“Oy! Over here, lad!” Cecco’s voice boomed over the chaos. The captain gripped the helm, fighting to keep the ship righted against the storm’s onslaught. Quentin launched up the stairs, clothes already soaked.
He came to a breathless halt beside the captain. “How can I help?—”
Another wave crashed into the starboard side of the ship, even larger and more violent than the ones before. The spokes of the wheel were wrenched from the captain’s hands, spinning out of control.
The ship tipped dangerously to the side.
“Help me! Grab the wheel!” the captain bellowed. “We’re going to lose her if we can’t keep her righted!”
Quentin’s mind was numb, the panic of the moment coursing through him, sharpening the world to only the things he could see, touch, feel. He grabbed the spinning wheel, throwing his shoulder into the spokes, letting out a cry as he used his body to stop the violent spinning. Cecco gripped it on the other side, heaving down with all his weight, fighting to get the wheel to turn.
They had the wheel caught, but still the ship listed dangerously to port. The hull groaned, the floorboards shifting.
Quentin realized his eyes were closed. Between pants, fighting for his breath, and shoving down the burning in his muscles and the bite of the wheel on his shoulder, he cracked them open.
His world narrowed with terrified, icy dread.
The horizon, dark and frothy with the rage of the storm, had tilted. Waves continued to crash into the starboard side of the ship—where the bottom of the hull was almost fully exposed.
It didn’t matter how much he and the captain fought.
The ship was about to capsize.
Cecco strained beside him, and Quentin saw his same fear reflected in the captain’s eyes.
“We have to abandon ship,” Cecco said, voice nearly a whisper, almost impossible to hear over the roaring of the storm.
“How is this possible?” Quentin gritted his teeth, biting out the words as he fought against the pull of the wheel. “Where did this come from?”
Cecco only shook his head. “Some things about the sea cannot be explained, boy,” he said. “Perhaps the stories the pirates tell about the return of their vengeful goddess are true.”
“The return of their…”
Oh,fuck.
“What are your orders, Captain?” Cecco’s first mate appeared on the steps to the helm, gripping tightly to the railing as the ship tilted and creaked around them.
A hard, quiet resolve filled Cecco’s weathered expression. Rain lashed around him, his long beard gnarled and tangled in the wind.
“Get the lifeboats unstrung, gather the fire-wielders to ready signal flares?—”
Another massive wave—perhaps the largest one yet—crested over the starboard side of the ship, fully engulfing the tipping vessel. A monstrous onslaught of water and rage, fury and destruction in liquid form.
Somewhere, Quentin swore he heard a feminine battle cry amidst the storm, followed by the roar of a dragon.
He couldn’t search the skies. He was plunged viscously into dark, biting waters. The currents yanked him from the helm, and he hit the depths with a furious pull.
Rushing water was everywhere. It was all he knew. He fought and struggled, water filling his mouth, his nose, his ears. His chest burned, and he felt everything begin to waver, begin to fade…
Delaynie.
Her name thrummed through him like a pulse. A lifeline thrown to him beneath the waves. Quentin’s eyes flew open, burning in the salty water.
Above, he saw the surface, the ship’s lights still illuminated.
With every ounce of strength he had left, he pulled himself toward those lights. His body screamed, protested, fought against him, but still he swam up, up, up?—
He broke the surface with a desperate, coughing inhale, head swimming as sweet, beautiful air filled his lungs. Men screamed, wood snapped and broke, and pieces of the ship fell into the sea. He sputtered, wiping the salt from his eyes.
