POV: Beth
The ocean smells different when danger is near. Sharper. Metallic. Like blood washed clean but never forgotten. I stand on deck at dawn, hair whipping behind me like a banner, staring at the horizon as if something might crawl out of it. The crew whispers behind me—not quietly—because subtlety is not something pirates do.
“Kraken’s been sighted near Blackwater.”
“Silas is moving.”
“If he controls the beast… we’re dead men.”
Rumors carry faster than wind. Faster than truth ever could.
Alaric leans over the helm like it’s a throne built for him. The morning sun cuts gold through the salt spray and paints him like a hero in a storybook—if heroes were cruel, arrogant, frustrating as hell.
“We’ll be ready,” he says to Kaine without looking back. “Prep the cannons. Stock the barrels. Sharpen every blade.”
“And if rumors are true?” Kaine scratches his scarred jaw. “If Kraken’s truly near?”
Alaric’s jaw flexes. “Then we cut through it.”
Mad man. Beautiful, infuriating mad man.
My sword hangs at my hip. The weight is familiar now—enough to make me stand taller. My arms ache from training, knuckles split and raw, but I don’t hide them anymore. Pain has become proof that I am not the same trembling bride who cried in chains.
I step forward. “We should scout first. If Silas comes with Kraken—”
Alaric cuts in, voice smooth like honey left in cold. “You suggesting tactics now, princess?”
I hold his gaze. Steady. “I’m suggesting survival.”
Silence stretches. Crew eyes jump between us like they’re watching wolves circle.
Finally, Alaric’s lips tilt—not soft, not kind—but something like reluctant respect. “Then train harder. If war comes, I need swords that won’t break.”
The words land heavier than they should. I need. He needs me.
My heart betrays me, flicking like a compass pulled by two norths—Alaric’s storm and Silas’ shadow.
Kaine tosses me a wooden practice sword. “Up. Show the men you aren’t just decoration.”
“I’m not,” I snap, catching it mid-air.
Kaine grins. “Good. Prove it.”
Hours blur. Sweat, bruises, curses—Kaine knocks me down five times before noon, but the sixth time I stay up. Breathless. Trembling. Alive. The crew pauses, surprised. Respect flickers like a match. Maybe small, but real.
Alaric watches from the railing, pretending he isn’t invested. Liar.
Later, when pink sunset bleeds across the sky, a second ship cuts through fog—sleek, crimson sails, unmistakable. The crew erupts with tension.
“Mira,” someone mutters. “Red Siren returns.”
Mira steps on deck with the grace of a blade unsheathed—red hair wind-wild, eyes shimmering like poison pearls. She smirks directly at me, as if we never brawled in a tavern, as if she didn’t nearly kill me once.
“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Saltblood bride,” she purrs.
I stiffen. “Crawl back to whatever hole you came from, Mira.”
Her laugh is musical and sharp. “Missed you too.”
The crew gathers like wolves eager for meat. Alaric approaches, every step soaked in authority. Their eyes lock—old history, old wounds.
“You here to slit my throat in my sleep?” Alaric asks casually.
Mira twirls a knife. “Tempting. But no.”
“So why come?” Kaine growls.
Mira’s gaze flicks to me. “War’s coming. I’d rather bleed beside the devil I know.”
The deck falls silent. Not peace—just anticipation.
I cross my arms. “And what do you want in return?”
She smiles slow. “A seat at the table when crowns start falling.”
My stomach twists. Mira helpful? It feels wrong. Like calm sea before hurricane.
Still… we need allies. And this war is too big for pride.
Alaric nods once. “Fine. But step out of line—”
She leans in close enough our captain almost flinches. “You’ll kill me yourself. I know.”
His eyes flick briefly to me before he steps back.
Why look at me? Why now?
Night settles thick. Lantern glow, clinking bottles, tension coiled like rope. I stare at Mira across the deck while she laughs with Kaine, as if she belongs. Crew warms to her too quickly, like she’s a spark they’ve missed. Meanwhile, I still fight shadows of doubt in every stare.
War approaches. Alliances are shifting like tide.
I grip the railing until knuckles blanch. I will not be the weak link again.
Alaric steps beside me, voice low.
“Ready for war, Beth?”
I turn to him, refusing to soften. “I’m ready for anything.”
He smiles—real, small, dangerous. “Good.”
Because storms are coming.
And I will not drown.