“Fine. Sit down.” He moves toward a table—scarred wood, salt-stained, clearly salvaged from some long-dead ship. “And for gods’ sake, eat something. You look like the drowned already took you.”
“Charming.”
“I’m not here to charm you.” He pulls bread and dried fish from a cabinet. Sets them on the table with more force than necessary. “I’m here to keep you alive long enough to help me kill a dead man. Charm is extra.”
I sit. Take the food he offers. Start eating, because he’s right—I’m starving, and dead people don’t help anyone.
THREE
ZORIC
She eats like someone who’s forgotten where her next meal is coming from.
I watch her tear into the bread and dried fish, her movements efficient, almost savage. No hesitation. No savoring. Just fuel going in, survival instinct overriding everything else. I’ve seen that kind of eating before—on ships running low on rations, in camps where food meant the difference between living and dying.
She doesn’t notice me watching. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care. Hard to tell with this one.
I should be focused on the situation. On the drowned massing in my waters, on the curse that’s been dormant for years, suddenly waking up hungry, on all the ways this could go wrong. Instead, I’m tracking details I have no tactical use for. The way her dark hair falls across her face when she leans over the table. The sharp line of her jaw. The calluses on her fingers, visible even from across the room.
“You’re staring at nothing.”
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. I look up to find her watching me despite her exhaustion.
“The maps.”
“The maps are behind you. You’re staring at the wall.” She tears off another piece of bread. “Something interesting about the stones, or are you just avoiding looking at me?”
Damn. She’s observant. I should have expected that—she didn’t survive months of cursed gold and shipwrecks by being oblivious.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“How much trouble you’ve brought to my door.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize. Just holds my gaze with something almost like amusement. “I didn’t ask to wash up here. The sea made that choice.”
“The sea doesn’t make choices. The curse does.” I move to the table, keeping the maps between us. Distance. I need distance. “It brought you here because it wanted me to see what’s coming. To know that Oreth is done waiting.”
“Thoughtful of it.”
“The curse isn’t thoughtful. It’s hungry. And right now, you’re its favorite meal.”
Something flickers in her expression. Fear, maybe—the kind she’s been pushing down for months. Then it’s gone, replaced by that sharp-edged composure.
“Then I’d better not be delicious.” She stands, brushing crumbs from her clothes.
“Show me the keep.” She’s moving toward the corridor. “If I’m going to fight a dead man in his own territory, I should know the terrain.”
“Who said anything about fighting?”
She stops. Turns. In the green-tinged light from the braziers, her face is all angles and challenge. “You did. Last night, when you told me the curse doesn’t let go. When you said we could destroy the hoard and end this.” Her brow rises. “Unless that was just talk.”
It wasn’t talk. I meant every word. But hearing her throw it back at me, seeing the determination in her stance—my chest tightens in ways I refuse to examine.
“Fine.” I push back from the table. “Stay close. The lower halls flood at high tide, and I’d rather not fish you out of the water twice in one day.”
“Your concern is touching.”
