“What comes next,” she echoes. “I’ve never been very good at thinking that far ahead.”
“That’s why you have me.”
Her laugh is muffled against my chest. “Tactical observation?”
“Strategic planning.” I press my lips to the top of her head. “Get some sleep. We start at dawn.”
Night falls.The keep settles into uneasy quiet.
I stand on the wall walk, looking out at the Wrecktide. The water is calm—too calm, the surface smooth as black glass beneath the stars. Gyla’s ships ride at anchor in the harbor, their lanterns casting reflections that dance like ghost lights.
The wrongness I’ve been sensing for days hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown stronger.
I’ve watched these waters for years. Learned their rhythms. The way currents shift with the tide, the way temperature changes signal depth variations, the subtle signs that warn of danger or promise safety.
The waves against the cliffs sound muted, dampened. The seabirds that normally scream through the darkness are silent.
We destroyed Oreth. Scattered his curse. But the gold that created him came from somewhere. The ancient treasurypredated his rise. And whatever was old enough to create that curse might be old enough to notice its destruction.
The Wrecktide feels different now. Watching. Waiting.
The thought surfaces from somewhere deep—instinct or paranoia, I can’t tell which.
Behind me, a door opens. Soft footsteps cross the stone.
“You should be sleeping.” Aviora’s voice is quiet in the darkness.
“So should you.”
She moves to stand beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. Her gaze follows mine to the water.
“It feels wrong.” Not a question. She senses it too.
“The curse is gone.”
“Yes.” She pauses. “But I don’t think we’re alone out there.”
We stand in the starlight, watching waters that have claimed more lives than any reef or storm alone could explain.
A few days. Fifty-five thousand gold. And the growing certainty that destroying Oreth was only the beginning.
TWENTY-ONE
AVIORA
Dawn breaks gray and cold over Dreadhaven.
I stand at the harbor quay, checking dive lines for the third time. The repaired equipment passed inspection last night, but my hands need occupation while my mind runs through calculations I’ve already finished. Depth estimates. Current patterns. The mathematics of pulling gold from water that doesn’t want to give anything back.
Gyla’s ships sit at anchor fifty yards out, their lanterns still burning in the pre-dawn murk. Watching. Waiting. The silk dress she sent hangs in Zoric’s quarters—a reminder of what happens if we fail.
Two days left.
The thought settles in my chest, heavy and cold. Even with every wreck I’ve identified, even with optimal conditions and zero complications, the numbers barely work.
“Ready?”
Zoric’s voice comes from behind me. I don’t turn—don’t need to. I’ve learned his footsteps over the past few days, the particular rhythm of his gait on stone. My body recognizes him before my mind catches up.
