POV: Beth
The rain doesn’t stop for hours.
By the time we return to the docks, the sky looks bruised purple, the sea the color of old metal. Flags whip violently in the wind—not pirate flags, not trade banners.
British banners.
Row upon row. Too many.
The navy fleet stretches across the horizon like a steel jaw closing. Warships, escort vessels, cannons lined like hungry mouths. Their sails are crisp white, mocking the gray sky, ropes neatly tied, discipline and wealth smearing across the water like arrogance.
A hush falls over the port. Pirates gather on shore, staring wide-eyed at the fleet that outnumbers every vessel here thirty to one. Rough men who laughed at death now stand pale.
Kaine mutters a curse. “That’s no patrol. That’s execution.”
Alaric’s gaze sharpens, jaw locked. “Prince Adrian is making his move.”
I feel ice crawl through my veins. The prince—the man who humiliated me at the altar. Who threw me into a dungeon like filth. Who imprisoned the father who raised me and sentenced him to rot. My nails dig into my palm.
“Burn every pirate port,” someone whispers behind us. “He swore it.”
Another voice trembles, “He says pirates defile the Crown’s seas. He will cleanse them with fire.”
My stomach twists painfully. “Cleanse” means slaughter.
A runner crashes through the dock crowd, soaked and breathless, waving a sealed paper dripping with rain. He screams over the wind:
“Royal decree!”
Everyone leans in. He reads with shaking hands:
“By order of His Highness Prince Adrian, all pirates are hereby declared enemies of the Crown. Ports are to be purged. Traitors will hang.”
The crowd erupts—shouting, swearing, panic exploding like gunpowder.
The runner continues, voice failing:
“Execution of Governor Rowan in thirty days.”
My breath stops.
Thirty.
Thirty days.
My father—the only man who ever loved me softly—chained in a dungeon beneath the same palace I once dreamed of entering as a bride. A future once golden now rusted and sharp.
Thirty days until he dies.
Something cracks inside me—like a bone snapping clean in one strike. The world narrows to a pinpoint. I feel heat in my chest, wildfire wrapped tight in grief and rage.
I barely hear Alaric shouting orders to our crew. I barely see Mira watching from behind a mast, eyes studying me like she’s waiting for my soul to shatter. I barely notice Kaine’s hand on my shoulder until he squeezes hard.
“Beth. Breathe.”
I can’t.
Rain slides down my face but I’m burning cold. People push, bunching together in panic as British cannons adjust their aim, slow and deliberate.
The Prince wants a spectacle.
He wants pirates to kneel. He wants to break them with fear. He wants to break me.
I taste iron—I bit my lip too hard. I don’t wipe the blood.
Alaric steps in front of me, reading my face with unsettling clarity. His voice drops low so only I hear.
“We will not let them kill your father.”
The words hit like a knife—not wounding, but cutting open something buried deep. I shake my head, barely voice.
“How can you be sure? Look at them.”
Thunder cracks overhead as if the sea itself answers.
He grabs my wrist—firm, grounding. “Because I’ve waged war against kings before. I don’t lose.”
A bitter laugh slips from me. “You lost your throne.”
His eyes flare—hurt, pride, stubborn fire. He steps closer, rain sliding down his hair and jaw like silver.
“And I will take it back. With you.”
My heart stutters—not soft, not romantic—violent and consuming like a tide pulling me under.
Around us chaos churns. Pirates prepare to flee or fight. Crates slam onto decks, cannons loaded, women drag children away from the shore. Fear becomes animal, frantic.
Mira approaches slowly, hood over hair, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “The Prince moves because of her,” she says, staring at me. “He wants her dead by public spectacle. Silas wants her alive as queen. Everyone wants Beth.”
Her smile is a razor. “Congratulations. You’re now the most valuable woman in the seas.”
I want to slap her. Instead I answer steady, venom calm.
“And you’re afraid of that.”
Something flickers behind her expression—jealousy, hatred, hunger. She hides it quickly with a sweet tilt of her lips.
“I’m only saying what everyone knows.” She steps closer, breath warm. “You’re a storm in the making. Storms leave wreckage.”
Her meaning is sharp—You will destroy Alaric.
Before I can respond, distant war drums sound—the navy firing a warning cannon into the air. Smoke billows over the water like a dark omen.
Alaric snaps into command. “Everyone to the ship! We leave now!”
Crew rushes to obey. I move with them—but I stop at the top of the ramp and turn to face the ships of the Crown.
Thirty days.
Thirty days until Rowan hangs.
I whisper under the roar of rain and chaos:
“I will burn the world before I let them take him.”
Something inside me ignites—not gentle magic, but violent. The ocean near my boots ripples in response. Water curls like a living creature, recognizing fury and hunger. A sailor gasps, stepping back from me.
I stare at the vast navy—dozens of ships, unstoppable, merciless.
Once I dreamed of marrying into that world.
Now I dream of destroying it.
Kaine calls my name. I climb aboard.
Alaric stands near the wheel, drenched and dangerous. He watches me with something like awe… and fear… and respect.
Mira stands behind him, too close as always.
The ship pulls away from the burning port—people screaming, fires starting as the navy launches early torch-shot. The town lights up in flame. Smoke climbs the sky like black wings.
I grip the railing tight enough to bruise bone.
Rowan. My father. My heart. My last piece of innocence. He will not die. I will not let Adrian take anything else from me.
Let him come. Let him bring his empire. Let Silas unleash Kraken. Let the whole world turn against me. I will answer with salt and storm. And by the time thirty days end —England will kneel.