Chapter 37 Zoric
THIRTY-SEVEN
ZORIC
The merchant vessel drops anchor at midday.
I watch from the wall walk as the crew lowers their longboat, as sailors row toward my harbor with the easy confidence of people who no longer fear these waters.
A month ago, they would have given Dreadhaven’s coast a wide berth—would have risked the longer route around the Storm Coast’s treacherous headlands rather than test the Wrecktide’s hungry reefs.
Now they anchor without hesitation. Now they come to trade.
Dreadhaven. The name no longer fits, I think. The harbor isn’t dreaded anymore. The fortress isn’t haunted. The waters that claimed thousands of ships over centuries have become just water.
A hand settles on my hip from behind. Familiar warmth presses against my back.
“That’s the third ship this week.” Aviora’s voice carries quiet satisfaction. “The word is spreading.”
“Merchant vessel out of Saltmere.” I turn into her touch, wrap my arm around her waist. She fits against my side like she was made to be there—all sharp angles and lean muscle, her head barely reaching my shoulder. “They’re carrying cloth and spices. Want to trade for salvage.”
“Salvage.” Her mouth curves into that sharp smile I’ve come to recognize. “Funny how much treasure is lying around when the curse isn’t actively killing anyone who tries to retrieve it.”
“Funny.” I press my lips to her hair. “Also profitable.”
The month since we destroyed the ancient hunger has been one of transformation.
Dreadhaven’s walls still bear the scars of Oreth’s siege—cracked stone, patched canvas over shattered windows, the Eastern Collapse still a treacherous ruin of tumbled rock and seabird nests. But the damage feels different now. Temporary. Something to be repaired rather than endured.
The guards have stopped looking at Aviora with suspicion. Henek’s hostility has faded to something more like grudging respect. Even Thorne, who spent the first week watching Aviora with the wariness of someone expecting betrayal, has relaxed into something approaching friendship.
And Aviora herself—
She hasn’t left.
I thought she would. Expected it, even, in the first days after the hunger died.
Years of running don’t end overnight. The instincts that kept her alive—the constant assessment of exits, the reluctance to put down roots, the readiness to disappear at the first sign of trouble—those don’t simply vanish because she’s decided she wants something different.
But she stayed. Threw herself into the work of rebuilding with relentless energy.
She runs salvage operations now, teaching Brek and the younger guards the skills Finn taught her.
She’s mapped currents, identified promising wrecks, calculated recovery ratios that would make professional salvagers weep with envy.
She’s making this place hers.
And every night, she comes to my bed. Curls against my side. Lets me hold her through dreams that are starting to carry peace instead of nightmares.
“You’re thinking too loud.” Her elbow nudges my ribs. “I can hear the gears turning from here.”
“Thinking about you.”
“Dangerous pastime.” She tilts her face up, and I see the teasing light in her gaze. “What specifically?”
“How you looked yesterday. In the water.” I brush my knuckles along her jaw. “Bossing Brek around, making him dive for practice salvage over and over until he got the technique right. You were...”
“Mean? Demanding? Unreasonable?”
“Extraordinary.”
The word slips out before I can stop it. Her expression softens—the sharp smile giving way to something more vulnerable. More real.
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep meaning it.”
She rises on her toes. Her lips brush mine—brief, familiar, the casual intimacy of two people who’ve learned each other’s rhythms. The kiss ends too soon, but there will be more. There are more now, every day.
“Come on.” She takes my hand, threads her fingers through mine. “That merchant captain looks important. We should probably greet him before Thorne scares him off.”
The merchant’s name is Harwin, and he represents something called the Coastal Trading Guild.
We receive him in the Great Hall—patched now, the shattered windows still covered with canvas that doesn’t quite keep out the drafts, but functional. Presentable. The kind of space where serious negotiations can happen.
“The Guild has been watching your operation with interest.” Harwin is a middle-aged human with the weathered look of someone who’s spent decades at sea.
His eyes carry the calculating assessment of a born merchant, but underneath it runs something that might be genuine respect.
“Three successful salvage runs in four weeks. Recovery rates that exceed anything we’ve seen from professional crews.
And all from waters that were supposed to be cursed. ”
“The curse is broken.” Aviora sits at my side, her posture relaxed but alert.
She’s dressed in practical clothes—leather vest, loose shirt, the knives she’s never without—but she wears them like armor.
Like someone who knows exactly what she’s worth and isn’t afraid to demand appropriate payment.
“The Wrecktide is just water now. Dangerous, but manageable.”
“So we’ve heard.” Harwin’s gaze slides between us, assessing. “The Guild would like to formalize a relationship. Exclusive salvage rights in exchange for market access. Trade agreements. The kind of arrangement that benefits everyone involved.”
I exchange a glance with Aviora. Her expression gives nothing away, but I can read the calculation in her eyes—the professional assessing an offer, weighing risks against rewards.
“We’re listening.” I lean back in my chair, let the quiet do its work. A negotiation tactic I learned during my pirate days. Make them fill the quiet with concessions.
Harwin doesn’t disappoint. He spends the next hour outlining terms that would have been impossible a month ago—trading partnerships, supply agreements, the promise of regular merchant traffic through Dreadhaven’s harbor.
Everything we need to transform this fortress from a ruin into something sustainable.
By the time he finishes, the afternoon sun is slanting through the canvas-covered windows, painting the flagstones gold.
“We’ll discuss your proposal.” Aviora’s voice carries the polished neutrality of someone who’s negotiated harder deals than this. “Send a representative in a few days. We’ll have an answer for you then.”
Harwin nods, apparently satisfied. Thorne escorts him back to the harbor, leaving Aviora and me alone in the hall.
“That was unexpected.” I reach for her hand, pull her from her chair into my lap. She comes willingly, settling against my chest with the easy familiarity of long practice. “The Guild approaching us. Offering legitimate trade.”
“Not that unexpected.” Her fingers trace patterns on my arm—idle, unconscious, the kind of touch that happens when two people have stopped keeping track of whose body is whose.
“Word spreads. Ships have been passing through the Wrecktide without incident for weeks now. Sailors talk. Merchants listen.”
“You think we should take the deal?”
“I think we should negotiate better terms.” Her sharp smile returns. “Exclusive salvage rights are valuable. They’re lowballing us because they think we’re desperate.”
“Are we?”
“Not anymore.” She turns in my lap, straddles me, frames my face with her hands. Her eyes hold mine with certainty. “We’ve got the coast. We’ve got the salvage. We’ve got—”
“Each other?”
“I was going to say a strategic position and valuable resources.” Her fingers brush along my jaw. “But that too.”
I kiss her. Properly this time—deep and claiming, my hands settling on her hips, pulling her closer. She melts into me with a sigh that carries satisfaction and want in equal measure.
One month. One month of this, and it still takes my breath away. Still makes me forget everything except the taste of her, the feel of her, the joy of having found something worth keeping.
When we break apart, she’s breathing harder. So am I.
“We should...” She gestures vaguely toward the door. “There’s work to do. Salvage schedules to review. Guard rotations to—”
“Later.” I pull her closer, my nose brushing hers. “The work can wait.”
“Zoric—”
“I spent years putting work first. Years of nothing but duty and guilt and the slow grind of trying to earn forgiveness that was never coming.” I meet her eyes. “I’m not making that mistake again. The salvage schedules can wait. This can’t.”
Her expression softens. The professional retreats, leaving just the woman—scarred and somehow still capable of tenderness despite everything she’s survived.
“You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
“Blame yourself. You’re a terrible influence.”
She laughs. The sound fills the hall, bounces off stone walls that have heard centuries of violence and loss, warms something in my chest I’d forgotten existed.
“Fine.” She kisses me again—quick and claiming. “But only because you asked nicely.”