Chapter 13: Echoes of the Fallen

The Duskwind sailed through the lingering hush of morning, her wounded hull creaking like an old warrior's bones. The Shimmering Shoals faded into the mist behind them, leaving only the glowing afterimage of the Driftborn rites etched in memory. Ahead, the open sea stretched like a battlefield not yet drawn.

Mara stood at the helm, hands wrapped in bandages, knuckles raw from rope and blade. The salt in the air stung every wound, but she embraced it. Pain was real. Pain meant she was still alive. And the Duskwind still answered her grip.

Darion leaned on the railing beside her, rubbing his shoulder absently. The stitches held, though he moved like every breath tested them. "You sure we're ready?" he asked, eyes locked on the sea.

"No," Mara said. "But we move anyway."

Behind them, the crew stirred. Some were still tending to their dead, others clutched lucky charms or bone tokens as prayers. The silence was not grief—it was resolve. What they'd lost was heavy. But what they were sailing toward would either redeem it or drown it.

Storm in Their Wake

They had not gone far before the wind turned. A foul one—oily and thick, like the breath of something dying slowly.

"Black sails," called the lookout from the crow's nest.

Mara didn't flinch. "How many?"

"Three. No, four—Iron Tide scouts. Fast ships. Light hulls."

"They'll flank us," Darion said. "Cut off retreat."

Mara's fingers tightened on the helm. "Good. We're not retreating."

She shouted commands, voice sharp as broken glass. The crew scrambled into motion, hoisting what remained of the sails, readying the cannons. Abyr limped onto the deck, his torso tightly bound and eyes rimmed with fire.

"Leave this to me," he growled. "Let's see if the old girl still remembers how to dance."

Mara nodded. "Fire at will. Show them what happens when they chase ghosts."

Clash at the Rim

The first Iron Tide ship came in hard and fast, spears of flame arcing from its deck. The Duskwind rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a blast that tore a hole through the water where she'd been seconds earlier.

Abyr roared as he fired the portside cannons. Two struck home, shattering the Iron Tide ship's front deck. Wood splintered. Screams followed.

Darion drew his curved saber and shouted to the riflemen above. "Aim for their sails! Blind them!"

The second enemy ship veered too wide, circling for position. Mara seized the moment. "Turn into them!"

"What?" Darion looked at her like she'd gone mad.

"They won't expect it. We break their line. Hard to port!"

The Duskwind surged forward, groaning as the wheel spun under Mara's hands. They closed the distance fast. Ramming speed.

When they hit, it was thunder. Wood on wood. Iron on bone. The enemy ship shattered along its side, crew flung into the sea. The two decks locked.

And then the boarding began.

Blades and Blood

The Iron Tide rushed aboard, armored in scale-mail, faces hidden behind black-mirrored masks. Mara met them with her cutlass drawn, her stance fluid, like the sea had entered her limbs.

She danced through the first two, her blade slipping through the narrow gaps in their armor. Blood sprayed. A spear nicked her ribs—she twisted, reversed grip, and drove her dagger into the attacker's throat.

Darion fought like a storm given form. He deflected a blow with the flat of his sword, kicked an enemy overboard, and shot another point-blank with his flintlock. "These bastards don't stop!"

"Then neither do we!" Mara shouted.

Abyr, still half-bandaged, fought near the gun deck. His strikes were slow but crushing, each swing of his boarding axe cleaving through two enemies at once. A spear pierced his thigh. He bellowed and headbutted the attacker, knocking teeth onto the blood-slicked deck.

The enemy captain leapt down, a massive figure in barbed armor wielding a hooked glaive. His mask bore a single red slash. "Mara!" he roared. "The debt is due!"

Mara stared him down. "Come collect it, then."

Duel on the Deck

The sea fell silent around them, as if watching.

They circled. The Iron Tide captain swung first—broad and fast. Mara ducked, countered with a slash to his exposed knee. Sparks flew. Steel screamed.

He was stronger. She was faster.

He pressed hard, raining blows down like a hammer. Mara gave ground, then turned a missed swing into an opening—cutting through the leather binding his arm. He grunted, staggered.

She went low, slashing his ankle. He retaliated with a brutal elbow that cracked against her cheekbone. Stars exploded in her vision.

Blood filled her mouth. She spit and smiled.

"You're not the first to try."

With a final twist, she ducked his finishing strike and drove her cutlass under his breastplate, up through ribs, and into his heart.

He froze.

She twisted the blade.

He fell.

The tide turned.

The Aftermath

The remaining Iron Tide soldiers broke ranks, some diving overboard, others slain where they stood. The boarding was over. The deck was painted in blood, smoke curling from cannon barrels. The sea rocked gently again, as if nothing had happened.

Mara stood over the fallen captain, chest heaving. Her blade dripped. Around her, the crew began the grim work of tossing bodies and tending wounds.

Darion came to her side, blood on his cheek. "We won."

"We survived," she said. "For now."

Abyr sat down hard on a coil of rope, breathing heavily. "We need a damn miracle."

Mara looked toward the east. "We need what's in that vault."

A Memory in Ink

That night, she returned to her cabin and unrolled her mother's journal once more. Among the brittle pages, a map fell out—cracked with age, annotated in Maria's spidery handwriting.

The Sea of Sighs. Coordinates inked in red. A warning beside them: 'Only the forsaken may enter. Only the dead may leave.'

Beneath it, a second note, written in a different hand.

"The crown's blood may open the gate. But blood alone won't close it."

Mara traced the letters with trembling fingers. Her reflection in the brass mirror nearby showed her face half-shadowed, one eye darkened by bruises.

She saw Maria in that reflection.

And it terrified her.

Plans in the Dark

Below deck, Darion and Abyr gathered around the map.

"She's planning to open it," Darion said.

"She has to," Abyr muttered. "It's the only way to fight Mallik on even ground."

"She's going to get herself killed."

"Maybe. But if she doesn't try, we all die anyway."

Above, Mara leaned on the railing, listening to the waves. She felt the pull of something ancient, like the sea whispering to her in a voice older than words.

Not calling.

Warning.

But the Duskwind sailed on.

Toward the Sea of Sighs.

Toward reckoning.

Toward the flood.