Page 82 of Crownless Heirs

Kyron smirked as Maelan held up his glass without saying a word.

Niall raised his voice just enough to cut through the laughter. “We need to find Leighis. I believe she’s in danger.”

He looked at Fergal, who already seemed irritated.

“Dunmara is the fort of the seas,” Fergal said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a short trip, unless she’s moved. But it’s been months, Niall. She left everything behind.”

Sorcha pulled out the list again, searching for the name she swore she recognized. “She’s the daughter of Airmed, the goddess of healing. If Leighis inherited any of that, she could be vital. We’ll need her.”

Fergal let out a breath through his nose, clearly frustrated. “Fine,” he drawled. “Let’s eat, then I’ll pack.”

The rest of the meal circled back to the survivor Sorcha had heard about.

Fergal cracked a crab leg in half, juice spraying slightly. “The whole town’s heard of it. Most think drifting at sea drove him mad.”

He bit into the meat and spoke around it. “He kept rambling about a giant serpent. Said it came up from the deep, tore the ship apart with its rows of teeth.”

He broke another leg and reached for butter just as Niall dove in, hand sliding under Fergal’s arm.

“Oi—get your own!” Fergal barked, but Niall ripped a leg free and held it up triumphantly.

“You sneaky bastard,” Fergal growled. “That’s my crab leg!”

He swiped at Niall, but Niall was already halfway through it, slurping the meat and tossing the shell back onto the table.

Kyron, Maelan, and Sorcha watched while the two bickered over food like dogs at market. Sorcha leaned in close, just loud enough for Maelan and Kyron to hear.

“We need to find that man. Whatever happened out there, we need to know so we’re prepared.”

“And Niall?” Kyron asked, eyeing the mess.

Sorcha paused, then shrugged. “He’s coming with us.”

The docks were alive with noise, ropes snapping, crates dropping, waves slapping the stone cliffs. Sorcha walked ahead, Maelan, Kyron and Niall just behind her. They moved through the crowd, asking questions where they could. Most people brushed them off, busy or uninterested. A few gave vague directions. No one had answers.

Finally, an older woman elbow-deep in shrimp looked up.

“You’re after the one who lived, aren’t you?”

Sorcha stopped. “You know who he is?”

The woman nodded, flicking a shell aside. “Cavan. Used to work the ships. Doesn’t anymore. Drinks now. Every day.”

“Where?” Kyron asked.

She pointed down the far end of the dock. “No-name tavern, built right into the rock. You’ll smell it before you see it.”

“Thank you,” Sorcha said, but the woman had already turned back to her work.

They walked on, the sound of gulls fading behind them. The dock narrowed, boards turning slick underfoot. A few sailors sat smoking outside a rusted shack, watching them approach.

“We heard you’re looking for Cavan,” one of them said without being asked. His voice was low, steady. “You’ll find him in the cliff side tavern. South edge of town.”

Maelan raised an eyebrow. “He always there?”

The man nodded. “Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t talk much either. But he screams in his sleep.”

Kyron exchanged a look with Sorcha. “Sounds promising.”