Leesa knew time was no longer her ally. Her limbs trembled beneath her, exhaustion biting at every nerve, but her resolve stood unshaken. The ship groaned around her, fire beginning to claw at the lower beams, smoke thickening with each breath. She had to end this—swiftly—before her body betrayed her.
Her gaze snapped to Norrier, the next obstacle in her path. He had chosen this sequence of battle himself, strategic and cruel. He knew well that Mussel's brute strength could match hers only once she was spent. His plan was clear: wear her down, bleed her dry, and then let the beast deliver the final blow.
But Leesa had other intentions. With a sudden burst of speed, she darted toward Norrier. His eyes narrowed, the gleam of cunning not yet dulled. He struck low, blade slicing toward her waist with calculated precision. She met the blow with the flat of her knife, steel clashing against steel. But it was a feint—his true aim revealed as he swung his torch-bearing arm high, seeking to land another cruel strike upon the wounded side of her head.
She anticipated it. Leaning back with grace honed in blood and war, Leesa evaded the blow by a hair's breadth. The firelight caught the edge of her blade as she twisted away, her feet sliding across the timber with lethal grace. Then she returned the favour. With the elegance of a dancer and the savagery of a hawk, she pivoted and drove her knives forward. One found the flesh of his arm, the other raked across his chest—deep enough to fell any lesser man. Norrier staggered, blood seeping through his tunic, eyes wide with disbelief. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor with a grunt, his axe clattering beside him. But before she could draw breath, a growl thundered behind her. Mussel charged.
Leesa's steps grew faltering, her movements no longer as fluid as they once were. The weight of exhaustion clung to her limbs, and each breath came laboured, ragged. Mussel's furious blows came fast and heavy, and though she still danced between them, her dodges were growing narrow—too narrow. Her head throbbed with each motion, a searing pain blooming from her temple where blood had long since begun to soak her hair, trickling down her brow and smearing across her hands and chest.
She bent low, a flash of silver in her grasp, and drove one of her knives upward into Mussel's chin. The steel met flesh with a sickening crunch, but he lurched back just in time to avoid the second blade. Blood gushed down his jaw, yet he roared—not in pain, but in rage—and staggered backwards, the gash only fueling his wrath.
Mussel, a brawler by nature, had relied solely on his fists—great slabs of meat that could crush bone with a single blow. Yet Leesa had endured. Wounded, weary, half-spent, she still stood. Seeing Norrier's fallen axe beside him, he seized it with a grunt, swinging the weapon low and sideways in a savage arc, aiming to cleave her from hip to thigh.
Leesa met the strike with a single hand, her blade raised in defence. Her strength faltered—the blow landed light but true, the axe kissing her side with a burning sting. She gritted her teeth, eyes burning with unyielding fury, and thrust the knives in her other hand into Mussel's chest.
Steel met resistance. The flesh split. A sudden spurt of blood erupted from the wound. Mussel's arm jerked, his grip on the axe loosening. Leesa took her chance. Sliding to the side with a final burst of will, she twisted her entire body behind her blades. With both hands now free and trembling with the last of her strength, she drove all five knives deep into the left side of his chest—straight into the heart.
Time seemed to stand still. Mussel's breath caught in his throat, his massive frame trembling as blood bubbled from his lips. His eyes widened in disbelief as he staggered backwards, collapsing like a fallen tower.
It was over. Leesa stood amid the flickering firelight, her breath uneven, the ship creaking beneath her. The warmth of blood—his and hers—coated her arms and soaked into her tunic. But her eyes searched no more. The last of her enemies lay dead at her feet. She breathed.
But there was no time for rest. The fire had begun to feast upon the ship with ravenous hunger, leaping from bale to crate, crackling through the dry bundles of grain and cloth like a starving beast unleashed. Smoke choked the narrow passageways, and the heat was rising with such ferocity that the very timbers of the vessel groaned under the strain. The ship, burdened and broken, had begun to list, its hull taking in water as the inferno devoured it from within.
Leesa staggered toward the iron cell where Flavian lay bound. Each step felt like a journey through flame, her limbs refusing to obey, her breath coming in sharp, scorched gasps. The metal bars radiated heat, nearly scalding to the touch, but she did not hesitate. With Norrier's axe in hand, she raised it high and brought it down against the lock.
Once. Twice. Again. Each blow was weaker than the last, her strength waning—but the heat, merciless and wild, had begun to weaken the iron. With one final strike, the bars gave way, twisting and breaking apart with a shriek of protest.
She dropped the axe and fell to her knees, dragging Flavian's limp form into her arms. His skin was pale, his chest barely rising. The heat was unbearable now, a wall of flame behind her and smoke tightening its grip around her throat. She hauled him over her shoulder and climbed the slanted stairs, slipping, coughing, every muscle in her body screaming with pain. Where once the cargo deck had been lined with crates and bundles, now only red ruin remained. Fire raged across the deck, illuminating the night like a hellish dawn.