The Crimson Sparrow cut through the waves like a blade through silk, her red sails full of wind that carried them steadily northeast toward the open waters of the Dawn Sea. But despite the ship's eager progress, the deck felt heavy—weighted down by more than just the salt spray and morning mist.
Pierre gripped the wheel, his knuckles white against the polished wood. Every breath sent lightning through his ribs, and the amber dust still clung to his clothes like a reminder of what they'd left behind in those caves. Hardy's stolen darkness moved through his veins in slow, uncomfortable pulses, while the memory of the Ancient Weapon's location burned bright and terrible in his mind.
Six million Cori in the hold. A ship beneath our feet. Charts of the Elysian Sea spread across the navigation table. By any reasonable measure, we won.
So why did victory taste like copper pennies and regret?
