Chapter 9: Iron in the Blood

The sea burned on the horizon.

Crimson plumes curled into the sky like dragon smoke, casting an eerie glow over the waters. Fires raged along a distant coast, villages reduced to smoldering bones, their ashes feeding the wind. The Duskwind rode silently through waves that shimmered with reflected hellfire.

Mara stood at the bow, her coat snapping in the wind, the broken compass silent in her pocket. Four fragments had been destroyed. One remained. And it was here—somewhere behind the curtain of flame and steel—guarded by the very man she'd once called family.

Darion joined her, jaw tight, coat stitched with old blood from Deepmoor and newer cuts from the Pearl. "This is the Admiral's doing," he muttered. "He's torching the coastlines. Trying to flush us out."

Mara didn't answer. Her fingers gripped the railing until her knuckles went pale.

Behind them, Abyr checked the rigging without a word. He had been quieter since Velmare's Pearl—since the child's voice had echoed through his trial. Something haunted him deeper than the rest, and whatever it was, it followed him like a shadow.

The compass's silence was not comfort.

It was waiting.

Smoke and Steel

They approached the ruins of Redharbor, once a thriving trade town, now a carcass of burnt ships and mangled fishing nets. Flames still danced on broken piers. Seagulls circled the wreckage like carrion spirits.

"No survivors?" Mara asked.

Abyr leapt ashore, eyes scanning. "Not unless they grew wings."

Darion stepped carefully behind him, pistol drawn. "The Admiral's fleet must've hit here last night."

"And they're not far," Abyr said. "Look."

He pointed to the east—masts. Four of them. Black sails. Gold emblems of the Iron Tide.

"Scouting squadron," Abyr said. "They'll see us before sundown."

Darion turned to Mara. "We can't outrun four warships."

Mara's voice was steady. "Then we don't."

Abyr blinked. "You want to fight them?"

"No," she said, eyes cold. "I want to send them a message."

The Trap

They set it that night.

Darion and Abyr moved through the ruins, rigging what little remained—barrels of old pitch, flint-lined debris, twisted masts that could still hold weight. The tide favored them. The moon would rise behind the Duskwind, casting long shadows—just enough to deceive a scouting crew.

From the cliffside, Mara watched the enemy ships approach.

She remembered those sails.

The insignia of the Iron Tide.

The fleet that had once raised her like a daughter of conquest. The men and women who had called her the Little Crown before she ever knew what that meant.

And now they hunted her.

Abyr climbed beside her. "You sure about this?"

"Not even a little."

He grunted. "Good. Means you're still sane."

Iron Clashes with Fire

At dawn, the trap sprang.

The first scout ship entered the harbor with the arrogance of giants, its crew mocking the smoldering ruins. The second followed fast. Then the third.

When the fourth entered the mouth of the bay—

Darion fired the flare.

Boom.

The cliffside roared.

Pitch ignited across floating wreckage. A wall of flame surged between the ships and the sea. Explosions ruptured the silence. One ship keeled violently as its hull shattered beneath hidden mines—old explosive barrels Abyr had rigged with Deepmoor saltfuse.

The Iron Tide panicked.

Crossbows loosed blindly. Orders shouted. Cannons fired into the air.

Darion's pistol cracked. One officer fell.

Mara stood tall on the bluff, her voice ringing through the fire: "Tell the Admiral—your daughter doesn't run. Not from ash. Not from blood. And not from him."

Abyr stared at her. "Daughter?"

Mara didn't respond.

The flames whispered truths too bitter to deny.

Unspoken Ties

They escaped before the fleet could regroup.

The Duskwind disappeared into a fog bank to the south, silent and swift. Darion took the wheel. Mara sat against the mast, breathing shallow, blood flecking her lips.

She had used the fragment.

Not its power—but its presence.

It had spoken to her during the trap.

Had helped her.

Not to kill.

To protect.

And it had felt good.

Abyr confronted her as Darion steered.

"You didn't destroy the last piece, did you?"

She looked up, weary. "No."

"Why?"

She touched her chest—just above her heart. "Because part of me wants to see what happens if I don't."

He didn't argue.

Because part of him did too.

Betrayal in the Fog

The mist grew thicker. Time lost meaning.

They sailed blind.

That's when it happened.

Abyr was the first to notice.

The anchor. Gone.

The lifeboat. Missing.

And so was the chart vault.

Darion burst below deck—empty.

The maps. The Queen's sealed rites. The compass sketches.

All gone.

"Who?" he growled.

Abyr's jaw clenched. "Only one other person was below."

They found the deckhand—Kael, a quiet young man they'd picked up after Griefwater. Always in the background. Never in the way.

He was gone too.

And with him, everything they needed to find the final crown piece.

Hunter and Hunted

They tracked Kael's departure through the tide.

He had taken a fishing boat—small, fast, and just enough provisions for five days. Enough to reach the Spine Islands, a cluster of jagged rocks that legends said guarded the path to the Queen's Cradle—the place where the Sea Queen first rose.

Mara felt the compass whisper again.

Faint. Jagged.

It still remembered.

"We go after him," she said.

Abyr nodded. "And when we find him?"

Darion's voice was iron. "He chose his side."

Ghost of the Admiral

That night, as the sea calmed, Mara dreamed.

A throne made of salt and bone.

And upon it—the Admiral.

Her father.

Not by blood.

But by oath.

He turned, his eyes glowing the same color as the crown fragments.

"You disappoint me."

"I was never yours."

He rose from the throne. "You wore the crest. You gave the order. Don't pretend you were better than us."

"I chose a different path."

"There's no such thing," he said. "Only deeper water."

She woke with a gasp.

The compass whispered a name.

"Queen's Cradle."

And Mara knew—

That was where it would end.

One final piece.

One final choice.

Abyr's Past Unleashed

As they sailed for the Spine Islands, Abyr sat alone on the bowsprit.

Darion approached, leaning beside him. "What's her story with the Admiral?"

"Not mine to tell."

Darion lit a small cigar. "But you know."

Abyr watched the moon. "I know she was found at sea when she was six. Floating on driftwood. Wearing half a crown and speaking a dead tongue. The Admiral raised her. Trained her. Called her his heir."

Darion exhaled. "He raised a weapon."

Abyr nodded. "And she became human instead."

A silence stretched.

Until Abyr added softly, "And now she's becoming something else."

Next Destination: The Cradle

The Duskwind creaked toward its most perilous voyage yet—into the jagged embrace of the Spine Islands, where no map held truth and storms whispered prophecy.

Kael would be there.

So would the Iron Tide.

And somewhere among shattered rocks and howling skies—

The final piece of the Queen's Crown.

Waiting to see whether Mara Graveblood would become a savior…

…or a storm.