Chapter 26 Nerina
Nerina
Shadeau
Séraphine’s voice lingered in my mind, the way it had shifted when she spoke his name, and unease coiled tighter in my chest. I wondered what kind of man—or creature—Ma?tre Vesper truly was.
She had spoken of him with a mixture of caution and familiarity, but that told me little.
I didn't know who was, but I knew I couldn’t leave here without the eye.
A plan was already forming, even as my chest ached and the weight of uncertainty bore down. I’d get him back to the ship—back where the crew could help him, where he could rest and recover and not bleed out in some forgotten alley of Shadeau. Then I’d come back.
I’d return for the Eye. For the truth. For whatever pieces of myself might still be buried here.
I turned to Alaric. "I’ll get you back to the ship—then I’m coming back for the Eye."
His jaw tensed instantly. "No."
No. The word scraped something raw inside me.
He said it like he always did—final, immovable, assuming my choices were his to approve or deny.
I’d spent my entire life being told what to do.
When to sing. When to kneel. When to be quiet and grateful and less.
Now Alaric did the same thing with concern and that relentless gaze and a voice that dared me to argue.
I hated it. I hated the way he tried to cage me, like fear gave him the right to decide my limits.
I wasn’t some fragile thing he needed to lock away from the dark corners of the world.
And if the Eye waited in Shadeau, then I would go and take it, whether he liked it or not. I was not asking for permission.
"It’s too risky," he ground out, halting in place. "We don’t even know if the Eye is actually here. For all we know, Séraphine could’ve been wrong, or worse—lying."
"You don’t trust her." I said.
He laughed bitterly. "I know her. That’s worse."
"We can’t leave without it."
Alaric shook his head. "If the Eye is in Vesper’s hands, do you really think he’ll just let you walk in and take it?"
"No," I admitted. "But we don’t have a choice."
"We always have a choice," he snapped, then grimaced, pressing a palm to his side like the words had cost him. "And I’m not letting you run headfirst into whatever trap has been laid while I’m rotting on the deck of the Marrow."
I stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm. "I can do it. You just have to trust me."
His eyes met mine—storm-dark, unyielding. "It’s not you I don’t trust, Nerina. Don’t make me stand here and watch you sacrifice yourself for something that might not even be real."
We stood there in the street, the weight of too many truths pressing in around us.
Alaric’s shoulders were drawn tight, his posture rigid in a way that felt forced.
But I wasn’t going to walk away from this.
Not now. Not when we were this close. Just as I opened my mouth to speak—for a moment, I thought he could read my mind—
He looked at me, wounded and furious. “No more pawns. No more bargaining chips,” he said, his voice strained around the edges. “There are other ways to get what we want—there has to be.”
I stared at him, unsure if the sudden rush in my chest was anger or something more fragile. “If I walk away now, I will lose more than a relic. I lose answers. We lose the Black Marrow. I lose you.”
The words still echoed in my head, raw and trembling.
I wasn’t sure if he’d heard them—if he’d felt the weight behind them—but part of me hoped he had.
And part of me feared what it meant if he hadn’t.
That thought gutted me more than I wanted to admit.
He challenged me, infuriated me, terrified me…
but he looked at me like I was something real.
Something worth saving. Worth protecting.
“I’m not bargaining with more of your blood—and neither are you,” he snapped, the words tearing out of him as they bounced down the alley. He turned away abruptly, staggering half a step before catching himself, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“You don’t understand,” he said, spinning back to me.
His face had become pale, sweat beading at his temple despite the cold.
“The kind of magic she deals in—it isn’t just a parlor trick.
” His shoulders hitched, like something inside him twisted hard enough to steal his breath. “Blood magic remembers. It binds.”
His voice dropped, dangerous and urgent. “And it never stops taking.”
I blinked, taken aback by the heat in his voice—and the way his hand curled at his side, fingers flexing like he was fighting pain he refused to show. “She only took a little.”
“And that little is enough for someone like Séraphine,” he shot back. A tremor rippled through him this time, unmistakable, before he forced himself still. “Blood is power. Especially yours. Who knows what she could do with even a drop? What she might already be doing.”
I crossed my arms. “Then what do you suggest we do? Sit here until Vesper kicks the door in?”
Alaric turned, bracing one hand briefly against a stone wall.
“We will search the city,” he said tightly. “Quietly. Carefully. No more blood. And no more deals.” He paused, shuddering once before he straightened. “But first we rest.”
I hesitated, watching the line of his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw.
"What happened between you and Séraphine?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them—born of selfishness and jealousy as much as curiosity. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know the answer.
He didn’t answer at first. Then, slowly, he turned back toward me. There was a flicker in his eyes—pain, maybe, or something sadder. A shadow of guilt, too—like he’d left more than memories behind in Shadeau, and hadn’t looked back.
"She was part of my life before the curse," he said finally. "We were... close."
His voice cracked, and for a heartbeat he looked like a man drowning in memories. “But greed changes people. Or maybe it just shows you who they really are. We made promises. I broke them. And there are consequences to that.”
His voice went flat, like stone skimming water. "Some things you can’t undo."
I studied him, heart thudding. "Did you love her?"
His silence was answer enough. Jealousy curled low in my stomach before I could stop it.
It was ridiculous—selfish, even—but I hated the way her name lingered on his lips.
Hated that someone else had once known parts of him I hadn’t yet touched.
I scoffed, anger flaring hot and bright.
"So that’s what this is about. You’re still angry at an old lover. "
His eyes snapped to mine, colder than I’d ever seen them. "This isn’t about her. It’s about you throwing yourself into situations you don’t understand and playing games you know nothing about."
"I’m trying to help," I hissed.
"Then stop offering yourself," he growled. "You don’t know what you’re worth. But they do. Séraphine does.."
I clenched my fists, the mark on my forehead pulsing hotter. "Maybe I’m tired of everyone else deciding what I’m worth. Maybe I want to decide for myself."
His voice dropped low, trembling with fury. "And maybe I’m tired of watching you risk everything—my crew, my ship, yourself—because you’re chasing answers with no map."
The silence between us crackled. The alleys were narrow and slick with moss, reeking of rot and old rum.
Strange spices stung our noses in some corners, while others reeked of sour blood and brackish water.
Music drifted in snatches—low drums, stringed instruments moaning like ghosts, voices chanting in languages I didn’t recognize.
Smoke clung to our clothes, thick with the scent of burnt herbs and candle wax.
Alaric moved slower with each step. His steps grew heavier, his body fighting every movement.
It was nearly dawn. The last vestiges of night clung to the sky like bruises, bleeding violet and ash across the skyline as Shadeau exhaled something darker.
That was when he collapsed.
He dropped to his knees in the middle of a deserted street, a strangled sound ripping from his throat. I spun around in panic.
“Alaric!”
His face was ghost-pale, drenched in sweat, lips bloodless. He convulsed, barely conscious.
“No—no, no—” I knelt beside him, trying to hoist his weight up. He was so much heavier than me, all muscle and burden, but adrenaline tore through my limbs like fire.
I reached into his coat, trembling fingers searching until they closed around the small glass vial Morgra had given him. The potion. My hands moved on instinct—I uncorked it and tilted it toward his lips.
Nothing.
I clenched the vial tighter, my heart pounding.
Morgra said only a drop—no more. The warning echoed in my head, warring with the sight of him trembling in my arms. What if another drop saved him?
What if it killed him? My fingers itched to tip the vial, to pour until he breathed easier, but fear held me still.
I didn’t know which choice would kill him faster.
I shoved the potion back into his pocket, my chest heaving. There wasn’t time. I had to move.
I’m smaller than he is, but not slight—and he still towers over me, all broad shoulders and hard-earned muscle from years of hauling rigging and wielding a cutlass.
Twice my knees buckled. Once I lost my grip entirely, his weight slamming him into the wall before I dragged him back.
He outweighed me, every staggering step pulling me sideways, but I held.
My legs shook, my back burned, and I wedged my shoulder beneath his arm and forced us forward—inch by brutal inch.
Still, I got him upright, slung one of his arms over my shoulders, and turned us toward the port.
We stumbled through the streets. Each step was agony—his for the pain, mine for the fear.
Shadeau wasn’t safe at the best of times, and I couldn’t linger with a dying vampire draped over me.