POV: Beth
The tavern smelled of salted meat, old rum, and sweat thick enough to chew. I had been wiping the same table for five minutes, hand moving on instinct alone, mind elsewhere. Every night blurred into the next—ale dripping down my sleeves, coins rolling across warped wood, men shouting songs with voices like rusted anchors. I’d learned how to duck when mugs flew, how to ignore wandering hands, how to serve without smiling.
Rain pressed against the shutters like fists wanting in. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the sky was purple-black and waiting. My heart felt the same.
“Mae!” the barkeep barked. “Stop polishing that table. Cards are screaming for more rum!”
I blinked back into the room, grabbed the tray, filled five mugs, and headed toward the corner where older men played cards. Their laughter was gravel. One slammed his cards down, coins clattering. Another swore, sloshing rum on his beard.
“Evenin’, gentlemen,” I said, setting the mugs down.
One glanced up—but his eyes dropped immediately to my wrist.
My sleeve had slipped. The brand—the pirate mark I’d hidden for years—peeked out like a secret begging to ruin me again.
His grin spread slow and mean. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the tide dragged in. A Saltblood girl pouring rum for rats like us.”
Saltblood.
The word hit like a knife to the ribs. My throat tightened. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said too quickly, tugging my sleeve down.
The others leaned closer, eyes narrowing like wolves catching scent.
One tapped his card against the table. “That mark doesn’t lie, lass. Only Saltborn carry it. Only pirate-spawn.”
My breath stuttered. “I’m no pirate. My father was Governor Rowan of England.”
Their laughter shook the table.
“Rowan?” one wheezed. “Poor fool married a woman already pregnant. Everyone in ports knew it. She had fire in her blood—ran with sea devils before she put on lace.”
My heart lurched. “Stop.” My voice cracked.
The oldest man, scars like burned rope across his arms, leaned forward, eyes softer than his voice. “Your mother was lovely. Came through here once with a pirate with storm-eyes. They danced like they were drowning and didn’t care. She carried his mark.”
My knees wobbled. “My mother… loved a pirate?”
“Aye,” he said. “She loved him so much she hid you from the sea. But the sea always finds its own.”
The room blurred. The floor tilted. Mother, smiling in the painting. Mother brushing my hair. Mother gone before she could explain anything. I felt fourteen again, lost in white silk at the altar. Adrian recoiling like I was poison.
“You’re lying,” I whispered.
The men shrugged as if truth or pain made no difference.
“Believe or don’t,” one said. “But the mark says what it says. Saltborn don’t escape the tide.”
Anger clawed past my shock. “Don’t talk about her like you knew her. You sat in a tavern drinking your teeth away!”
He stood abruptly, chair scraping. “Careful, girl. You carry pirate blood and still talk like a noble doll.”
I should’ve stepped back. I stepped forward.
“My mother wasn’t a pirate,” I bit out.
He smirked, cruel. “Then why’s her ghost crying every time a storm rolls in?”
My hand trembled. “You’re drunk. All of you.”
“And you’re blind,” he snapped. “If you want answers, go dig them out of the sea yourself.”
Someone laughed. Someone muttered “Saltspawn.” Coins rattled. The room swallowed me whole.
“I’m done,” I whispered, voice trembling.
I walked away fast enough that the barkeep called after me.
Didn’t matter. I slammed out the back door into the night.
Rain split open above me like the sky finally burst. Cold water soaked me instantly, plastering hair to my cheeks. I didn’t care. I ran past crates and ropes, down the slick dock planks, breath hitching.
Mother. Pirate. Mark. Saltblood.
Everything inside me cracked.
I reached the end of the dock and grabbed the rotting post for balance. The sea churned below—black and endless. I heard my own voice in the storm, raw and small.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Wind stole the words.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me who I am?”
Lightning forked across the sky, turning waves white for a heartbeat. Thunder punched the world. I gasped and stumbled onto my knees, palms slapping wet wood. Tears mixed with rain, indistinguishable.
All my life I’d dreamed of gardens, parties, crowns of roses. A prince’s kiss. A father walking me down the aisle with pride.
Now I had salt on my lips and mud on my knees, branded like something half-feral.
Maybe I always had been.
“Mother,” I choked. “Did you even love me? Or was I just a mistake you left behind?”
Only the sea answered—roaring, relentless.
Somewhere deep inside, something dark stirred. Something that didn’t want to cry anymore. Something that wanted to burn the palace to the ground and drag Adrian’s crown into the waves.
Lightning struck again—this time closer, brighter.
And I screamed into the storm.
The sound tore out of me wild and unrestrained, like a new animal waking in my bones. Not the noble girl. Not the bride. Not the victim. Something else. Something that belonged to the sea.
When my voice finally failed, I was shaking—cold, soaked, hollowed. But there was a strange clarity settling under the grief, like silt sinking when tides change.
I wiped rain from my eyes, stood, and walked back toward the tavern.
I wasn’t whole. But I was awake.