Chapter 10 Alaric
Alaric
The Black Marrow, On Course to the Forgotten Trench
Remember what I said about choosing your battles? Sometimes they choose you.
The crew began the grim work of clearing the aftermath. Boots scuffed against the planks as bodies were dragged toward the banister—some to be returned to the sea, others already beyond recognition, claimed by the abyss before we had a chance to save them.
Salt air hung heavy with the metallic bite of blood and the lingering stink of char. The deck was slick with siren ichor, its sickly glow fading into nothing. Ragged breaths and muttered curses carried between men as they wiped gore from their hands, fingers still unsteady.
Dr. Gideon moved through the chaos with practiced ease, pale eyes assessing wounds with meticulous attention.
His skeletal prosthetic hand worked with calculated precision, fingers tightening bandages with an almost unnatural steadiness.
Deep creases cut his face—etched by hardship and something far darker—yet his expression never shifted.
His skin was pale gray, dark veins webbing beneath it, making him look more corpse than man.
The crew parted instinctively as he passed—some with wary glances, others with quiet respect. No one questioned his skill; he’d saved more lives than they cared to count. There was an unspoken understanding that he wasn’t like them.
He was something else.
Some still feared him, muttering superstitions—whispers of curses clinging to his name, omens following in his wake.
They believed he carried death itself, that his presence invited the sea to claim them sooner.
Others accepted him with grim practicality.
A necessary evil. A price paid for keeping men alive and stitched together.
“Try not to die just yet,” he said dryly. “I’m running low on things to stitch you back together with.”
I scoffed to myself. You’d think a bunch of cursed pirates—bound to a ship and the ocean for eternity—would be harder to shake. Apparently, centuries of supernatural torment hadn’t made them any less superstitious.
Maybe that was the problem.
We knew what haunted us. We knew the shape of our own damnation.
And if there was something out there worse than our curse… that was enough to rattle even the damned.
Gideon hadn’t been part of the original crew.
He hadn’t been cursed alongside us. His fate had been different—worse, in some ways.
He’d been brought back by a witch, bound by necromancy to a half-life of endless service.
I found him on a ship we raided—already reanimated, already resigned to what he’d become.
Opportunism made him mine. Cynicism made him tolerable. And he never failed to do his duty.
Gideon had no illusions about what he was: an experiment in defying death, sustained by forces no man should meddle with. Some still refused to share a drink with him. Despite his dark humor and lack of sentiment, he kept this crew alive.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the ache settle deep—jagged cuts along my ribs, bruises blooming beneath my coat, a fresh gash splitting skin along my collarbone. My own wounds could wait. There was work to be done, and we weren’t safe yet.
The lull after battle never lasted. It was only a pause between storms.
Hands tightened around weapons. Eyes kept drifting to the horizon, half-expecting the sea to strike again.
An hour had passed and the crew were still shaking off the ghost of it. Blood slicked the deck. The groans of the wounded threaded through the wind.
The Shadow Sirens came from beneath, their voices cutting through night, weaving into weaker minds like a net. There were many kinds of sirens and siren-bred creatures, but Shadow Sirens were among the worst.
Their voices pierced deeper than steel, shattering the mind and drowning the soul in despair. They didn’t want devotion. They wanted annihilation.
Even I felt the pull—something invasive sinking into my thoughts, trying to drag me toward the abyss. The “song” wasn’t just sound. It was an invasion. It dug into memory, threaded through it, twisted it into something foreign—
And then I heard her. My mother.
Soft. Familiar. Singing the lullaby she used to hum when I was sick as a child.
It hit harder than any blade.
I’d buried her. Buried the truth of her. The sirens found it anyway. They always did. They used her voice to peel away the armor I’d wrapped around those memories.
For a heartbeat, I wasn’t captain of the Black Marrow.
I was a boy on a rotting dock, clinging to the last person who truly loved me.
Even now, the echo of that lullaby clung to the corners of my mind. I couldn’t remember her face clearly anymore—only that voice. Soft. Steady. And the sirens had defiled even that.
What the hell else would the sea take from me, if I let it?
Every note scraped against my will, demanding I give in. It snagged every buried fear until it bled into my thoughts. My body tensed, muscles screaming to surrender—to let go—to slip into the void.
The crew moved with quiet efficiency—bandaging wounds, securing rigging—tension thick enough to taste. I barked an order—“Secure the starboard sails!”—more out of habit than necessity, my voice rougher than I intended. My attention snagged on the bloodied deck, then shifted to Nerina.
Wary glances gathered around her. Suspicion settled over the deck. They’d seen magic before.
Not that.
A deckhand crossed himself and took one step back. Then another. Someone muttered a prayer. No one laughed. No one corrected him.
The space around Nerina widened without a word. Something had changed.
The ocean was unnervingly still. The usual rhythm of waves against the hull was gone—an absence so wrong it raised the hair on my arms. The quiet didn’t feel peaceful.
It felt watchful.
Merfolk were strong. I’d seen their magic. Nerina was something else.
There was an intensity around her that unsettled even the hardest among us. The air near her held charge—an edge I couldn’t name. It wasn’t just strength.
It was potential. Raw. Untamed.
Where other merfolk carried elegance in their power, hers was wild—chaotic—defiant of the natural order.
It felt ancient.
It felt dangerous.
And it should have terrified me.
When I first saw her floating in the storm, something pulled me toward her. Not logic. Not strategy. Something deeper. Compulsion. I saved her even when I knew better than to act on impulse.
If she could tear sirens apart so easily… What stopped her from turning that on me?
I’d dealt with dangerous things before—creatures that ripped souls from bodies, beings that shouldn’t exist. But she—
She was unpredictable.
And power that large never stayed hidden for long.
Nerina stood near the mast, shoulders tight. The artifact’s glow had faded, but the residue of what she’d unleashed still lingered—heat and ozone clinging to the air.
I approached her carefully, not moving too fast. After that surge, I wasn’t sure how she’d react—or whether she had any control at all.
“Ah, still standing, I see.” My voice stayed measured, but my eyes stayed on her.
Her skin was flushed from exertion, sweat bright along her brow. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, but she held herself upright—defiant even in exhaustion.
She glanced at me, fatigue in every movement, wariness tucked under it. I couldn’t blame her. She’d been on my ship only a few days, and we hadn’t exactly had time to play twenty questions. We didn't know each other.
There is no time like the present.
“Barely,” she muttered, swaying before catching herself. I had the impulse to reach for her—to steady her.
I didn’t. She wouldn’t appreciate it, and I didn’t want her to think I cared.
I studied her.
"I’ve seen merfolk play with currents and sing storms into calm, but whatever that was? Wasn’t just magic—it was something else entirely. Something wild. Something dangerous. So, tell me—what the hell are you?”
Her mouth tightened as if around a bitter thought. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer. She weighed the cost of words, gaze sliding to the dark water beyond the ship.
“I didn’t think they were real,” she admitted, shaking her head. “Shadow Sirens were just myths—stories told to frighten young merfolk. But they were real. And they were worse than the stories.”
I let out a low, humorless laugh.
“You have no idea the horrors this world holds.” I gestured toward the waves ahead. “Those were just the beginning.”
“I’m from a city beyond the Veil. Thalassia.”
I frowned. “The Veil?”
The word stirred something in me. I’d always wondered what it was truly for—what it kept out, or what it kept in.
She hesitated, then nodded. “It separates my world from yours. It protects us from humans. From being poached. From being skinned alive.”
Her voice carried something close to reverence… or regret.
“To protect you? From humans?” I gave a short laugh, shaking my head. “Who told you that?”
Nerina’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s what we were taught,” she said finally, but hesitation threaded her words. “From the time we’re young, we’re warned about humans. About their greed, their hunger for power. The Veil is meant to keep us safe.”
I exhaled. “I think you mean hidden. There’s a difference.”
I leaned back, watching her. “Safe means someone’s guarding you. Hidden means someone’s afraid of what happens if you’re found.”
Her jaw tensed. Doubt flickered, quick and swallowed.
“Secrets don’t just disappear,” I said quietly. “Someone buries them.”
Her mouth tightened. “I don’t know what I am,” she drew a slow breath, then added, almost reluctantly, “…but I want to.”
She shut her eyes, then exhaled.
“I never really fit there,” she admitted, staring toward open water. “Even before all of this… before I left… it always felt like something was missing.”
“Not good enough,” I said, stepping closer. “That kind of power doesn’t come from nowhere. And it doesn’t appear overnight.”