Chapter 4 Alaric #2
Morgra found me here. Or maybe she was waiting. She came out of the fog like a ghost in rags, eyes bright with knowing. Offering me what I needed to keep the ship alive—timbers that would never rot, sails that mended themselves, supplies that appeared with the tide.
Morgra didn’t help me out of loyalty or kindness. She helped because curses like mine had a way of spilling outward when neglected—and she preferred to keep disasters contained. All she asked in return were small favors, though her idea of small never matched mine.
The storm that first night nearly tore us apart. The rocks shifted with the tide, eager to gut the hull. Only the faint glow of runes guided us through.
Deeper in, the cove opened into a hidden plateau behind a roaring waterfall. Beyond it lay Morgra’s sanctuary. The air grew heavy. Bioluminescent fungi cast shifting light across stone and spray.
To activate the passage, I had to recite an incantation taught to me by Morgra, many moons ago—words that still felt foreign on my tongue.
“Sic itur ad astra.”
The words left my mouth like salt off an old wound—familiar, but never easy. Every time I spoke them, I felt the cove respond, like it remembered me... or was deciding whether to let me through again. I never asked her what it meant.
This cove had saved us, its jagged cliffs shielding the ship from the worst of the winds.
My father would have never hidden, never sought refuge—he believed a true pirate faced the storm head-on, crushed his enemies before they had the chance to strike.
It was a lesson he drilled into me from the time I could hold a blade, his voice a constant echo even after he was gone.
When he died, leaving The Black Marrow and all the weight that came with her in my hands, I had to decide whether to follow his path or carve my own. I had learned that brute force wasn’t always the answer. Sometimes, survival meant knowing when to slip into the shadows.
Barrels of infused water, rare minerals, and the specialized components required to recharge The Black Marrow’s enchanted systems were stacked neatly, but they hadn’t gotten here on their own.
Now, with the storm closing in and danger trailing on the horizon, I had to wonder if this sanctuary would save us again—or if this was the part where the sea finally cashed in on all its outstanding debts. Spoiler: the sea always collects.
Then came Morgra—part specter, part sentry—emerging from the shadows like a secret too long buried.
She moved with that same unsettling grace, each step slow and inevitable, like the tide coming in.
The crew stiffened around me. I exhaled.
Of course. Just what I needed: a prophecy wrapped in seaweed and bad intentions.
If there was a contest for ‘Most Likely to Curse You While Smiling,’ Morgra would take first, second, and third place.
The crew practically scattered at her approach, each one finding an urgent task that kept them as far away from her as possible.
Garen, usually the calmest among us, tried putting on a brave face while muttering something about checking the rigging—a solid fifty paces away—his white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his sword betraying his unease.
Even Eryk, my helmsman–steady as a compass and twice as stubborn–kept his distance.
Years at sea had carved him into something weathered and sunburnt, all roguish grin and sea-bitten edges.
His hair was the color of old rope, wild and wind-tossed, his eyes that impossible shade of blue that could talk a storm into behaving.
There wasn’t a man alive who could hold a line steadier or curse louder when things went to hell, but even he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
Her staff struck stone—slow, deliberate.
“Captain,” she rasped, her voice carrying an eerie calm that suggested she enjoyed watching my crew squirm. “You return, as I knew you would, my little Sea Rat. Always scurrying back when you need something shiny.”
“We don’t have time for pleasantries, Morgra,” I said, straightening. “The storm’s closing in.”
She chuckled, a sound like the creak of old wood, brittle and full of secrets she had no intention of sharing. “It always is.”
She gestured to the supplies with her staff, and the crystals within the barrels began to hum faintly.
Wisps of light danced from her fingertips as she worked, her enchantments infusing the essence-laced crystals with renewed power.
Nearby, she opened a small vial of liquid moonlight, pouring it carefully into one of the containers as its glow illuminated the cavern in a soft, spectral light.
I crouched beside a barrel, inspecting its contents. The liquid shimmered faintly, rippling without touch—moonlight in a bottle, temperamental as a goddess on a bad day. This was The Black Marrow’s lifeblood.
“Do not mistake our agreement for mercy,” she said. “Every favor has a cost.”
I clenched my teeth. “Name it.”
Morgra’s smile widened, slow and wicked. “Later.”
The word sank into my chest like a hook. Morgra’s remedies never erased the curse—they only rearranged it. Relief came first. The price always followed.
Before I could press her—
“Cap,” Eryk’s voice cut through my thoughts. I turned to find him standing at the edge of the clearing, his expression grim. “We’re not alone.”
The Covenant. It had to be. And if they were this close, it wasn’t by accident.
He never did anything by accident.
The last time our paths had crossed, I barely escaped with my life—and that was before I carried anything of value.
That encounter had left scars. Now, their presence so close to the cove meant only one thing: they were hunting something far greater than supernatural creatures.
They were searching for something—something powerful.
My gut churned at the thought. “Get the supplies on board. Now,” I snapped.
They were more than just hunters; they were parasites, feeding on the power of beings they could never hope to understand.
And The Wolf, their leader? He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t just hunt the supernatural. He studied them. Twisted them. Dissected them.
The crew moved faster, their fear palpable as the storm on the horizon began to creep closer, lightning arcing across the sky.
The air grew thick with electricity, the first fat drops of rain splattering against the rocks.
The Black Marrow’s timbers groaned, a low, almost sentient sound that seemed to echo the ship’s impatience.
I kept my hand on my cutlass, my eyes scanning the cliffs for any sign of movement.
If the Covenant struck now, they wouldn’t just aim to kill—they’d dismantle everything.
They’d expose The Black Marrow’s secrets, slaughter the crew, and take what they wanted without hesitation.
The thought of them getting their hands on the artifact—or worse, discovering its value to me—sent a jolt through my spine. There was no room for mistakes.
Pain lanced through my chest as the ship pitched. Pain lanced through my chest as the ship pitched. My vision tunneled, my throat tightening uselessly.
The artifact flared.
Not bright. Not wild. Precise.
The curse seemed to dampen. Just a fraction. Enough to notice. Enough to feel like a lie whispered directly into my bloodstream.
I froze.
The burn receded another inch, the pressure behind my eyes easing, the hunger clawing at my throat quieting to a low, manageable ache.
I hadn’t imagined it.
The artifact was responding to the storm. To the magic in the water. To me.
For the first time since the curse took hold, I could breathe without agony tearing me open.
Hope flared. Wild. Dangerous.
Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t passive.
If the Covenant caught us, it wouldn’t just be the end of my crew—it would be the end of everything.
A piercing whistle cut through the wind. “Movement—astern!”
I spun just as a flare screamed upward behind us, hissing through the rain before bursting into harsh white light. It painted the cliffs and waves in stark relief—and silhouetted the Covenant ship tearing through the storm behind us.
They’d been running dark. Now they wanted us to see.
Their vessel was lean and purposeful, sails reinforced with iron-threaded canvas that caught the wind clean and fast. No sigils. No glow. Just ruthless design. Lanterns were shuttered low, their hull riding the water with disciplined precision.
They weren’t chasing blindly. They were calculating. They were herding us.
A second flare arced overhead—then a third—marking our path, hemming us in. The Covenant wasn’t trying to cripple us yet.
Steel screamed as something tore through the rain. “Harpoon!”
The bolt slammed into the water off our port side, skipping once before sinking, a thick chain hissing after it. Another struck closer—too close—gouging the hull with a shriek of tearing wood before snapping free.
The crew scattered, swearing, hauling lines and ducking low as more iron bolts followed.
I felt it then—a pressure crawling along my spine, cold and invasive. Not magic. Attention. The weight of trained eyes watching our every move.
And beneath it all, the artifact spiked, heat flaring violently against my chest, it recognized pursuit.
If the Covenant caught us, it wouldn’t just be the end of my crew. It would be the end of everything.
But The Black Marrow answered anyway.
Her cursed magic surged through the hull, a violent shudder rippling from keel to mast as the wind snapped hard and full into our sails. The ship leapt forward, waves splitting cleanly beneath her bow.
Eryk fought the helm like a man wrestling a living beast, instincts dragging us through the narrowing channel ahead.
Jagged rocks erupted from the sea without warning, black and slick, looming like the gaping maw of a sea monster too polite to chew with its mouth closed.
“Hard to starboard!” Eryk barked.
The ship lurched. Barrels skidded. Someone slammed into the rail with a curse.
Behind us, the Covenant followed—still gaining. Their ship cut the turn with ruthless efficiency, hull riding lower, heavier, built for pursuit.
“They’re matching our line,” someone shouted.
Another iron bolt shrieked past, close enough to feel the wind of it. Fear gnawed through the crew—raw, unspoken, contagious.
The channel tightened. Submerged stone lurked just beneath the surface, invisible until too late. For one heart-stopping moment, The Black Marrow drifted off course—
The hull scraped hard against rock.
The sound tore through the deck, a bone-deep scream that seemed to hollow the air itself. The ship tilted dangerously, and the crew went still, waiting for the crack that would mean splintered wood and open sea.
Eryk snarled and hauled the helm over with everything he had. The ship tore free.
“Close enough for you, Cap?” he muttered, storm-dark eyes flicking toward me before locking back on the water ahead.
I didn’t answer.
My focus stayed on the Covenant ship still driving after us—and on the artifact burning hotter with every second, humming like it knew exactly who hunted us.
“Captain,” someone shouted from the rail. Not panicked—yet—but tight, controlled.
I turned, and for a heartbeat, I saw it clearly—not the storm, not the Covenant, but them.
Faces drawn. Hands white-knuckled on rigging. A deck that trusted me to keep it breathing.
The Marrow groaned beneath us, timbers shuddering as silver bit into the water nearby.
“Hold your lines,” I barked. “Eyes up. No one breaks formation unless I say so.”
The Black Marrow answered with a surge of power, her cursed magic propelling us forward. Eryk’s instincts guided the ship through the chaotic swells, narrowly avoiding jagged rocks that loomed like the gaping maw of a sea monster too polite to chew with its mouth closed.
“We’re not making it out of this,” someone muttered, voice barely above the storm.
Another sailor cut them a warning look but said nothing, their grip on the rigging white-knuckled.
Fear gnawed at them, raw and unspoken. For one heart-stopping moment, the ship veered too close, the scrape of the hull against a submerged boulder shuddering through the entire deck.
The crew went rigid as Eryk gritted his teeth and hauled the helm hard, forcing the ship back on course.
"Close enough for you, Cap?" he muttered, his stormy eyes flicking toward me before refocusing on the treacherous waters ahead.
The Covenant's ship faltered, their unnatural speed hindered by the very forces we used to our advantage. A few crew members dared to glance back, their faces tight with worry.
The storm's howling winds and relentless waves became both ally and enemy, testing the crew's resolve with every turn.
A flash of lightning illuminated the gap between the ships.
For a tense moment, I thought we might have outpaced them.
The crew stood motionless, straining to see through the chaos.
Lightning flared again, and for a heartbeat their ship vanished into the swirling dark.
Silence followed, broken only by crashing waves and the groan of the rigging.
They might be gone, for now—but I knew better.
The Covenant didn’t retreat. They circled. They bided their time.
"They’re gone!" Garen shouted, his voice breaking through the cacophony. Relief rippled through the crew, though I knew better than to celebrate. We had escaped, but only just.
I tightened my grip on the rail, staring into the storm-churned darkness. My father would have laughed at the idea of running, calling it weakness. But he was dead, and I was still here. That had to count for something.
The artifact pulsed once against my chest, a slow, deliberate thrum—like a heartbeat answering a call I couldn't hear. I dragged in a breath and let it go, shoving the unease aside.
"Eryk," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil, "Get us to safer waters. This isn't over yet."