Chapter 25

The tide didn't move naturally. It didn't roll, didn't crest—didn't crash against the jagged shoreline like it should have. Instead, the water simply rose in perfect, unnatural symmetry, a massive wall of black ocean lifting toward the storm-wracked sky.

The mercenary with the scar—Danik, he'd called himself, though Tavren Coil suspected it wasn't his real name—staggered back, his boots skidding in the mud. His hand fumbled at the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw it. There was no enemy to stab. No battle to fight.

Because how in the hells did you fight the sea itself?

Coil didn't move. He only watched.

The silver sigil at his throat was hot, burning against his skin, as if something was answering the silent call he hadn't realized he was making. The black iron ship remained still, untouched by the unnatural surge of water, as if it existed separately from the world around it.

The figure on the deck stood unmoving, his palm still raised, his face hidden behind the blackened steel of his helm.

No insignia. No crest. No banners.

Whoever he was, he wasn't a servant of the Path. He was something else entirely.

Danik finally found his voice, though it was raw with disbelief. "This… this isn't what we agreed to."

Coil exhaled slowly, watching the wall of water hover above them, shifting but never falling. He could feel it now—the shape of something inside it.

Not a ship. Not a force of nature.

Something alive.

Coil turned, finally giving Danik a flat look. "And what, exactly, did you think you were signing up for?"

Danik's mouth opened, closed.

The other two mercenaries—one missing half an ear, the other with a jagged brand on his wrist that marked him as a former slave—looked just as lost. They weren't new to war, that much was clear. But war had rules.

This? This was something else.

The sea shuddered again, a deep, groaning noise vibrating through the air as the thing in the water shifted. The mercenaries weren't the only ones afraid—even the wrecks along the shore seemed to react, their splintered wood groaning as if the bones of old ships still remembered what it was to sink.

The figure on the black ship finally lowered his hand.

The sea fell. Not like a wave—nothing so natural.

It simply… dropped.

A soundless crash. No spray. No impact. The water swallowed itself whole, rippling outward as if nothing had ever disturbed it.

The tension in the air remained.

Tavren Coil turned to face the figure on the deck, his hands loose at his sides, though his every muscle was primed to move. He was no fool. He had seen men and things who bent the natural order, who twisted it to their own designs.

But this?

This was something ancient.

The figure spoke.

"You are late."

His voice was low, measured—almost gentle. It made Danik flinch harder than the rising sea had.

Tavren shrugged. "The Path's patrols are getting thicker. Even for me, slipping through their borders is becoming a chore."

The figure didn't reply. He only stepped forward, closer to the edge of the ship, his faceless helm tilting downward to regard the three mercenaries who suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here.

Danik clearly wanted to run. But he knew better.

The other two were frozen, watching with the kind of reverence that only came when men realized they had seen something that shouldn't exist.

Coil sighed and touched the sigil at his throat. "You have what I asked for?"

A long pause.

Then the figure lifted a black-iron coffer, setting it gently on the ship's railing. The moment it touched the surface, the metal shuddered, as if something inside it was still alive and moving.

Danik made the mistake of taking a half-step toward it.

The figure turned his head slightly toward him.

Danik froze.

For a breathless moment, Coil swore he saw the faintest shimmer in the air—something unseen coiling toward the mercenary, testing his presence, deciding whether or not he deserved to continue existing.

Danik took a deliberate step back.

The shimmer vanished.

Coil exhaled. He knew better than to press for details.

Instead, he took the coffer from the railing, feeling the unnatural chill that radiated from it even through his gloves.

"The Path will be looking for this," Coil murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

The figure inclined his head. "Let them look. It changes nothing."

Coil smiled faintly. "You keep saying that."

"And yet, here you are."

Coil didn't argue.

He turned, hoisting the coffer under his arm and gesturing for the mercenaries to follow. Danik hesitated, but he didn't argue. He had already survived one encounter with something unnatural tonight. He wasn't eager to risk another.

The three men fell in step behind Coil, making their way back toward the inland path. The rain still lashed the coast, but the storm felt quieter now, as if it had spent all its rage on the thing in the water.

Danik finally spoke as they crested the ridge.

"You still haven't told us who you're working for."

Coil didn't look back.

"That's because you don't want to know."

A single candle burned.

A single eye opened, a slit of golden light in the darkness.

And something whispered a name.

Not Tavren Coil.

Not Doran Thargrimm.

Something older.

Something that had been waiting a long, long time.

The iron ring lay in the dirt between us, blackened and engraved with that damned spiral within a circle. A mark I'd seen before. A mark I'd found on the book.

I kept my face still, but inside, my thoughts were tightening like a forge clamp. This wasn't coincidence. Not anymore.

The man in front of me—tall, wrapped in a travel-stained cloak, face mostly shadowed—wasn't moving. He stood like he was waiting. Testing me. His hands rested at his sides, empty, but I wasn't stupid enough to think that meant he wasn't dangerous.

Karvek shifted slightly, his weight adjusting on the balls of his feet. He saw it too. Whoever this was, they weren't just some roadside scavenger. Lisett, to her credit, remained as she always did—still, observant, calculating.

I knelt, picked up the ring between two fingers, turned it over. It was old, the engravings worn but deep. The metal itself had an odd feel to it, like it had been forged from something heavier than just iron.

"You carrying more of these?" I asked, voice low.

The man didn't answer right away. He tilted his head slightly. "I was told you'd recognize it."

That made my jaw tighten. "By who?"

"A mutual acquaintance."

Bad answer. I felt Karvek's tension rise. His men, those who were still standing, were shifting slightly, spreading out just enough to give themselves a better stance if this turned ugly.

"You'll have to do better than that," I said, voice flat. "Mutual acquaintances don't usually involve cryptic rings and dark ruins full of dead men."

The man exhaled, slow and measured. "No. They don't."

Then, with a slight gesture, he lifted his hand—and his sleeve shifted just enough for me to see what was beneath.

Another ring. Black iron. Same spiral. Worn against a calloused finger.

My stomach twisted.

Lisett saw it too, her grip on her staff tightening.

Karvek, though, didn't waste words. He moved.

Steel sang as he drew his sword, the scrape of metal against sheath sharp in the cold air.

"Enough games," he snapped. "You've got five seconds to explain who you are before I open your throat."

The man didn't move. Didn't even flinch. "If I were your enemy," he said smoothly, "I wouldn't have come alone."

That gave Karvek pause.

The mercenaries shifted, some casting uneasy glances around the treeline. They expected an ambush. But I knew better.

This wasn't an ambush. This was a message.

And I was already too deep in it.

I let the silence stretch between us, watching the stranger closely. The ring was still in my hand, cold against my skin. Heavy in a way I couldn't explain.

Karvek was waiting on me. Lisett, too.

I made my decision.

I closed my fingers around the ring and shoved it into my pack.

"Fine," I said. "You want to talk? Talk."

The stranger inclined his head slightly. "I'll tell you what I can. But not here."

Karvek muttered something under his breath but didn't argue. He knew we were still too battered to risk another fight.

"Then we move," I said. "We need supplies, shelter, and time."

The words tasted bitter. Time wasn't something I had much of anymore.

But I wasn't leaving this unfinished.

Not while the Path still breathed.

Not while that damned book sat in my pack, waiting for me to understand just what the hell I was holding.

The wind howled through the broken trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and old blood. The storm that had battered the mountains earlier had softened into a cold drizzle, but the ground beneath our boots was still slick with mud and scattered with the remnants of the dead—Path operatives, ruin handlers, men who had thought they were wielding power only to be swallowed by it.

We had survived the Hollow, but survival meant nothing if we didn't keep moving.

Lisett adjusted the straps of her pack, her face paler than usual, exhaustion weighing on her like a second skin. Karvek wiped rain from his eyes, his grip tight on his newly forged sword. The blade was stained dark with whatever foulness had leaked from that altar when it cracked open. His men—what was left of them—were in worse shape. Jorren's ribs were wrapped tight in a bloodstained cloth, and he moved stiffly, gritting his teeth with every step. Tobren's arm was hanging useless at his side. Varric was gone. Broken and left behind in the Hollow.

The stranger with the iron ring walked a step behind me. I could feel his eyes on me, waiting, watching. He hadn't given a name. Hadn't asked for ours. But he had known who I was before we'd ever spoken. That alone made him a threat.

We moved west, away from the ruin. The mountains loomed behind us, cold and indifferent, as if they had already forgotten what we had done. I envied them for that.

Lisett's voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. "Where are we going?"

"Vraknheim," I said.

Karvek frowned. "That's a long damn march."

"It's the only place we can regroup." I shifted the weight of my pack. "We need supplies, rest, weapons, and information. We won't find any of that out here."

Vraknheim wasn't home—not anymore. But it was one of the few places left where I knew the right people. Or at least, the kind of people who could be bought, threatened, or convinced to keep their mouths shut.

Lisett sighed, rubbing her eyes. "That's a long way to go with half a dead crew."

"Then let's not waste time," I muttered.

The days bled together.

We followed the old roads, sticking to the valleys where the trees were thickest and the winds were weaker. The cold gnawed at our bones, and the rain didn't let up. Every morning, Lisett changed bandages and checked wounds with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen too many men die from slow infections. Karvek kept watch when we camped, his sword never far from reach.

Jorren didn't last.

By the third night, his breath had gone shallow, his body curling into itself as the fever took hold. Lisett did what she could, but the Hollow had marked him. His skin had taken on that grey, waxy pallor that meant he was already halfway gone.

By morning, he wasn't breathing.

Karvek buried him with his own hands, saying nothing. The dirt was too wet to hold, and by the time he was done, his arms were shaking. But he didn't stop. He didn't let anyone else do it for him.

When it was over, he stood, wiping the mud from his hands. "Vraknheim," he said, his voice rough. "We get there. We get what we need."

No one argued.

The gates loomed ahead, thick with soot and damp from the endless drizzle. Vraknheim was not a welcoming city. It was built on the backs of industry, its veins filled with molten metal and labor that never ceased. The forges never went cold. Neither did the crime.

I had left this place years ago. But now, it was the only place left to go.

The guards at the gate barely spared us a glance. Men passed in and out—merchants, sellswords, traders from the north bringing in shipments of iron and coal.

We weren't the only ones coming here to disappear.

Lisett pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "Where first?"

I took a deep breath, letting the scent of forge-smoke fill my lungs. It smelled like home. It smelled like a past I wasn't sure I wanted to remember.

"To the Black Anvil," I said. "I need to see an old friend."

Karvek smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "One that owes you a favor?"

"One that doesn't ask too many questions," I corrected.

We stepped into the city, our boots heavy with mud, our bodies worn thin by the road.

I could feel eyes on us already.

Vraknheim wasn't the kind of place where you returned unnoticed.

And somewhere in its streets, someone had already marked us as prey.