Rain. Endless, driving rain.
The waves thundered like war drums against the wreckage, tearing wood from nails and bones from flesh. Darion Vane coughed up saltwater as he clawed at a shattered plank, the only thing keeping him from the hungry sea. His once-pristine navy coat was now nothing but rags, heavy and soaked, dragging him down like the chains they'd clamped on his wrists just days ago.
He blinked through the haze, the world spinning—gray sky, black waves, blood in the water.
So this is how it ends?
But he was too damn stubborn to die. Not like this. Not before he cleared his name. Not before he buried the ones who betrayed him.
Darion gritted his teeth, forcing his body to move, arms burning with every stroke as he swam toward a vague shape ahead—a jagged outline against the horizon. Land.
Skullshore.
The cursed island sailors spoke of in hushed tones, a place where ships vanished and ghosts whispered from the cliffs. A fitting place for the navy to dump its trash.
The surf slammed him into sharp rocks as he stumbled ashore, his palms tearing open. Pain flared, but he barely felt it. He crawled up the sand like a beast, collapsing in a coughing heap.
For a long time, he just lay there, listening to the wind howl through the trees.
Then came the voices.
"You see that?" someone hissed nearby. "A man! Washed up!"
"Could be a pirate," another voice said, female, low and wary.
"Or a trap."
Darion rolled onto his side, trying to sit up, but his vision swam. He raised his hands slowly.
"Not a threat," he rasped. "Just… shipwrecked."
Footsteps crunched the sand. A blade pressed against his throat.
"Then you won't mind telling me what the hell you were doing drifting near Skullshore," the woman said, her voice steady as stone.
Darion looked up—and met eyes the color of a storm. Seraphina Drake.
She wore leather armor patched with sailcloth and coral beads, her dark hair braided back tightly. A pistol hung from her belt, and her saber looked well-used. She didn't flinch as he coughed blood onto her boots.
"Name," she demanded.
"Darion… Vane," he croaked.
Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition? Or something else?
"And what does a navy dog want here?"
"I'm not… with them anymore." He slumped forward. "Framed. Mutiny. They sank the prison barge."
She hesitated.
He didn't see the blow coming—only felt the sharp crack of her pistol handle against his skull.
Then everything went dark.
Darion awoke to the stench of wet moss, salt, and smoke. His head throbbed like someone had driven a harpoon through it. He sat up groggily, finding himself inside a crude wooden hut. There were fishing nets on the wall, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and a fire pit crackling in the center.
His hands were tied.
Of course they were.
"You're awake," Seraphina said, seated across from him. She had removed her coat and now stirred something in a pot with one hand, while the other rested near her flintlock.
Darion leaned back, wincing. "You hit harder than a cannon."
"You were talking nonsense," she said. "Wanted to make sure you didn't have a knife up your sleeve."
"Hard to hide anything in tatters." He looked down at his torn clothes. "Thanks for not letting me drown, I guess."
She didn't smile. "I didn't save you. I just didn't want your corpse fouling up the beach."
Darion chuckled, then groaned. "Right. Island hospitality."
"You're not the first wreck to wash up here. Skullshore is… generous that way." She slid the pot from the fire and ladled some into a tin bowl. "Eat. It won't kill you."
"Not immediately, anyway?" he muttered, but took the bowl.
The stew was rough—fish, roots, and something he chose not to identify—but it was warm. And that was enough.
He took a breath. "So. Are you a pirate?"
Seraphina raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like one?"
"You've got a pistol, a scar, and enough attitude to fill a galleon."
She didn't answer.
Darion watched her carefully. "You knew my name. When I told you."
"I've heard it," she said slowly. "The navy posted a bounty. Said you killed an admiral and tried to start a rebellion."
His fists clenched.
"I didn't," he said quietly. "I was set up. I found out things I wasn't supposed to."
She didn't respond, but her eyes flicked away.
She doesn't trust me. But she's not loyal to the navy either.
Darion decided to push.
"Look, I need help," he said. "I need to find a ship. Crew. Weapons. Anything. I'm going to make the bastards who did this pay."
"And what makes you think I'd help you?"
"You could've left me to die."
Seraphina stood. "I still might."
Then she threw a knife at the wall behind him, burying it into a wooden post with a solid thunk.
"For now, you stay here. Don't steal. Don't lie. And don't try anything stupid."
Then she walked out into the rain.
Later that night, Darion sat by the fire, listening to the wind howl outside. He'd managed to cut his bonds with a sharp rock tucked near the hearth. Seraphina hadn't come back yet.
He turned the knife she'd left behind in his hands.
What the hell am I doing?
He thought of the prison ship. Of Admiral Kael's cold eyes. Of the betrayal.
"I trusted you," he whispered to the shadows. "I served your damn navy. Bled for your flag."
He closed his eyes. The image of his younger brother flashed in his mind—torn from him during the raid. Gone. Maybe dead.
Darion stood, jaw clenched.
No. He wouldn't die here. He wouldn't fade into some backwater ghost story.
He needed allies. Supplies. And a plan.
And maybe—just maybe—Seraphina Drake was the key to all of it.