“My concern is practical. Dead allies aren’t useful.”
She falls into step beside me as I head for the main corridor. Close enough that I can smell the salt still clinging to her hair, the faint hint of something else beneath it—something warm and alive that cuts through the perpetual damp of Dreadhaven.
Distance.
The corridor stretches ahead, torches guttering in the constant draft that bleeds through the stones. I’ve walked these passages a thousand times. Know every uneven flagstone, every place where the walls narrow, every chamber and alcove and hidden space. Dreadhaven has been my prison and my penance for years. I know it better than I know myself.
“The keep was built three centuries ago.” I keep my voice flat. Informational. “Naval fortress, meant to control access to the Storm Coast. The builders didn’t account for the Wrecktide—or maybe they did, and that’s why they chose this location.”
“Control the treacherous waters, control the trade routes.”
“Smart woman.”
“I’ve had practice.” She runs her hand along the wall as we walk, fingers tracing the patterns worn into the stone. “Salt erosion?”
“And something else. The locals say the marks are the drowned, trying to climb out of the water.” I don’t tell her that some nights, when the storms are bad, I can hear them—scratching at the stone, whispering names through the walls. Some truths are better left unspoken.
We pass one of the relic alcoves. She slows, studying the objects displayed there—a broken compass, a length of chain corroded beyond recognition, a knife with a handle carved from bone.
“Trophies?”
“Reminders.” I stop beside her. The knife draws my attention the way it does every time I pass—Oreth’s knife, the one he carried for years, the one I took from his body before I sealed the caves. “Of what I’ve done. What I’m trying to undo.”
She picks up the knife without asking. Turns it in her hands, testing the balance, reading the wear patterns. “This belonged to someone important.”
“To Oreth.” The name still tastes wrong in my mouth. “My first mate.”
“The dead man.”
“The dead man.” I take the knife from her—gently, but firmly—and return it to its place. “He was good with it. Better than me, in close quarters. We used to spar on the deck during calm weather, keeping the crew entertained.” The memory surfaces unbidden: Oreth’s laugh, the flash of his blade, the easy partnership we’d built over years of shared violence. “That was before.”
“Before the gold.”
“Before everything.” I turn from the alcove. “Come on. There’s more to see.”
We descend into the lower levels, where the walls run wet and the air tastes of brine. The tide is out, leaving the drainage channels empty, but I can hear the distant rush of water through the foundations—the sea pressing against the stone, waiting for its chance to reclaim what humans have built.
Aviora moves with a sailor’s awareness—checking her footing, keeping one hand near the wall, her attention split between the path ahead and the shadows around us. She’s donethis before. Navigated dark passages, uncertain terrain. I find myself wondering about her past, about the life that shaped her into this sharp-edged survivor.
None of your concern.
But I’m watching her anyway. Her movements. The set of her shoulders.
“The harbor is this way.” I gesture toward a passage on the left. “During the day, it’s safe enough. The drowned can’t tolerate direct sunlight—something about the curse breaks down in the light.”
“And at night?”
“At night, we seal the lower gates and hope the chains hold.”
The passage opens onto a ledge overlooking the harbor—that crescent of dark water I’ve watched for years, the iron chains stretched across its mouth. The distinction between cage and shield has never been clear.
Aviora steps to the edge, her gaze sweeping the water. In the morning light, it looks almost peaceful. No pale shapes. No cold glow. Just waves and stone and the distant cry of seabirds.
“How many ships can anchor here?”
“A dozen, if they’re careful. We rarely see more than two or three.” I move to stand beside her, keeping a careful distance. “Supply runs, mostly. Fishermen who know the safe routes. Occasionally someone foolish enough to think they can salvage the Wrecktide.”
“And the salvagers?”
