Chapter 3
THREE
ZORIC
She eats like someone who’s forgotten where her next meal is coming from.
I watch her tear into the bread and dried fish, her movements efficient, almost savage.
No hesitation. No savoring. Just fuel going in, survival instinct overriding everything else.
I’ve seen that kind of eating before—on ships running low on rations, in camps where food meant the difference between living and dying.
She doesn’t notice me watching. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care. Hard to tell with this one.
I should be focused on the situation. On the drowned massing in my waters, on the curse that’s been dormant for years, suddenly waking up hungry, on all the ways this could go wrong.
Instead, I’m tracking details I have no tactical use for.
The way her dark hair falls across her face when she leans over the table.
The sharp line of her jaw. The calluses on her fingers, visible even from across the room.
“You’re staring at nothing.”
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. I look up to find her watching me despite her exhaustion.
“The maps.”
“The maps are behind you. You’re staring at the wall.” She tears off another piece of bread. “Something interesting about the stones, or are you just avoiding looking at me?”
Damn. She’s observant. I should have expected that—she didn’t survive months of cursed gold and shipwrecks by being oblivious.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“How much trouble you’ve brought to my door.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize. Just holds my gaze with something almost like amusement. “I didn’t ask to wash up here. The sea made that choice.”
“The sea doesn’t make choices. The curse does.” I move to the table, keeping the maps between us. Distance. I need distance. “It brought you here because it wanted me to see what’s coming. To know that Oreth is done waiting.”
“Thoughtful of it.”
“The curse isn’t thoughtful. It’s hungry. And right now, you’re its favorite meal.”
Something flickers in her expression. Fear, maybe—the kind she’s been pushing down for months. Then it’s gone, replaced by that sharp-edged composure.
“Then I’d better not be delicious.” She stands, brushing crumbs from her clothes.
“Show me the keep.” She’s moving toward the corridor. “If I’m going to fight a dead man in his own territory, I should know the terrain.”
“Who said anything about fighting?”
She stops. Turns. In the green-tinged light from the braziers, her face is all angles and challenge. “You did. Last night, when you told me the curse doesn’t let go. When you said we could destroy the hoard and end this.” Her brow rises. “Unless that was just talk.”
It wasn’t talk. I meant every word. But hearing her throw it back at me, seeing the determination in her stance—my chest tightens in ways I refuse to examine.
“Fine.” I push back from the table. “Stay close. The lower halls flood at high tide, and I’d rather not fish you out of the water twice in one day.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“My concern is practical. Dead allies aren’t useful.”
She falls into step beside me as I head for the main corridor. Close enough that I can smell the salt still clinging to her hair, the faint hint of something else beneath it—something warm and alive that cuts through the perpetual damp of Dreadhaven.
Distance.
The corridor stretches ahead, torches guttering in the constant draft that bleeds through the stones.
I’ve walked these passages a thousand times.
Know every uneven flagstone, every place where the walls narrow, every chamber and alcove and hidden space.
Dreadhaven has been my prison and my penance for years. I know it better than I know myself.
“The keep was built three centuries ago.” I keep my voice flat. Informational. “Naval fortress, meant to control access to the Storm Coast. The builders didn’t account for the Wrecktide—or maybe they did, and that’s why they chose this location.”
“Control the treacherous waters, control the trade routes.”
“Smart woman.”
“I’ve had practice.” She runs her hand along the wall as we walk, fingers tracing the patterns worn into the stone. “Salt erosion?”
“And something else. The locals say the marks are the drowned, trying to climb out of the water.” I don’t tell her that some nights, when the storms are bad, I can hear them—scratching at the stone, whispering names through the walls. Some truths are better left unspoken.
We pass one of the relic alcoves. She slows, studying the objects displayed there—a broken compass, a length of chain corroded beyond recognition, a knife with a handle carved from bone.
“Trophies?”
“Reminders.” I stop beside her. The knife draws my attention the way it does every time I pass—Oreth’s knife, the one he carried for years, the one I took from his body before I sealed the caves. “Of what I’ve done. What I’m trying to undo.”
She picks up the knife without asking. Turns it in her hands, testing the balance, reading the wear patterns. “This belonged to someone important.”
“To Oreth.” The name still tastes wrong in my mouth. “My first mate.”
“The dead man.”
“The dead man.” I take the knife from her—gently, but firmly—and return it to its place.
“He was good with it. Better than me, in close quarters. We used to spar on the deck during calm weather, keeping the crew entertained.” The memory surfaces unbidden: Oreth’s laugh, the flash of his blade, the easy partnership we’d built over years of shared violence. “That was before.”
“Before the gold.”
“Before everything.” I turn from the alcove. “Come on. There’s more to see.”
We descend into the lower levels, where the walls run wet and the air tastes of brine. The tide is out, leaving the drainage channels empty, but I can hear the distant rush of water through the foundations—the sea pressing against the stone, waiting for its chance to reclaim what humans have built.
Aviora moves with a sailor’s awareness—checking her footing, keeping one hand near the wall, her attention split between the path ahead and the shadows around us.
She’s done this before. Navigated dark passages, uncertain terrain.
I find myself wondering about her past, about the life that shaped her into this sharp-edged survivor.
None of your concern.
But I’m watching her anyway. Her movements. The set of her shoulders.
“The harbor is this way.” I gesture toward a passage on the left. “During the day, it’s safe enough. The drowned can’t tolerate direct sunlight—something about the curse breaks down in the light.”
“And at night?”
“At night, we seal the lower gates and hope the chains hold.”
The passage opens onto a ledge overlooking the harbor—that crescent of dark water I’ve watched for years, the iron chains stretched across its mouth. The distinction between cage and shield has never been clear.
Aviora steps to the edge, her gaze sweeping the water. In the morning light, it looks almost peaceful. No pale shapes. No cold glow. Just waves and stone and the distant cry of seabirds.
“How many ships can anchor here?”
“A dozen, if they’re careful. We rarely see more than two or three.” I move to stand beside her, keeping a careful distance. “Supply runs, mostly. Fishermen who know the safe routes. Occasionally someone foolish enough to think they can salvage the Wrecktide.”
“And the salvagers?”
“Some make it out. Most don’t.” I gesture at the chains. “The ones who don’t usually end up out there. Part of the problem instead of the solution.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can see her processing—calculating odds, assessing risks, building a mental map of the terrain. The same thing I did when I first came here, before the fortress became my home and my tomb.
“The sea caves you mentioned,” she doesn’t look at me, “where are they?”
“Beneath us. The entrances are scattered along the cliff face, most of them underwater at high tide. There’s a network of tunnels connecting them to the foundations—some natural, some carved. The oldest passages have ward markings that the builders left behind.”
“Ward markings?”
“Protection against the drowned. They glow when the dead draw near.” I’ve seen them flare in the darkness, blue-white fire racing along stone walls, the only warning before frigid hands reach from the shadows. “They don’t stop Oreth, but they slow him down. Give us time to seal the passages.”
“And the hoard? Where is it?”
The question I’ve been dreading. I point toward the open water, past the chains, toward the dark mass of the Wrecktide visible on the horizon.
“Out there. In the deepest part of the reef maze, in a cavern that was old when this fortress was young. That’s where we found it. That’s where I sealed it.”
“With Oreth inside.”
“With Oreth inside.” I push the words out. “I thought I was protecting people. Containing the curse. Instead, I gave him years to build an army.”
She turns to face me. This close, I can see the exhaustion beneath her composure—the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. She’s running on willpower and spite, same as me.
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have known. Should have killed him properly, burned the gold, done something more than running away and hoping the problem would stay buried.” The words come out harsher than I intend.
Years of guilt, compressed into a few sentences.
“I was a coward. And now people are dying because of it.”
“People were dying before. You said the curse has been active for centuries.”
“Active, yes. But contained. Manageable. Ships avoided the area, and the drowned stayed in the deep, and the worst that happened was the occasional fool who dove too deep or anchored too close.” I grip the stone ledge, feeling the roughness against my palms. “Now Oreth commands them. Directs them. Uses them as weapons instead of just letting them drift. That’s on me. ”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t offer empty comfort or meaningless reassurance. Just stands there, watching me with those sharp eyes, and for a moment, I wonder what she sees. A monster trying to play hero? A man drowning in guilt? Or something else entirely?
“Show me the rest.” Her voice is quiet. Almost gentle. “The ward fires. The defenses. Everything you use to keep them out.”
I nod. Lead her away from the harbor, back into the passages, grateful for the distraction of duty.