The sea was on fire.
Flames danced across shattered timbers as waves churned with smoke and blood. The ship groaned like a dying beast, its masts split and keeling, caught in a last embrace with the storm. Cannonfire roared through the night, drowning out screams, steel, and prayer.
Darion Vane coughed salt from his lungs and staggered to his feet, boots slipping in blood across the ruined deck. Rain slashed his face, and smoke stung his eyes, but he didn't stop. He couldn't afford to.
"Starboard side!" Mara's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a whip. She fired her flintlock with one hand and yanked a powder keg with the other. "They're boarding again!"
Darion spun toward the rail. A rope ladder slapped against the hull, and shadowy figures clawed their way up like rats. Imperial marines — no mistaking their black-and-silver coats, even soaked in blood.
He raised his cutlass just as the first climbed over — young, fresh-faced, terrified. The boy hesitated for a heartbeat too long.
Darion didn't.
Steel flashed. Blood sprayed. The marine fell without a sound.
Another climbed behind him, older and yelling. Darion blocked the lunge, sidestepped, and shoved the man's weight over the railing. He didn't watch him fall.
Behind him, the storm wailed like some ancient beast awakening.
"Where's Haldrin?" Darion shouted over the thunder.
"Dead!" Mara called back. She hurled the powder keg overboard. An explosion followed seconds later — one of the pursuing cutters briefly lit up in a pillar of flame before vanishing into the dark sea.
She limped toward Darion, a long gash down her thigh, face grimy and wild with adrenaline. Her black coat was half burned, and her pistol was empty, but her eyes still burned with fury. "We're out of powder. And out of time."
Darion looked around. The ship they'd stolen — The Emberwake — was split open at the midsection. Only a few of their makeshift crew were still fighting. The rest were either dead or feeding the sea.
They couldn't hold the ship.
"Lower the longboat," Darion growled. "Grab the chart and the compass. We're abandoning ship."
Mara didn't argue. She shoved a corpse off a broken barrel, ripped open a waterproof satchel, and retrieved their prize — a frayed, ancient map inked in red and black. The last thing Elias Quinn had left behind.
Darion covered her as she limped aft, hacking down another marine who dared follow. Blood sprayed across his face. Somewhere inside him, the old discipline of an Enforcer remained — the stance, the parry, the kill — but his blade was no longer loyal to the Empire.
The longboat hit the water with a splash. Mara jumped first, landing in the sea and hauling herself in, biting back a scream as her wounded leg hit wood.
Darion turned to look at The Emberwake one last time.
Smoke, ash, salt — and the shadows of the Empire.
He dove into the waves.
Six hours earlier…
The Inquisition Hall of Ironwake Port had smelled of rusted chains, damp stone, and burning parchment.
Darion knelt in front of High Inquisitor Rathmore, flanked by black-armored sentinels. His long coat was soaked from the morning storm, his sword belted but untouched. He hadn't drawn it since the incident on Graven Isle.
"You disobeyed a direct order, Commander Vane." Rathmore's voice was cold, practiced. "You were to burn the rebel camp. Men, women, children. All of them. That was your mandate."
Darion said nothing. He could still see the faces of those villagers — gaunt, frightened, many too young to speak.
"They were traitors," Rathmore continued. "Harboring pirates. Spreading dissidence. We cannot allow that."
"I saw no pirates," Darion replied at last, voice low. "Only farmers. And frightened children."
"They all burn the same," the Inquisitor spat.
Darion looked up. "Then find someone else to hold the torch."
A hush fell across the chamber. Rathmore studied him, then gave a slow, venomous smile.
"You're no longer of use to the Inquisition," he said. "Strip him of his rank. Break his blade. Tomorrow, he hangs."
Now…
Pain dragged Darion back to the waking world. His vision swam — darkness above, the sound of creaking wood below. He was lying in a lifeboat, soaked, shivering. Lightning flickered across the clouds.
Then a sharp smack cracked across his face.
"Wake up, you bastard!" Mara snapped, leaning over him. Her eyes were wild, wet with rain and fury. "You blacked out."
Darion groaned, spitting salt. His ribs felt cracked, his shoulder ached, and his hands were raw. But he was alive.
"Where are we?" he rasped.
"No idea." Mara looked over the edge at the endless black water. "We've drifted since the storm hit. The Emberwake's gone. Vargas's ships are probably still out there looking."
"Great," Darion muttered, sitting up. "Dead men on one side. The sea on the other."
She held up the soaked map — miraculously intact in its oilskin casing. "We've still got this. And a heading. East, toward a place called Serpent's Tail."
Darion looked at her, rain washing the soot and blood from her face. "You still think your father left clues on that island?"
"I know he did," she said, jaw clenched. "And I'm not stopping until I find him."
He let out a long breath. Somewhere beneath the bruises and salt and smoke, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Then let's row, Captain."
She stared at him for a moment. "You're calling me Captain now?"
"You're the only one left."
They sat in silence for a moment as the boat rocked beneath them. The sea stretched endlessly ahead, and behind them, the first hints of dawn broke through the clouds.
Ash and salt. Blood and steel.
Whatever lay ahead, there was no turning back.