Drowned Sea Preview

Chapter One

A shark with sails crept across the whitecaps, hunting its prey. The two-masted brig’s hull cut the obsidian sea like a blade through skin. From the mainmast flew its dorsal fin: a turquoise flag embroidered with the crossing white cutlasses of the Avowed—loyalist pirates sworn to obey their king and the Cutthroat Code. Not that the Code made them good men. Such laws only made the Cutthroats more dangerous.

On the main deck of the Widowmaker, these piranhas grinned and gasped for the blood to come. They wore an uncoordinated assortment of vibrant fabrics, leather hats, and golden jewelry—all of which had been stolen. Each loaded flintlocks and unsheathed cutlasses, anxiously awaiting the night’s raid as the ship steered toward a lantern bobbing in the darkness, a bright light surrounded by dim stars.

Where there’s a lantern, there’s a ship. Where there’s a ship, there’s power, Raskel thought. He stood at the bow, the paragon of Avowed captains: stoic, staunch, and savage. His black tricorn hat sat askew, and a yellow overcoat hid a red vest, blue shirt, and black breeches underneath. The storied white cutlass remained sheathed at his side, though its colored blade had worn gray with heavy use. Raskel’s hand never strayed far from the ivory hilt.

Especially not during a raid.

His prey came into view: a single-masted sloop whose rigging was in disrepair. Not dismasted, despite the hurricanes that plagued the east, but not unscathed either. Holes riddled the sails and widened with each gale. Yet the ship was still afloat, so the damage was fixable. With new sails, the sloop would once again carve the sea and capture slower vessels, which meant more money, more ships, more everything.

“Small ships have small crews,” Raskel said, licking his chapped lips. “We’ll take them quick.”

And if we’re lucky, there’ll be some women to take too. The thought gave way to a hungry smile. Few women sailed, fewer still on sloops, but it was still a possibility. Last year, Raskel had found two hiding within a sloop bound for the northern island colonies. That had been a great raid, and an even better night—

“But, captain, there ain’t anybody to take,” said a nasally voice too close to Raskel’s shoulder.

The thought of women fell to the depths below as Raskel snapped out of his reverie. He spun, facing a Cutthroat whose narrow face was accentuated in all the wrong ways by a golden septum ring. “Jacobs,” Raskel said in a cold greeting. His right hand clenched the hilt of his cutlass as he added, “Sneaking up on a man like that is a good way to get yourself killed.”

“Mayhap, captain, but… look. There ain’t no one on that ship,” said Jacobs, wearing soiled Aritrastan clothing stolen during previous raids: a white frill shirt and a black leather vest. Both were more fashionable than functional, revealing his northern blood and blue skin.

Raskel pushed Jacobs away and studied the sloop through his spyglass. Though the lantern rested precariously on the railing of the crow’s nest, no one trimmed the sails or climbed the ratlines. Nor were there any men walking along the deck or holding the helm. The vessel skulked through the sea as if commanded by Eo, the night Goddess.

Raskel shook his head, though it didn’t change what he saw. “That ain’t possible. That ship would’ve sunk by now.”

“Mayhap it’s a ghost ship,” Jacobs said before murmuring a prayer and cutting his knuckle with the edge of a knife to ward away evil spirits.

“It’s just planks and timbers, Jacobs. Nothing more.” Raskel frowned as other Aritrastan Cutthroats made complex hand gestures and tossed coins into the ocean for safe passage. Even the minority of gray-skinned Corinthian Cutthroats clutched at gold pendants and bowed their heads in silent prayer to their sun God, who held little sway over this Godless, monstrous sea.

Ignoring their foolishness, Raskel turned to the four Aritrastan sentinels, whose job it was to stand by the port and starboard gunwales to watch the sea for syrens. The sentinels held daggers, but all Cutthroats knew a blade wouldn’t stop the deep terrors from attacking. Weapons were false hope—fool’s gold.

The Drowned Sea would always take what it wanted.

“Any sign of syrens tonight?” Raskel asked, refusing to stand too close to the rail. He’d seen those horrid monsters before. All Cutthroats had. Syrens were attracted to corpses, as were all deep terrors whose names were lost in the sea. Creatures of the Black Trench and the Damned Depths.

“Nothing yet, captain,” they replied successively, adding yet in hopes of avoiding a fatal jinx—not that the precaution was ever a guarantee.

Nothing was.

As clouds surged from the east and strangled the night sky, plunging both ships into deeper shadows, Captain Raskel discovered another omen in the dead space between stars: Eo’s smile. On the far horizon, the crescent moon formed the Goddess’s crooked smile, mirroring the scowling reflection in the waters beneath. Superstition foretold of great fortune or great danger, because the Goddess always smiled when She watched mortals closely.

Raskel wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t about to succumb to superstition either. Not when a ship was so close at hand.

“Nobody’s at the helm, but it’s sailing straight, captain,” Jacobs said. “We should give it a broadside. Sink it and—”

“Nobody’s sinking that ship,” Raskel said, his hand moving from his cutlass to a flintlock pistol.

Jacobs thrust his chin up. “We should vote on it.”

“We don’t vote during raids, Jacobs,” Raskel said, staring down at him. “I’m captain, and I say we’re taking that ship.”

Eyes narrowing, Jacobs stepped closer. “I have as much a voice as—”

Raskel’s fist smashed into Jacobs’s jaw, and the Cutthroat crumbled to the ground near the captain’s feet. “Your voice is as small as your prick, Jacobs. Next time, keep your squalling mouth shut.”

Jacobs gasped like a fish, spitting a tooth into his outstretched palm before pulling himself to his feet. “There ain’t gonna be a next time, captain,” Jacobs spat, snarling as he reached for his flintlock.

Raskel raised his own pistol, but a knife slit Jacobs’s throat before he could fire. Gurgling, Jacobs sank to the ground and grasped at his torn flesh even as the blood spilled between his fingers. Not a sound was made as he choked to death, eyes rolling back into his head before his body stilled.

As crimson dripped from his dagger, Marius stood solemnly over the dead man. The first mate didn’t shiver despite his simplistic Corinthian garb: sandals, a leather skirt, and an orange-and-white headdress. With a flourish, he sheathed the dagger at his belt, where several more just like it waited for blood. Quietly, Marius said, “You are quite right, Jacobs. There will not be a next time.”

Nodding to Marius in thanks, Raskel addressed the accusatory glares surrounding him. “Nobody disrupts a raid. Everybody knows that. Jacobs knew that, too, because that’s what we voted on before we left Port Noble.”

Begrudging mumbles and nods revealed the crew’s acceptance, and Raskel let out an uneasy breath. To Marius, he said, “You saved my life again.”

Marius put a hand on Raskel’s shoulder and squeezed. “You’d have done the same for me, captain.”

“I have done the same for you,” Raskel said, which only made the Corinthian smirk. To a couple of Cutthroats nearby, Raskel added, “Chum the waters with that corpse. Bless our ship.”

They grabbed Jacobs’s body and spat on it, ensuring that he wouldn’t endure a half-life as one of the damned, one of the Drowned. Then they threw him overboard. It was too dark to see if hands yanked the corpse beneath the waves, or if it sank of its own accord.

A howling wail rose from the decrepit sloop across the water. It was sourceless, echoing off the mast, the sails, the winds above, and the waves below as it formed into words. A song as raspy and beautiful as it was haunting.

The Gods forgot, but She did not,

The promise They made to Her.

Her tears fell, storm and rain.

Her wails echoed thunder.

Forgotten by, She said on high,

Forgotten by the sea.

You’ll pay the price for your deeds.

You’ll pay eternally.

Raskel’s men all fell silent. Eagerness ebbed from their still bodies only to be absorbed by that chilling voice.

“Undo’s song,” a Cutthroat said, breaking the silence. “A wraith’s singing Undo’s song.”

“It’s nothing but a sham.” Raskel’s voice was lined with lead, his throat devoid of moisture. He swallowed hard. A few Cutthroats muttered prayers to Undo, but Raskel only tensed his jaw. “Are you men so craven that a voice would scare you away? You made an oath—a vow—when you became Avowed. Fulfill it and prepare to board. Now!”

Stealth forgotten, the crew shouted in excitement and horror as their ship pulled alongside the smaller sloop. Four Avowed hefted a long, thick boarding plank above the gunwale to span the gap between vessels. They secured the plank with rope, and Raskel was the first across it, flintlock and cutlass raised as he jumped onto the sloop’s deck. Others followed, carrying lanterns which revealed thick trails of dried blood and gunpowder residue that even the waves had failed to wash away.

Lots of men died here, Raskel thought. But who killed them?

A shrieking laugh echoed beneath the deck, so chilling that even Raskel felt fleshless hands grip his spine. Several Avowed shrank back, their fingers quivering as they pointed their flintlocks in all directions.

“Stay the course, men.” Raskel walked along the deck, passing the bloodstains and the gunpowder tracings to stare up at the lantern in the crow’s nest. The light was positioned so it could be seen for dozens of miles on a clear night in the open sea.

A beacon. A harbinger.

“I don’t like this,” Marius whispered, now standing at Raskel’s side. “Feels like a trap.”

“Something tells me that the trap was already sprung.” But for all the iron in his voice, Raskel’s stomach sank below his navel. He unsheathed his cutlass and pointed its edge at a group of Cutthroats. “You lot! Down the hatch. We’re searching the ship!”

Raskel followed his men down the ladder, overwhelmed by the growing scent of gunpowder. “Only steel until we find the crew,” he said, watching as the other Cutthroats holstered their pistols. “Any shot could set the entire hull ablaze.”

The shadows lengthened and withered as the Cutthroats swung their lanterns, finding nothing except crimson stains and emaciated rats whose empty eyes glowed from the shadows. On the gun deck, they found barrels of gunpowder between cannons, but as Raskel pushed one with a boot, it rolled away with ease.

“Empty,” he said, his voice dying in the darkness. “Why are they empty?”

Glass shattered above, followed by erupting cries from the main deck. Shots rang through the air, and the screams silenced. The deck grew warmer, hot even. Raskel turned and stared up the hatchway, seeing a strange glow intensifying.

It’s not just a trap… it’s a tomb.

Forgetting the others, Raskel raced to the main deck and emerged into an inferno.

Ash swirled through the air, and glass fragments from the broken lantern glittered across the planks. Bleeding men burned and sizzled as licking tendrils trapped and consumed them.

Raskel backed away until he hit the gunwale. “What happened?” he sputtered as smoke choked his lungs.

“The shadows, captain! They came alive!” an Avowed said. His eyes widened as he pointed behind the captain. “Look! There it is!”

Raskel whirled around, staring across the plank at his brig to find a dozen of his crew dead on the deck with their eyes glazed, throats torn, and entrails spilled. “By the Gods.”

Two red eyes emerged from the dark mainmast of his ship. A shadow stepped forth, tore away the mooring knots at the gunwale with clawed hands, and kicked the plank into the frothing waves below.

Raskel stiffened as the shadow stared at him. He took an instinctive step backward before the fire’s heat forced him to stop. The moment he raised his flintlock, the shadow was gone, indiscernible from the masts and the rigging. Raskel kept his gun raised, though there was nothing to shoot.

Behind him, fiery ropes snapped, and the ship lurched. Raskel stumbled away from the flames as a strip of sail fell on Marius, who burned with it. The first mate frantically ripped at the cloth and screamed for Raskel, who was too far away to do anything but watch him die.

“Marius…” Raskel trailed away. Nothing he said would reach Marius now—the flesh of his ears popped, sizzled, and melted as the fire consumed him. Mouth, nose, face—all gone. Strange that, after having spent so long fighting side by side, Marius had died out of reach. Painful was too simple a word for it.

More ropes frayed and cut loose, swinging wildly like the tentacles of a kraken. A crack of thunder exploded beneath them, a deposit of gunpowder catching fire and blowing a hole through the hull. The sloop groaned, crippled and sinking, as Raskel’s brig pulled away.

“No, no! How dareyou take my ship! Damn you! Damn you!” Raskel shouted, firing his flintlock at the shadows, though the bullet made no difference. He tossed the gun aside and drew a loaded one from his holster but didn’t shoot again. He couldn’t afford to waste another shot.

The sloop continued to burn, listing to the starboard side, further from the safety of Raskel’s ship. He stumbled, only to be caught by an Avowed teenager who looked too confused to be afraid.

“Captain, what do we do?” the Cutthroat asked.

“Jump for it!” Raskel shouted as he sprinted through the raging fires and leaped over the gunwale. His head slammed into the hull as his fingers curled around the ratlines.

A dozen Cutthroats followed the captain’s lead and leaped for the Widowmaker. All but two lost their grip and slipped into the sea below. Then there was laughter, which bubbled up from the abyssal waves. High-pitched, like the laughter of children. Except it was maddening and ceaseless.

The unending laughter of syrens.

Though he did not see their horrid, misshapen faces, Raskel saw the silhouettes of their humanoid forms as they broke the water’s surface—and the necks of the Cutthroats. Gray, long-clawed, and webbed fingers raked through flesh and pulled the Avowed beneath the surface. One drowning Cutthroat fought back, stabbing at the gray horde with a cutlass while treading water, which only made the syrens laugh harder. They ripped him to pieces, and his blood turned the whitecaps crimson.

The syrens never stopped laughing, but the sea swept away their voices as they slunk back into its depths. In their wake, the silence was worse.

Raskel had no time to grieve. Instead, he clambered up the ropes. So did the other two Avowed near the other mast, but as they climbed, the red-eyed shadow reemerged. Gunshots rang through the scream-filled air, and both Cutthroats fell from the side of the ship, dead before the sea could drown them.

The syrens took those corpses too.

Alone but unscathed, Raskel hefted himself over the gunwale and pulled himself to his feet—only to feel a sword slip between his ribs.

Raskel stared in disbelief at his chest as red eyes gleamed before him. The shadow kicked him backward, twisting the blade as it slid from his flesh. The captain’s legs buckled as he gasped. Tears spilled from his eyes. His back slammed into the gunwale, and he fumbled for his last flintlock just before the sword skewered his hand against the deck.

Raskel screamed for what felt like minutes, hours even.

Then the moon cleared the darkness from the shadow’s face, revealing black paint covering leather armor, bow, arrows, blades, flintlocks, and bare skin.

For the first time, the adrenaline that had carried Raskel through countless battles subsided, and mortality weighed heavily on his screaming chest. He slumped against the gunwale as his lungs filled with blood. “Ain’t a shadow at all, are you? Not a monster, just painted to look like one.”

It stared at him, silent as it stole his white cutlass and leveled a flintlock pistol at his head.

“You tricked us. Lured us in so you could take my ship, kill my crew.” The world dimmed as Raskel’s blinks lengthened. More blood dribbled from his lips as he asked, “But… why? You already had a ship. Why burn yours to take ours?”

“Why not?” it sneered, voice containing more fire and rage than even the wreckage glowing behind him.

“Damn you,” Raskel coughed between rattling half-breaths. “Damn you to the Core.”

“We are all damned.”

The gunpowder ignited, and a lead ball shattered Raskel’s skull.

Chapter Two

The shadow left the Avowed captain’s corpse to rot on the main deck. She descended the ladder with a cutlass in one hand and a lantern in the other. The darkness sneered at her from crevices as she made her way toward the lowest deck. Yet the shadow hadn’t needed the light to find what she was looking for. She only had to follow the smell.

Shit, piss, and bile permeated the air as the shadow opened the door to the slavehold. She raised the lantern, revealing thirty-six chained slaves shoved into cages. Some scrambled back from the light like rats. Others mumbled and prayed amidst growing sobs.

Pathetic, the shadow thought without an ounce of empathy. I need killers. Not rats.

She almost turned around and abandoned the men, but one slave—isolated from the others and kept in a private cage—made her hesitate. A hulking man with ripcord muscles, he was filthy and covered in rags. His nails were long and grimy, and his feet bled from where the rats nipped him. White dandruff flakes salted his greasy black hair, and open sores oozed across his scaly skin. Scars marred his body, some from scurvy but most from blades and knuckles. It wasn’t his appearance that she focused on, but the way the slave held himself—he didn’t back away from her as the others had. Instead, he tried to stand straighter, would have if not for the chains that bound him to the floor. A killer?

The shadow smiled, offering a crooked expression filled with patient rage—a mockery of a crescent moon. It only made the slaves cower further.

“Are you Eo?” one slave asked as fear, thirst, and death clung to his words.

Eo. The name echoed around the compartment, the slaves’ voices a mixture of hope and awe. Some sniffed and wiped away tears, but a few of the weaker ones openly wept.

The shadow ignored them. Her eye twitched, though none could see it. She hated the Gods, Eo foremost among the pantheon. The Gods are silent, the shadow thought. That is why your precious Goddess is unseen and unheard. But I will speak for Her. I will make you all believers—my believers. So long as you all can be of use.

Her grin widened as she approached the isolated slave and asked, “Are you a killer or a rat?” Her voice was grim and quiet, yet as loud as a cannon in the silence between words and breaths.

“I’m Greeley,” he said, still straining against his chains.

“Greeley,” the shadow echoed, rolling the name across her tongue. She liked the taste of it. “A killer, then.” She inched closer. “But what use is a killer in a cage?”

“Open it and find out,” Greeley said, maintaining eye contact.

I can use this one. Her grin didn’t waver, but the darkness around the lantern constricted tighter. As did the silence. Then metal clinked as the shadow pulled out a ring of keys, dangling them in front of Greeley while standing out of his reach. “You are strong, Greeley, but you could be much stronger.”

“You think you’re stronger than me?” Greeley asked, baring his teeth.

“I know I am,” the shadow said, dropping the keys at Greeley’s feet. “Give me your strength, Greeley, and I will make you a warrior. Give me your loyalty, and I will make you a leader. Give me both, and I will make you a Champion. It is what you want most in life, is it not?”

“How do you know what I want?” Greeley asked, kneeling to grab the keys before fiddling with his manacles. The metal chains fell from his hands as Greeley turned his attention to the door.

“All men want the same thing.” The shadow watched Greeley’s eyes, expression, and movements. He was determined and focused, but he didn’t look like one who was grateful for freedom. He is going to attack me, she thought coldly. Good. Quietly, she took two steps backward and opened the lantern with painted fingers in preparation. Come at me, Greeley. Face your master.

As Greeley turned the lock and threw open the door, she extinguished the light and stepped to the side, ducking low. The wind whooshed above her shaved head as she turned and stood behind the killer. Silently, she drew her talan and held the curved dagger against his throat. “All men want control,” she whispered, jamming a flintlock into his lower back without pulling the trigger. “But only a Champion has that. Others do as they are told. Walk.”

Greeley walked, and together, they ascended to the main deck. There, he saw her level of control.

Blood-soaked corpses laid on the deck. Most had torn throats, but the dead captain had a bullet between his eyes. A pillar of fire, smoke, and ash rose in the distance as a sloop—her sloop—sank into the frigid waters. Several small figures ran along its deck, trapped both by the flames aboard and the laughing syrens waiting for them to dive into the sea. Rather than await their slow deaths, some pressed pistols to their heads and pulled the triggers. Gunshots rang out as their bodies tumbled into the outstretched arms of the deep terrors who ate them merrily. Before long, only the burning crow’s nest was all that remained of the sloop. But even that was claimed by the Drowned Sea.

“You did… all of this?” Greeley asked as the menace vanished from his voice.

“This is what it means to be a Champion, Greeley. To control. But strength is nothing without loyalty. Loyalty is nothing without strength. I need both. Will you give them to me?”

Greeley relaxed, somehow calmed by the mayhem. “Yes.”

“Good.” The shadow removed the gun from his back and the knife from his throat. “Now face me.”

Greeley did as he was told.

“Go, Greeley,” the shadow said. “Release the other killers, but leave the cowards—the rats—to rot.”

Greeley nodded, turned, and was swallowed by darkness once more.

The shadow smiled as she waited, having found her first follower. Greeley would be a strong and loyal warrior, but a Champion? Never. He’d be a useful tool, as would the rest. They’d play their part as long as she kept them busy and exhausted. Just as she’d been taught.

Eventually, Greeley returned with others, but not all. The shadow smiled in satisfaction as she heard the wailing screams of cowards left to rot below deck. Had all the prisoners been released, there’d be no reminder of their enslavement. No anchor. No iron spike to drive the memory through their skin and into their hearts.

Good. Let them scream. I have no use for cowards.

The killers assembled before her, picking their way through the bodies left in her wake. Each took a moment to gaze upon the dead but not spit, leaving them to the fate of the Drowned. Their bodies would drift into the black depths, and their souls would remain anchored to the bloated flesh, never finding rest.

Let them have their hatred as I have mine, the shadow thought, seeing the lust for violence grow in their eyes just as it had in Greeley’s. Let it drive out everything else. Let it exhaust them.

Then she spoke in Aenuite, the tongue of the eastern jungles, because the slaves wouldn’t understand her words. Though the torrent of ebbing and flowing syllables sounded mystical and musical, she uttered a trail of obscenities against the silent Gods who had been deaf to her pleas. “Damned be the Gods. Cursed be Their Swords, Belts, and Crowns. Drown Them in the depths. Burn Them in the Core. Let Them know my pain.” She waited, allowing the echo to fade, before switching back into the common Aritrastan tongue. “Praise be to You, Eo. My patron, my Unseen Lady.”

“You’re… not Eo?” one man asked. “Then who are you?”

“I am Lilyth the Red—Eo’s Champion. The Unseen Lady came to me many moons ago and offered me Her blessings. Now, I am here to purge these seas in Her name. Praise be to our Goddess.”

Lilyth reached down, dipping two fingers into the Avowed captain’s blood before walking to Greeley. In a solemn, practiced gesture, she smeared the blood across his forehead into a sideways crescent moon. After, she offered another quick, blasphemous prayer in the ebbing Aenuite tongue.

“You are first to be freed, and you stand apart from the rest.” Lilyth grabbed Greeley’s right hand and pressed it into the blood at their feet. “For your strength this night, I name you the Red Hand—my lieutenant.”

Red Hand. The name was meaningless to Lilyth, but she knew the weight of such titles: the promise of respect, of glory, of control. Yet she hadn’t sworn a Drowned Sea oath for this promise, so she had no intention of keeping it.

Lilyth turned to the rest of the freed slaves and asked, “Who will be next to carry the Mark?”

Mark. Another name. Another empty ritual. Another anchor to exhaust them.

One by one, the men approached until all but the cowards below had received the crescent mark on their foreheads. Yet all of them stared wistfully at Greeley’s red hand, which marked him as higher than them. It was the beginning of a hierarchy. Good.

As Greeley stood at Lilyth’s right hand, she spoke to all of them. “You are my Red Legion. The Chosen of the Unseen Lady. You are as much mine as I am yours. Just as we are all Hers.”

Chosen. Another title. Another lie.

Lilyth gestured grandly at the fading visage of the burning ship. “Together, we will be a scourge upon these seas and bring ruin to these Cutthroats. Together, we will be stronger than any chain. Together, we will be unbreakable. Together, we are the night!”

Lilyth the Red grinned at each of her legionnaires. They grinned back as she shouted, “Strength and loyalty!”

“Loyalty and strength!” the Red Legion shouted back.

Good, Lilyth thought. Very good.

Then she ordered the legionnaires to complete various tasks across the ship—they obeyed without question. One piloted the helm, three navigated by constellations and star charts, a dozen tended to the sails, and the rest looted the corpses before hurling their bodies overboard.

Though she could not see the syrens, Lilyth knew they were there. Just beneath the surface. Waiting. Always waiting.

“There will be plenty more soon,” Lilyth said to them, gripping the rail tighter even as splinters stabbed her palms. She fought to keep the past at bay, but the sight of the waves, the smell of brine, and the sound of creaking planks dredged up memories best left forgotten. Those of drowning. Of cannons. Of blood. Of Cutthroats. Of being trapped in a wooden coffin floating across this endless sea—

Lilyth bit down on her tongue hard enough to draw blood, and the sharp pain returned her to the present moment. Remember why you are here, she thought. Remember why you are doing this. It will all be worth it in the end. It has to be.

Lilyth pulled out the necklace she always wore beneath her armor: a leather string with brown clay beads and a single worn feather. Her fingers brushed it as she remembered the daughter who had worn the necklace, lost it. A young girl with brown hair and eyes, a mischievous smile, and chubby legs and hands. The spitting image of her father. Both of them, together. Separated from Lilyth.

By Cutthroats.

By Rolf.

The image of her daughter and husband fell away as Lilyth envisioned the Cutthroat’s sunken brown eyes, razor-thin mustache, and cruel smile. Rolf the Bloody, the Skull of Wrath. A captain who didn’t bow to the Cutthroat King but kneeled only to his own sins. A breaker of men, of children, of mothers. Rolf was the embodiment of all she hated.

Releasing the rail, Lilyth’s hands gripped each other, nails cutting skin like snakes devouring one another. She imagined wrapping her fingers around the man’s throat and hearing him choke as he tried to scream. Lilyth grinned at the thought, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes—twin funeral pyres that burned in a black corpse.

Then Rolf’s face slipped away. Only darkness remained.

Hollowness overwhelmed Lilyth. She ground her teeth to keep from screaming, grabbed the gunwale to keep from collapsing, closed her eyes to keep from seeing the ocean she’d feared since her first voyage. Just hold on for a little longer. I am coming. Gods be damned, I am coming as quickly as I can.

“Gods be damned,” she said in Aenuite, hoping Eo would hear her and finally respond.

But there was only silence.

The pyres in Lilyth’s eyes blazed brighter.