POV: Beth
We stood before the sword like beggars in a cathedral.
The chamber smelled of salt and death, pillars of rib-bone rising like bleached mountains around us. The Leviathan’s skeleton stretched beyond sight, jaw open in a perpetual silent scream. At its center—chained in thick rusted iron—the bone sword pulsed like a living thing, humming beneath my ribs. I felt its heartbeat before I even touched it.
Alaric stepped beside me, jaw tight. “We’re taking it carefully. No heroics.”
I breathed slow, even though my pulse sprinted. “We need that sword more than we need caution. Without it, Silas will tear us apart. And the Navy—”
He cut me off. “And you think you can just walk up and take it? Like choosing ribbons for a wedding day?”
His words stung harder than they should have. “Why do you always talk like my ideas are childish?”
“Because you are childish,” he snapped, voice echoing through the chamber. “You don’t think, Beth. You feel. And feelings get people killed.”
My fists curled. “I survived on my own while you were too proud to come after me.”
Silence hit like a slap.
Crew members froze behind us—Kaine, Clove, Karn—waiting for one of us to break. Mira leaned against a pillar, arms folded, studying us like a game she enjoyed.
Alaric’s jaw flexed once, twice. “I didn’t come for you because you left.”
“You let me leave,” I shot back. “There’s a difference.”
His eyes darkened. Something hurt flickered there—quickly masked with mockery. “Oh forgive me, princess. Next time I’ll chain you to my mast so you don’t wander off crying.”
My breath shook. Anger rose like tide in my veins.
“You’re scared,” I whispered.
His gaze snapped to mine. “Of what?”
“That I’m not weak anymore. That I don’t need you.”
Something raw cracked in his expression—so fast I almost doubted I saw it. He stepped closer, lowering his voice, like the world narrowed to just us.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” he murmured. “You, who can’t even hold a blade steady without shaking?”
My throat tightened. “I’m shaking right now because of you.”
He blinked—thrown off.
For a heartbeat, neither of us breathed.
I moved first—stepping toward the sword. The humming grew louder, like it recognized me.
Alaric’s hand shot out, grabbing my arm. “Don’t.”
I yanked free. “Watch me.”
He lunged ahead of me, reaching for the hilt himself—stubborn, reckless. The moment his fingers brushed the bone, the chamber roared. Light exploded. Alaric was thrown back like a ragdoll, crashing into the bone wall with a sickening crack.
“Alaric!” I screamed, running to him. Blood streaked his forearm. His breathing was rough, eyes dazed.
“Still… want it?” he rasped.
“Yes,” I said, voice steadying, “but not at the cost of you.”
That surprised him more than magic ever could.
I rose and approached the sword again. The runes along the blade glowed brighter. My palm hovered over the hilt—power thrummed through the air, the way storms charge the sea. My hair lifted with static. Every instinct screamed touch it.
And yet—the magic swirled violently, as if the ocean itself bared its teeth.
I reached. The sword lashed out—wind howling, floor shaking. My feet dug in, refusing to fall. Pain sliced through my veins, like ice and fire braided together. The chamber blurred. Voices warped.
Mine, the sword whispered. Not yet. But it didn’t kill me. It spared me.
A gasp rippled through the crew.
Mira whispered behind me, almost reverent. “She’s chosen.”
“No,” Alaric growled, staggering to his feet. “It’s playing with her. Cursing her. That blade is death wrapped in glory.”
I turned to him, chest rising hard. “Death is better than living weak.”
His eyes flinched—just barely. Pain? Worry? Jealousy? I couldn’t tell.
“You think power will save you,” he said quietly, “but it will drown you first.”
“Maybe,” I said, holding his gaze. “But drowning is better than kneeling.”
The chamber went silent.
For the first time, he had no comeback.
The sword pulsed again at my back. Waiting. Calling. And every person in that room—even Alaric—looked at me not like a nuisance anymore, but like a danger.
Like a storm forming.
And storms don’t ask permission.