Chapter 24 Zoric
TWENTY-FOUR
ZORIC
The realization hits like reef rock to the chest. The curse is taking her—not the way Oreth’s gold took people, not with gradual corruption and escalating want. This is direct. Immediate. A hook in her soul, reeling her toward oblivion.
I have seconds. Maybe less.
I do the only thing I can think of.
I kiss her.
My mouth finds hers with precision born of desperation. No air left to share—just contact, just the press of my lips against hers, the physical reality of my body anchoring hers in the present moment. I pour everything into it. Every ounce of wanting. Every furious refusal to let her go.
Come back to me. Come back.
For a heartbeat, nothing changes. She’s still fighting, still reaching for the gold that glows with patient hunger.
Then—
She gasps against my mouth. Her body goes rigid, then limp, then rigid again in a different way. Her hands stop pushing and start clutching, fingers fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of away.
Her eyes are clear.
“Zoric.” My name, bubbling up between us. Terror and relief and recognition. Return.
I pull back just far enough to meet her gaze. Hold up one finger.
We leave. Now.
She nods. No argument. No lingering glances at the treasure that nearly claimed her. Just an immediate understanding of how close we came to losing everything.
We push off the deck in unison. The Fortune’s glow intensifies as we rise—angry, maybe, or just hungry for what it couldn’t have. The light reaches after us, stretching toward our retreating forms with tendrils that feel almost solid against my skin.
I swim harder. Push through water that fights every stroke, cold that tries to lock my muscles, pressure that makes my ears ring and my vision blur at the edges.
Aviora stays close. Her hand closes on mine in the darkness, fingers interlacing, grip tight enough to bruise. We rise in tandem—lungs screaming, bodies failing, the surface impossibly far above.
Don’t stop. Don’t look back.
The light fades. The cold lessens. The darkness gives way to gray, then to the pale illumination of an overcast sky.
We break the surface gasping.
The patrol boat is fifty yards away. Brek spots us first—his shout carries across the water, followed by the splash of oars as Margit steers toward us.
I tread water beside Aviora, one arm wrapped around her waist, refusing to let go even now that we’re safe. Her breathing is ragged, her skin pale, her eyes still carrying shadows of whatever she saw in the Fortune’s depths.
“You came back.” I don’t recognize my own voice—rough, broken, carrying emotions I’ve spent years learning to suppress.
“You kissed me.” A ghost of her usual sharpness surfaces through the shock. “Underwater. Without air.”
“Seemed important.”
“It was.” Her palm presses cold against my cheek. “Zoric. What I saw down there—Finn wasn’t just a memory. The gold was using him. Showing me things. Promising that if I just touched it, I could release his pain. Let him rest in peace.”
“It was lying.”
“I know. But for a moment...” Her voice cracks. “For a moment, I wanted it to be true badly enough to drown for it.”
I draw her closer. Press my forehead against hers. We float there in the cold water, surrounded by the Wrecktide’s deceptive calm, breathing air that tastes sweeter than anything I’ve ever known.
“You came back,” I say again. “That’s what matters.”
“Because you were there.” Her lips brush mine—brief, trembling, but real. “You’re what brought me back.”
The patrol boat reaches us. Brek’s hand reaches down, hauling Aviora over the gunwale with the easy strength of youth. I follow, collapsing onto the deck beside her, my body finally acknowledging the toll of a dive that should have killed us both.
“Did you find it?” Margit’s voice is sharp with hope. “The Fortune?”
I exchange a glance with Aviora. See my own answer reflected in her eyes.
“We found it.” I push myself upright. “We didn’t take anything.”
“What?” Brek’s face falls. “But the deadline—”
“The gold is wrong.” Aviora’s voice is steadier now, the professional returning as the shock fades.
Margit’s expression shifts from disappointment to understanding. She’s old enough to recognize truth when she hears it, wise enough not to argue with people who’ve clearly seen horror.
“Then what do we do?” Brek looks between us, young and lost. “Gyla’s deadline is today. If we don’t have the gold...”
“We find another way.” I stand, drawing Aviora up with me. “Get us back to shore. Now.”
Dreadhaven’s harbor comes into view, and my stomach drops.
Gyla’s fleet is moving.
All five ships have weighed anchor, their sails unfurling in the afternoon breeze. They’re not heading out to sea—they’re heading in. Toward the harbor mouth. Toward the iron chain booms that are the only barrier between their mercenaries and my people.
“She’s not waiting.” Aviora’s grip tightens on my arm. “The deadline isn’t until sunset.”
“She’s making a point.” I watch the lead ship tack toward the channel, its mercenary crew visible on the deck. “Showing us that she sets the terms, not us.”
“How many fighters do we have?”
“Five, if you count wounded.” I run the numbers in my head—numbers I’ve run a hundred times since Gyla arrived. “Against hundreds. Maybe more.”
“So we can’t fight.”
“No.”
“And we can’t pay.”
“No.”
Aviora is quiet for a long moment. I can almost hear her mind working—calculating angles, assessing options, searching for escape routes the way she’s done her whole life. When she speaks, her voice carries a new edge. Cold.
“The Fortune.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine. “The gold down there—you felt what it wanted.”
“I felt it.”
“It’s hungry. Has been for thirty years, since the last tribute. That’s why the Wrecktide’s been getting worse, why Oreth’s curse was able to take hold.” She steps closer, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “What if we gave it a meal?”
The implications hit me like a boarding axe to the chest. “Gyla’s fleet.”
“Thousands in gold and jewels, I’m sure.” Aviora’s face is hard now, her survivor’s pragmatism overriding whatever softer impulses she might have. “If we could lure them over the Fortune’s resting place...”
“You think the curse would take the ships under.”
“Why not? Just like all the others it’s taken.” Her hand closes on mine. “I don’t like it. But what’s the alternative? Let Gyla burn Dreadhaven? Watch your people starve because we couldn’t bring ourselves to use the weapon the sea handed us?”
I stare at her. The woman who washed up on my shore six days ago, carrying cursed gold and a death sentence. The woman who’s broken through every wall I built and made me want things I’d forgotten how to want.
She’s proposing mass destruction. “What about the humans on board?”
“What about them? They just abandon ship. There’s no storm to drown them. They can swim to shore easily.”
“We’d be no better than Oreth.” The words scrape out of me. “Using the curse for our own ends.”
“Oreth wanted power. We want to live.” She squeezes my hand. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
The question hangs between us as the patrol boat slides toward shore. In the distance, Gyla’s fleet continues its advance—five ships full of people who have no idea what waits in the depths below.
“We don’t have to decide now.” Aviora’s voice softens. “But we need to decide soon. If we’re going to do this, we have to move before she makes harbor.”
I nod slowly. My gaze drifts to the Wrecktide—to the calm surface hiding horrors I’ve spent years learning to fear. Then to Dreadhaven’s walls, where the handful of people who depend on me are preparing for a battle they can’t win.
Then back to Aviora. To the woman who’s become more important than the coast I’ve sworn to protect.
“We’ll need a plan.” I draw her against me, one arm around her waist, her body warm despite the cold water still dripping from our clothes. “How do we get the fleet over the Fortune without getting ourselves killed in the process?”
“Rumor.” Her mind is already working; I can see it in her eyes. “Gyla’s greedy—it’s how she built her empire. If she heard there was treasure in the deep channel, treasure worth more than my debt, she’d send ships to investigate.”
“She’d also suspect a trap.”
“Then we make it convincing.” Aviora turns in my arms, facing the approaching shore. “We let ourselves be captured. Offer to show her where the Fortune lies in exchange for our lives. Her greed does the rest.”
“You’d risk yourself as bait. Again.”
“I’d risk anything to keep what we’ve built.” She looks up at me, her expression carrying a depth I’m not ready to name. “You. This place. The chance to stop running.”
I kiss her. Hard, urgent, tasting salt and conviction. When I pull back, her eyes are bright with more than just the reflection of the water.
“Side-by-side,” I say.
“Side-by-side.”
The patrol boat beaches on the black sand below Dreadhaven’s walls. Above us, the keep rises against the gray sky—battered, flooded, half-ruined. But still standing.
Still worth fighting for.
We gather in the Great Hall as Gyla’s fleet enters the harbor.
The remaining guards—Thorne, Brek, Margit, Ven—stand in a loose semicircle around the table where Aviora spreads her makeshift charts. Even Henek is there, his hostility temporarily shelved in the face of a more immediate threat.
“The plan is simple.” Aviora’s voice carries the confidence of someone who’s survived worse odds. “We let Gyla think she’s won. Surrender peacefully, offer to lead her to the Silver Fortune in exchange for clemency. Her greed takes over.”
“And if her greed doesn’t cooperate?” Thorne’s tone is skeptical but not dismissive. “If she just kills us and takes what she wants?”
“She won’t.” I step forward, standing beside Aviora with my hand resting on her hip. “Gyla doesn’t waste assets. She’ll want to squeeze every coin of value out of us before she considers disposal. That gives us time.”
“Time to what?” Henek’s voice is sharp. “Pray the sea monsters eat her before she eats us?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Aviora meets his hostility without flinching. “The Fortune’s gold is cursed. More cursed than anything Oreth ever touched. If we can get Gyla’s ships over the wreck site...”
She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to. The implication hangs in the air, heavy and cold.
Quiet settles through the hall. Outside, I hear the sounds of Gyla’s ships making harbor—anchors dropping, boats being lowered, the organized chaos of an invasion force preparing to invade.
“I’m in.” Brek speaks first, his young face set with determination that looks almost like eagerness. “Whatever it takes.”
Margit nods slowly. “A hundred years I’ve sailed these waters. Lost friends to the Wrecktide, lost cargo, lost hope more times than I can count. If there’s a chance to make this coast safe...” She shrugs. “I’ve done worse for less.”
Thorne looks at me. Her expression carries questions she doesn’t ask—about Aviora, about us, about whether I’ve lost my mind or finally found it. Whatever she sees in my face must satisfy her, because she nods.
“I follow my captain.”
Ven grunts agreement. Only Henek remains silent, his hatred warring with his survival instinct. Finally, he spits on the floor.
“Fine. But when this goes wrong—and it will—I’m holding you both responsible.”
“Fair enough.” I squeeze Aviora’s hip, drawing strength from her presence. “Now let’s go surrender to a merchant queen.”