POV: Beth
Dawn spills pale light across Redwater, turning puddles into mercury pools. I wake sore, cuts aching, muscles screaming from yesterday’s training. But I stand. I breathe. I move.
Bruises paint my arms like storm clouds. I trace one finger gently across shoulder—painful pride.
Today, Alaric said.
Market.
Not as shadow.
As someone who stands.
I dress in stolen trousers and tunic, tie hair back, hide trembling hands. When I step on deck, crew glances—differently. Not like prey. Not like joke.
Still weakling. But less pathetic.
Alaric waits near gangplank—arms crossed, smirk present as always, but eyes appraising.
“You look less like porcelain,” he says. “More like wood ready to burn.”
I scowl. “Your compliments remain awful.”
He laughs softly—rare sound not entirely cruel. “Good. Come.”
We walk side by side through chaotic streets. For once, no jeers thrown at me. Pirates nod at Alaric—some respectful, others wary, a few fearful. His presence parts crowds like blade through rope.
He is not just pirate.
He is something people bow to instinctively.
We approach a building wedged between tavern and brothel—stone walls reinforced with iron, guarded by two men with scars like map lines.
Above door hangs wooden sign:
THE SUNKEN VAULT—WARRIORS' BANK
A bank for criminals. I didn’t know such things existed.
Inside smells like old gold and gunpowder. Lanterns flicker against metal bars. Pirates deposit chests, jewels, scrolls. Coins clink like rain. Ledgers kept by tattooed clerks. Security thicker than palace treasury.
Eyes track us. Whispers ripple.
“It’s Stormborne.”
“He lives.”
“He returns.”
For first time, respect directed toward Alaric is tangible. Electric. He walks like he owns oxygen here. I walk beside him, heart hammering.
Clerk bows stiffly. “Captain Stormborne. Your vault remains untouched.”
Vault.
Alaric turns to me. “Come.”
He leads me through guarded corridor. Metal door with four locks. Clerk unlocks each with shaking hands. Door groans open like beast waking.
Inside —
Gold piles like dunes. Sapphires, pearls, emeralds spill from crates. Silver coins scatter glittering. A crown sits crooked on broken chest. Maps sealed in wax. Bones of strange creatures. A mummified hand wearing rings.
I forget how to breathe.
I grew up counting flour so we wouldn’t starve.
Now I stand among wealth enough to buy kingdoms.
My voice breaks. “This… is yours?”
“Was,” he corrects. “Before I vanished.”
“Why keep it here? Why not take it?”
He smirks. “Because flaunting wealth paints target on spine. True power stays hidden.”
I touch a gold coin—cold lightning through skin. He watches me, unreadable. For a moment I see the king he once was—ruthless, rich, feared.
Not thief.
Ruler.
And I wonder what happened to break him.
He grabs handful of gold and silver, fills leather pouch, slings it over shoulder. “Enough for supplies. And one more thing.”
We leave vault. I steal one last glance—imprinting glittering secrets in memory.
Back in street, heat rises. Market noise swells—vendors shouting bets, selling cursed trinkets, exchanging stolen jewels, trading maps scribbled with lies. Alaric stops at old man hunched beneath tattered awning. His table is cluttered with scrolls, compasses, cracked sextants, sea charts faded like ghosts.
Old man squints at us. “Stormborne returns to chase death or fortune?”
Alaric leans casually. “Both. Show me what you’ve gathered since I drowned.”
The old man chuckles, missing teeth. He rummages through scrolls and pulls one wrapped in oilcloth.
A map—torn, only half.
Ink faded but still visible—islands like fangs, coastline twisting like wicked smile. Strange markings line edges—runes? Symbols?
One symbol matches the mark hidden beneath my glove.
My heart stops.
My wrist burns faint, as if answering.
I ask softly, “What place does this lead to?”
Old man’s eyes sharpen. “The Leviathan’s Grave.” He taps paper. “Treasure of forgotten age. Monstrous price.”
“Where’s other half?” Alaric asks.
Old man shrugs. “Lost to sea witches. Or Silas. Or both.”
The name freezes air between us.
Silas again.
Alaric’s jaw tightens. He throws gold pouch on table without haggling. “We take it.”
Old man grins. “Fool’s journey tastes sweetest.”
We walk away. Map tucked under Alaric’s coat. My mark tingles like living thing.
“You recognized the symbol,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell crew.”
“Why?”
He faces me fully. Eyes sharp as cut obsidian. “Half a map is enough to start wars. And you—with that mark—will start more than one.”
I swallow. “What do we do now?”
He steps so close shadows merge. “Now? We find second half.”
I breathe salt air, dizzy with possibility and fear.
Treasure. Leviathan. Destiny.
“I thought leviathans don't even exist.”
“You think many wrong things,” he laughs.
Blood whispers in wrist like tide: Saltblood. Sea bride. Leviathan waits.
Alaric smirks like storm planning which ship to wreck first.
“Tomorrow we leave port,” he says. “Prepare.”
He turns away—cloak whipping like red warning.
I stare after him—heart pounding not just with fear now.
With hunger.