I push the thought away. Close my eyes. Let the rhythm of Zoric’s breathing lull me toward an uneasy rest.
I’min the water by the time the sun crests the horizon, my body screaming protest at the cold that hasn’t fully left my bones from yesterday. Zoric dives beside me, and we descend into the gray.
The Seagrave is our target today—the wreck I recalculated during the planning session. She’s deeper than theMaiden’s Rose, sitting on a shelf that drops away into darkness below. The depth Margit warned about. The depth where no one dives without consequences.
We find her exactly where I predicted. Hull broken across a reef, cargo scattered down the slope in a debris field that glitters faintly with the Wrecktide’s unnatural phosphorescence.
I signal Zoric: Split up. Cover more ground.
He hesitates. His grip on my arm tightens, and even through the water, I can read the reluctance in his body language. But time is against us. Thousands in gold don’t wait for caution.
He releases me. Swims toward the stern while I head for the bow.
The captain’s cabin is located forward on most merchant vessels. If the Seagrave was carrying anything valuable that wasn’t official cargo, that’s where it would be. Personal effects. Secret compartments. The kind of hiding spots that customs officials never find and salvagers learn to exploit.
The door is jammed—warped timber wedged against a collapsed beam. I brace my feet against the frame and pull. My lungs burn. My muscles scream. The door shifts an inch, then another, then breaks free with a surge of silt that clouds my vision.
Inside: chaos. The cabin has been tumbled by the ship’s final moments, furniture smashed against walls, personal effects scattered across every surface. But there—in the corner—a desk still bolted to the floor. Drawers intact.
I swim to it. Yank open the first drawer. Papers, ruined by water. The second holds navigational equipment—useless. The third?—
A lockbox.
Small, iron, heavy in my hands. The lock is rusted but intact. I don’t have time to pick it down here—my lungs are screaming, my vision starting to blur at the edges. I tuck the box under my arm and push for the surface.
I break into air gasping, coughing, my body shaking with cold and oxygen deprivation. The patrol boat is twenty yards away. I swim for it on arms that feel made of lead.
Zoric surfaces beside me moments later. His hands close on my waist underwater, steadying me when I start to sink.
“Found something.” I manage between gasps.
“So did I.” He holds up a fistful of jewelry—rings, mostly, and what looks like a gold chain thick enough to anchor a ship. “Noble family’s belongings. Must have been fleeing when they went down.”
We swim for the boat. Brek hauls me over the gunwale, his young face creased with concern at my obvious exhaustion.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” I’m not fine—I’m freezing and depleted and my fingers are too numb to work the lockbox properly. But we don’t have time for weakness. “Give me a knife.”
The lock breaks after three tries. The lid creaks open.
Inside: a leather journal, somehow preserved in a waxed pouch. And beneath it?—
Gems. A handful of rubies and sapphires, small but high quality. Maybe five hundred gold if we find the right buyer.
But it’s the journal that catches my attention.
The pages are warped but legible—the waxed pouch did its job. I flip through water-damaged entries, scanning for anything useful. Cargo manifests. Port schedules. The mundane details of a merchant captain’s life.
Then a name catches my eye.
Silver Fortune.
I stop. Read more carefully.
...spoke with Captain Merrit of the Silver Fortune before his departure. The tribute shipment concerns me—ninety-five thousand gold is too much to trust to these waters, even with the navy escort. He laughed at my caution. Said the deepchannel has been safe for generations. But the old sailors whisper about what sleeps beneath the Wrecktide’s heart. They say the Fortune’s route passes directly over the ancient feeding grounds...
The entry ends there. The next page is too water-damaged to read.
