The crowd disperses, purpose giving them movement. Brek bounds toward the keep, probably to spread news that will reach every corner of the fortress within minutes. Margit and Ven head for the supplies. Even Henek moves, though his expression suggests he’s doing it under protest.
Zoric and I are left alone on the quay.
He pulls me against him. Wraps his arms around me. Holds on with the desperate strength of someone who came too close to losing everything.
“You’re shaking.” His voice rumbles against my ear.
“Cold.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. Terrified.” I bury my face in his chest. “I didn’t know if it would work. The whole time I was down there, facing that thing, releasing those memories—I didn’t know if I was going to make it back.”
“But you did.”
“But I did.”
He draws my face up gently. Kisses me—unhurried, full of promises neither of us has the energy to speak aloud. When he pulls back, his gaze holds something I’m still learning to name.
“Come on.” He takes my hand, threads his fingers through mine. “Let’s go home.”
Home.
The word settles in my chest. Not heavy—light. The first time in years that anywhere has felt like it might deserve that name.
We climb the cliff path hand in hand, leaving the harbor behind. Below us, the Wrecktide sparkles in the morning sun—ordinary water, ordinary waves, ordinary danger.
The curse is over.
The hunger is dead.
And for the first time since I swam for the surface while Finn drowned, I feel something I’d forgotten existed.
Peace.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ZORIC
The merchant vessel drops anchor at midday.
I watch from the wall walk as the crew lowers their longboat, as sailors row toward my harbor with the easy confidence of people who no longer fear these waters. A month ago, they would have given Dreadhaven’s coast a wide berth—would have risked the longer route around the Storm Coast’s treacherous headlands rather than test the Wrecktide’s hungry reefs. Now they anchor without hesitation. Now they come to trade.
Dreadhaven. The name no longer fits, I think. The harbor isn’t dreaded anymore. The fortress isn’t haunted. The waters that claimed thousands of ships over centuries have become just water.
A hand settles on my hip from behind. Familiar warmth presses against my back.
“That’s the third ship this week.” Aviora’s voice carries quiet satisfaction. “The word is spreading.”
“Merchant vessel out of Saltmere.” I turn into her touch, wrap my arm around her waist. She fits against my side like she was made to be there—all sharp angles and lean muscle, herhead barely reaching my shoulder. “They’re carrying cloth and spices. Want to trade for salvage.”
“Salvage.” Her mouth curves into that sharp smile I’ve come to recognize. “Funny how much treasure is lying around when the curse isn’t actively killing anyone who tries to retrieve it.”
“Funny.” I press my lips to her hair. “Also profitable.”
The month since we destroyed the ancient hunger has been one of transformation.
Dreadhaven’s walls still bear the scars of Oreth’s siege—cracked stone, patched canvas over shattered windows, the Eastern Collapse still a treacherous ruin of tumbled rock and seabird nests. But the damage feels different now. Temporary. Something to be repaired rather than endured.
