the way he talked about protecting people from the drowned. But the history is written in his posture, in the casual way he checks corners before entering them, in the weapons that look more natural on his body than clothes.
I should be afraid. Any sensible person would be afraid, trapped in a strange fortress with an orc who admits to abandoning men to die and carries enough blades to arm a small crew.
Instead, I’m... curious. And something else, something I don’t want to examine too closely. Something that pulses in my chest when I watch him move, when I remember the feel of his hand on my waist, steady and warm despite the storm.
Don’t.
The stairs end at a heavy wooden door, iron-banded and scarred. The orc produces a key—where from, I can’t tell—and works the lock with practiced efficiency.
“The room.” He pushes the door open, stepping aside. “There’s dry clothes in the chest. The window’s too small to climb through, so don’t bother trying.”
“You’ve hosted unwilling guests before.”
“I’ve made mistakes before.” His gaze meets mine. Holds. “Letting people run into danger they can’t handle. Trusting them to make smart choices.”
“And you think I can’t make smart choices?”
“I think you bought cursed gold from a gent in Saltmere. I think you’ve spent months running from things you don’t understand. I think you nearly drowned and your first instinct was to reach for your knives.” He tilts his head, studying me with those storm-cloud eyes. “You’re a survivor. But smart? That remains to be seen.”
I want to argue. Want to snap back with something sharp and cutting, the way I do when men try to put me in boxes. But he’s not wrong. Nothing about the last few months has been smart. I’ve been reacting, running, surviving moment to moment without ever asking why.
“Get some sleep.” He’s turning away. “We’ll talk in the morning. When the dead have retreated and the sun makes everything slightly less terrible.”
“Wait.” The word escapes before I can stop it. He pauses, his back to me. “I don’t even know your name.”
A beat of silence. Then, without turning: “Zoric.”
“Aviora.”
“I know.” He starts walking again. “The gold told me.”
And then he’s gone, swallowed by the dark passage, leaving me alone with questions I don’t have answers for and a pouch full of hungry metal that apparently knows my name.
I step into the room. Lock the door behind me.
The space is small but functional—a bed with blankets that look reasonably clean, a chest that does indeed contain dry clothes, a window barely wider than my shoulders that shows nothing but rain and darkness. The walls weep moisture, but it’s better than the sea. Better than the dead.
I strip out of my sodden clothes, pulling on a loose shirt and breeches that are too large but blessedly dry. My injuries protest—the gash on my hip, my twisted ankle, the dozen smaller cuts and bruises I acquired in the wreck. I should tend to them. Clean them, at least, before infection sets in.
Instead, I collapse on the bed.
The coins sit on the table beside me. I can feel their hunger even through the leather, that icy pull that never stops, never rests, never lets me forget what I’m carrying. Months of running, endlessly running, because staying means becoming like them.
Like Finn.
