Chapter 23 Alaric
Alaric
The Black Marrow
I’d seen recklessness before. I’d lived recklessly. Hell, I’d built half my reputation on it. But nothing—nothing—compared to the kind of recklessness that came wrapped in a hypnotizing smile and a stubborn streak made of starfire.
No plan. No strategy. Just blind, infuriating stupidity.
And now we were sailing straight into hell because she couldn’t sit still with her questions. Because her desperation outweighed her reason. It wasn’t bravery—it was madness. And we were all going to pay for it.
And she didn’t know where it led. Not really. If she’d ever seen Shadeau—felt what it did to souls, to hope—she never would’ve chosen it so lightly.
Or maybe she would have.
But at least she would’ve known the price.
Everything I’d bled for would slip beneath the waves.
Not overnight—but eventually. And when the ship died, we’d be forced to drift.
Vessel to vessel. A rootless, bitter existence.
The Black Marrow was more than timber and sail.
She was our sanctuary. Our shield. And for me—Saints help me—she was the only thing my father had ever given me.
I held no love for the man, but the ship… the ship I cared for. I had made her mine.
And now I was gambling her survival on a deal I didn’t make, for a girl I didn’t understand, in a place that wanted us dead.
Still, we sailed on—toward the one place I swore I’d never return to. A place so steeped in rot, even the dead refused to stay buried. Shadeau wasn’t cursed—it was forged to be a nightmare.
Then there was the Isle of Shadeau—the festering heart— black-market city where nothing was sacred and everything had a price. Where souls were traded like coin, curses bottled like wine, and hope was just another thing you sold when desperation took root.
You didn’t visit Shadeau.
You survived it—if you were lucky.
Before my curse, I’d spent years dealing in its streets—buying and selling relics, supernatural elements, and artifacts of power. I’d built a reputation, carved out a place for myself among the ruthless and desperate. A king among rats.
Then I was the hunter. Now, I was the hunted.
A commodity to be carved up and sold if the wrong hands got ahold of me.
My blood and my fangs could be harvested and auctioned off to the highest bidder if anyone discovered what I’d become.
But even being bled dry—having my fangs ripped out—were among Shadeau’s lesser evils.
There were fates worse than dying. Souls could be broken in ways that didn’t bleed.
And yet here I was.
Saints help me, I was the one who pulled her out of the sea.
Maybe if I’d left her there—let the tide take her, let fate run its course—we wouldn’t be here now.
Maybe the Black Marrow wouldn’t be sailing toward damnation.
Maybe my crew would still trust me. Maybe I wouldn’t be standing on deck questioning every damned choice I’d made since the moment I saw her in the water.
And maybe that made me a fool.
I should’ve refused. I should’ve put her in chains if I had to—turned the ship around, locked the wheel—done anything but steer her toward this cursed place.
And the worst part? I didn’t know if it was loyalty, guilt, or something else entirely that kept my hands steady.
She didn’t even know what she was chasing—just a glimmer, a gut feeling, some half-formed whisper that dragged her toward oblivion.
I told myself it was necessity. That without Morgra’s deal we’d be adrift. That she’d forced my hand.
But the truth was uglier.
There was something about Nerina—something in her eyes—that cracked open the part of me I’d buried. The part that believed in redemption. In purpose. I didn’t want to trust her. I tried not to.
But when she looked at me after the fight—after her voice broke and she admitted how alone she’d felt, how none of it had ever really been hers—I understood.
Maybe more than I wanted to.
Because part of me still wanted to believe she might be right. That chasing ghosts wasn’t always a mistake.
She’d grown up behind the Veil—surrounded by ceremony, titles, rituals. I pictured marble halls, quiet pools, the kind of sacred solitude they reserve for things too rare to be touched.
Maybe that was the point.
So different from the dark coastal town I was from.
A place that reeked of fish guts and salt, where secrets rotted under docks and the only rituals were debts collected with bloodied knuckles.
There was no privilege there. No safety.
Only hunger, survival, and the kind of silence that taught you to keep your pain to yourself.
I’d assumed she was sheltered. Privileged. I’d been wrong.
Because behind all that pageantry, she’d been alone. And that… that I understood. The ache of being watched but never seen. The loneliness you carried even when you were wrapped in silk. The kind that festered, whispering there had to be more than the life you’d been handed.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t stop her.
Because even if I couldn’t trust her mission, some part of me trusted her pain.
I’d lived it long before the curse.
That aching, hollow loneliness—the knowledge that even in a room full of people, you were always outside the circle. And I understood what it was like to want something so desperately, so violently, it made you reckless. Dangerous.
I’d made that mistake before. I’d reached for power, for answers, for something—anything. And in doing so, I’d hurt people. Put lives at risk. Damned myself.
So maybe I saw too much of myself in her. Maybe that was why I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t let her drown in it alone.
Because it nearly killed me.
A vial. A potion. A promise wrapped in glass the color of hearts blood.
The liquid shimmered dark red, thick and luminous, swirling like it was alive. Like it was waiting. A twisted claw curled around the bottle’s neck, talons locked into the glass as if guarding it. It looked ancient. Dangerous. Too ornate to be anything good.
I twirled it between my fingers, feeling the unnatural chill seep into my skin. The liquid inside shifted, its glow wrong even in moonlight.
A potion that would let me set foot on land—if Morgra was to be believed.
The thought sent a strange, undeniable thrill through me. I hadn’t stepped foot on a true continent in ages—only Morgra’s cove and the Forgotten Trench, which could hardly be considered land. The idea of solid ground beneath my feet again—of walking freely without the sea’s pull—was intoxicating.
She hadn’t told me what it would take back. I couldn’t help but wonder what price I’d pay.
Before we left the cove, Morgra had pulled me aside.
Pressed the vial into my hand like she was handing over a death sentence wrapped in glass.
'Shake it once,' she told me, 'and speak the words etched into the base. The magic will know you, curse and all.' Her eyes hadn’t left mine when she added, 'Just a drop. No more. Use it sparingly. I don’t know exactly how long it will last—might be hours, might be less. Once it's gone, it’s gone. There’s no more magic like that left in this world.”
I looked down. The bone was old, smoothed by time, the carving shallow but deliberate. Two words stared back at me.
Debitum sanguinis.
Morgra hadn’t smiled when she gave it to me. She hadn’t warned me either. Not truly. She’d offered possibility, not mercy—and with Morgra, I’d learned long ago that neutrality could be just as lethal as malice.
A temporary reprieve. A borrowed freedom.
But borrowed from what—and at what cost?
If such magic existed, I would have heard of it.
I’d chased every rumor, every whispered promise of a cure, only to find lies, dead ends, or worse—traps.
I’d scoured ancient texts, traded with warlocks, even sought answers in the darkest corners of the supernatural underworld.
Not once had I encountered anything like this.
That alone made it dangerous. Magic like this never came without a price.
And getting the Eye for Morgra would only be a fraction of it.
It wasn’t the potion that gnawed at me. It was her.
Nerina was stubborn. She challenged me in ways I hadn’t been challenged in centuries. She burned with a need for answers, just as I once had.
And yet she had looked me in the eye and asked me to trust her. Begged me to trust her.
Trust.
A bitter, wretched thing.
The difference was, I had learned what chasing ghosts cost you. She hadn’t. Not yet.
She was foolish. Reckless. But she was brave.
And I admired that part of her—the part that would stop at nothing to find what she was looking for. Determined.
I stared at the dark water. The waves rolled endlessly, stretching toward a fate I wasn’t sure we would return from.
I had to keep her safe.
But how could I, when she was so willing to throw herself into the abyss?
A soft creak behind me signaled movement. The crew was restless. I could feel their unease—hear the shuffle of boots, the low murmurs exchanged just beyond my line of sight.
They weren’t just avoiding me.
They were waiting.
For orders. For reassurance I wasn’t sure I could give. For some sign I wasn’t leading them into ruin.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.
The crew kept their distance when I was like this, reading my silence for what it was—warning. Or restraint.
I wasn’t ready to forgive her. But saints help me—
I wasn’t ready to lose her either.