Chapter 4 Alaric
Alaric
The Black Marrow, Morgra’s Cove
We were heading for a cove—nameless, shrouded in secrecy, but one I knew well. We needed to recharge before facing the Forgotten Trench. The supplies hidden deep within its shelter were our only chance of surviving what lay ahead.
The sea had turned a sickly green-gray, frothing with unease, the horizon smeared with storm light and menace.
My crew moved with grim efficiency, eyes flicking skyward and toward the waves, every motion betraying a quiet dread.
They didn’t speak of it, but we all felt it—the ocean had gone unnaturally still.
Even The Black Marrow, for all her cursed power, demanded magic to sustain her.
It was part of the price. Part of the binding that kept her afloat after all these centuries.
The magic didn’t make her invincible. It kept her functioning—barely.
Without constant reinforcement, the curse that bound us both would tear her apart plank by plank.
She had been my father’s ship once, feared across every sea—not just for speed or firepower, but for the dark magic woven into her bones. I used to dream of captaining her one day, imagining I’d inherit her like a crown passed from one king to the next.
That was a long time ago. Back when I didn’t know any better. Back when I thought power made a man noble, and fear was the same as respect.
I idolized him—even when I shouldn’t have. Especially when I shouldn’t have.
The name came from what lay beneath her surface—her core, a fusion of wood and something older.
Something unnatural. My father used to say The Black Marrow had a hunger of her own, that she drank in blood spilled across the waters, whispered to those who listened.
He claimed she had a soul—one as black and unrelenting as his own.
Romantic stuff, really—if you like your bedtime stories soaked in death and bad decisions.
It had been his pride and obsession until death pried the helm from his cold, greedy fingers and left me holding the weight of his curse.
The cove loomed ahead, dragging me out of the past and into the present—because none of it mattered if we didn’t survive the night.
Natural barriers of jagged rock and treacherous currents guarded the cache, faintly glowing symbols etched into the surrounding stone adding another layer of defense. The cove carried a reputation in whispered sailors’ tales—a place charted by no map, avoided by anyone who valued their life.
Currents twisted near its mouth, as though the sea couldn’t decide whether to let you enter or drown you for trying. Shipwrecks littered the nearby reefs, their bones left untouched as warning. Only those who knew its rhythm—its moods—could hope to find safe passage.
Few dared approach the place, and fewer still could penetrate it. It was the kind of place most sailors avoided, but for us, it was salvation.
Morgra claimed the symbols were alive, attuned to intent—repelling the malicious and guiding the worthy. Naturally, I chose to be flattered. Not every day a cursed pirate gets called worthy by glorified sea graffiti.
Hidden within the formations were caverns and overhangs, shrouded in shadow even at high noon.
Salt crusted the stones, evidence of tides that guarded as fiercely as they gave.
A dense canopy cast the cove in perpetual twilight—ensuring only those who knew exactly where to look ever found the cache.
The ship’s enchanted systems relied on more than ropes and sails. They demanded essence-laced crystals and vials of distilled moonlight—ancient, volatile, dangerous to handle.
This power didn’t just keep The Black Marrow afloat. It tethered her to the curse, keeping the malevolent forces in her hull contained. Without it, the ship would falter, and the storm looming on the horizon would surely claim us.
The supplies weren’t simply hidden—they were crafted and guarded by the witch who dwelled here. Morgra had history with me and my crew, a relationship balanced delicately between partnership and distrust. Her aid was never free. It came wrapped in warnings and exacting demands.
Morgra’s appearance matched her magic—unsettling. A hunched figure wrapped in tattered, seaweed-like layers that writhed when caught in the light.
My crew, usually fearless, suddenly found the deck very interesting.
Impressive, really—how Morgra could make hardened killers reconsider their life choices without saying a word.
Her skin was pallid, etched with swirling symbols that pulsed faintly, as though the tide itself powered them.
Molten-silver eyes glinted beneath a heavy brow.
Damp, kelp-dark hair clung to her face, making her look more tide than flesh.
Her ties to the supernatural ran deep, making her invaluable—and deeply unsettling. Morgra always demanded a price, one that shifted with each visit. Sometimes a rare token. Sometimes knowledge. Sometimes a promise that weighed heavier than gold.
Because of the supplies’ volatility—and Morgra’s terms—it was safer to leave them here than aboard the ship. The Marrow didn’t need recharging often, but when she did, we always came here.
Knowing full well the cost would come later.
Morgra muttered often about how the curse traced back to Meris’s vengeance—a punishment designed to ensure no freedom came without consequence.
She spoke of the sea goddess as one who neither forgave nor forgot, her wrath as unrelenting as the tides.
According to Morgra, the curse wasn’t just retribution for mortal greed—it was a warning.
The crystals carried whispers of that wrath.
The moonlight distilled Meris’s watchful gaze, ensuring the ship would never escape her grip.
The crystals hummed with raw energy, capable of burning through flesh if mishandled. The moonlight shimmered in its glass vials. Transporting the supplies demanded precision; one mistake could turn the ship into a floating tomb.
“Cap’n,” Garen called from the quarterdeck, his voice strained. “There’s somethin’ ahead.”
I strode toward him, my boots thudding against the deck. “Something?”
He handed me the spyglass without a word. Raising it to my eye, I scanned the waves until the scene focused. I sighed under my breath as I saw the debris. Nets, empty cages, and broken traps bobbed on the surface, their designs all too familiar.
My father’s designs.
His trade hadn’t been limited to gold. He’d hunted the supernatural—sold bodies to the highest bidder. He bragged about the efficiency of his traps, about tools that left no chance of escape.
Seeing them here—used by the Covenant—left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Among the wreckage floated lifeless forms. Merfolk. Scales dulled and torn, beauty ruined by human greed.
The scent hit next—salt thick with blood and rot. I remembered it too well: sunbaked crates lined with silver hooks, rusted tools stained with old magic, his voice calling them trophies. My gut twisted.
One mermaid’s glassy eyes stared upward, her once-vibrant fins shredded, dangling like ribbons in the current. The traps and nets were cruelly efficient, their jagged edges and barbed hooks leaving no chance of escape. A bitter reminder of humanity’s insatiable appetite for power.
“The Covenant,” I muttered, my voice low and venomous.
The wolf’s mark was unmistakable. They weren’t just hunters; they were zealots, driven by a twisted belief that supernatural beings existed solely for their exploitation.
Their methods were brutal, their resources vast, and their determination unrelenting.
Encounters with them never ended cleanly—they either claimed what they wanted or left ruin in their wake or both.
For my crew, their presence was more than a threat; it was a promise of pain.
These weren’t the careless snares of amateur poachers; they were the meticulously crafted tools of hunters who knew exactly what they were doing.
The Covenant didn’t fear balance or consequence.
They burned straight through it—fast, brutal, and careless.
Garen’s face darkened. “What do we do, Cap’n?”
I lowered the spyglass, my grip tightening. “We’re not here to pick fights. Keep us on course to the cove. But keep your eyes open. If they’re this close, they’re up to something.”
The crew whispered among themselves, unease growing with every shattered trap we passed. Garen’s jaw clenched as he stared into the water. For once, he said nothing—understanding the danger without needing to voice it.
The cliffs rose ahead—jagged, imposing, a wall between us and the open sea. To me, it looked like a terrible idea waiting to happen. Rock teeth big enough to gut a whale. Water that pulled like a noose. A calm that felt less like peace and more like a predator pausing before it struck.
The magic here was different. Old. Tangled. Permissive.
Unlike the rest of the world—where land would tear me apart—the cove bent the rules. Not freedom. A loophole. A crack in the goddess’s design that let me walk without agony.
Men like me weren’t eliminated—we were monitored. As long as I hunted monsters worse than myself, the sea tolerated my existence.
As The Black Marrow slipped into the cove’s shelter, the storm’s weight eased. The cliffs shimmered with brine. Rune-carved stones whispered with unseen energy. Silence pressed too tightly to be natural.
“We don’t have much time,” I said, addressing the crew.
Eryk was already at the helm, his stormy blue eyes scanning the shores, sensing the currents of the air itself. Garen barked orders, his gruff voice cutting through the tension as the crew sprang into action.
The cove was untouched, just as I had left it—hidden behind jagged cliffs and whispering mist. It had been my refuge once. I’d found it not long after the curse took hold, when the sea still burned against my skin and my men hadn’t yet learned to look at me without fear.