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D AAL PUSHED OUT onto the open middeck of the Fyredragon . He wiped the blood dripping from one nostril. Despite the searing heat, the lash of gritty sand, he needed to be free of the confines of the ship.

As he strode across the deck, he noted the world had grown far darker, the sun now shadowed by the storm. Lanterns had been lit. A few firepots danced with flames. He headed through the bustle of the crew. He barely noted their efforts to work the mooring cables, which thrummed under the strain of holding the massive ship.

Tamryn rushed out behind him, giving chase. She had to yell to be heard over the roar of the storm. “They’ll be at each other again before long!”

He whipped around to face her. “And whose fault is that?”

Tamryn skidded to a stop, her eyes widening, flashing with anger.

As he scowled at her, he took in the paleness of her skin, the emerald cast to her shorn hair, the peak of her tipped ears.

By all Panthean ideals, she was beautiful. Even Daal, with his Noorish half blood, appreciated it. It was a standard that had been instilled into him. All his life, he had been shamed by the blue of his eyes, the ebon streaks in his hair, the curled fur that sprouted and coarsened his chest and limbs—so unlike the smoothness of a pure-blooded Panthean.

He had suffered for all of it, humiliated and scorned due to his Noorish heritage. Even here, that same taint continued to divide the sixteen who had left the Crèche and joined the crew. Rather than be united, they remained divided, stirred by slurs and slights, by bickering and shouts, until eventually these flared into fights.

Daal managed to quell the latest, but not without injury. He swiped again at the blood. He knew the tension of the past day had likely stoked this fire, but there would be worse dangers ahead.

“We need to come together,” he shouted at Tamryn. He waved toward the scurrying men and women. “We’re already outsiders here. The crew’s numbers are twice ours. How can you expect them to treat us as peers, when we can’t treat each other as such?”

“Then what would you have us do?”

He stabbed a finger at her. “For one, you can show me some respect. Your disdain steams from you as hotly as the boiling seas of our home. All see it. Same with your condescension and contempt. Why should any of your fellow full-bloods act any differently? As second saddle, you’re respected among them. You know that, Tamryn.”

Her anger died into something that looked like consternation. “It’s not… I don’t mean to be so…” She huffed heavily, clearly struggling to explain. “Daal, I can’t help how I feel.”

She reached for his arm.

He pulled away, turning his shoulder to her. “Try harder.”

He strode toward the portside rail, needing a moment to shed his anger and frustration. Tamryn followed, but she kept a distance. Daal ducked through the bustle, nearly getting bowled over by a burly-limbed crewman. Still, he reached the rail and grabbed hard. Blood dribbled to his upper lip.

He stared across the vibrating mooring lines. The planks underfoot shook the same. Overhead, the balloon rattled, while its cables moaned with deep-throated notes of strain.

It all echoed his own agitation.

Tamryn reached the rail, her head hanging, studying the array of mooring lines. This precarious hold upon their berth worried them all. But she clearly had other concerns.

“Daal, you were right in some regard, but not about—”

He lifted a hand, clenching a fist, not in anger but in warning.

Movement caught his eye. While the crew continued to focus on the mooring lines, Daal had been looking up. Shadows dropped along the sandstone cliffs, bounding off brick walls, dislodging a few. Thick ropes unfurled beneath them. Their passage was barely discernible in the murky stormlight.

Daal swung around and grabbed the nearest crewman, the same massive man who had almost knocked him over, a brigand named Perde. The man had stripped to his chest, baring a splay of tattoos depicting scenes of carnage, likely preserving the histories of past exploits.

We may need that same savagery now.

Before Perde could rip loose, Daal hollered to him and pointed to the glint of armor flashing down the rock. “We’re under attack!”

The momentary flash of confusion on the pirate’s face hardened into fury. Perde cursed, then shoved back with a bellow and boomed across the deck, “Rouse out! Ready to propel boarders!”

Already on edge, the crew responded quickly, even the few Pantheans sharing the deck.

Past Perde’s shoulders, Daal spotted ropes dropping and snaking past the starboard side, too. Large shapes vanished along them, plummeting below. He struggled to understand—then recognized the danger.

No…

He burst past Perde and fled across the deck.

Tamryn chased after. “Where are you going?”

Behind him, Perde continued rallying the crew. “Flog your arses!”

Daal reached and slammed his stomach into the starboard rail, hard enough to nearly get tossed overboard. To his right, past a cannon, a dark shape in blue-hued armor swung off another line and crashed to the deck. To Daal’s left, another pair struck farther away.

Daal ignored them and stared below. A bulky shadow swung and landed on a bridge that spanned from the flank of the ship to the ruins, marking the open hatch used by Graylin and the others when they had departed. As Daal feared, it had been left open, awaiting their eventual return.

The invaders must have spotted it, too, recognizing a way deeper into the ship.

Below, a half dozen shadows barreled inside, swords flashing in their grips.

Daal rolled away and fled for the door to the lower decks. As he ran, shouts and bellows chased him, punctuated by clashes of steel. With every step, the battle raged more fiercely. He did not stop, one fear foremost, picturing who hid in darkness below, all but blind.

Hold fast, Nyx.

T HE MUFFLED CLAMOR of fighting reached the lowest hold. The screams and distant ringing of steel stirred the raash’ke flock. Though Nyx’s vision remained clouded, she recognized their growing unease. Leathery wings ruffled nervously. Claws dug at the planking. Keening cries echoed off the walls, accompanied by sharper pipes of distress.

Nyx did her best to calm them, while her own heart pounded. She cast out golden strands of bridle-song, but she remained too weak to rein in their growing alarm. Even to her own eyes, her efforts appeared as feeble glows through her shrouded sight. The pools of lantern light shone far brighter.

Must get closer to them.

She set off across the hold with her arms out. She extended one foot, then the other. She wished she still had her cane from her years in Brayk. The thin length of wood had acted as an extension of her senses.

But even here, she was not without resources.

Kalder growled up beside her, bumping her leg. She grabbed his scruff in one hand.

“Get me to Bashaliia,” she urged him.

She reinforced this with a nudge of bridle-song.

Ahead, she had no difficulty discerning her winged brother’s location. She heard his fretful whistles of concern. As Kalder guided her closer, a rich golden glow emerged out of the gloom, marking the font of Bashaliia’s rich song.

“I’m coming,” she whispered.

Harsh, furtive voices suddenly rose from the far side of the hold, echoing down the steps that led here. They spoke in a pidgin of Bhestyan, a smattering of which Fenn had taught her during the long voyage.

“Eeshyn, cripple the sailrafts. You four with me.”

While Nyx had already suspected the attack had come from the warship, this confirmed her fear.

Boots pounded down toward her, growing louder.

The raash’ke grew more agitated at the approaching noise, either perceiving the threat or perhaps sensing Nyx’s rising panic. Wings beat harder. Cries sharpened.

She hurried toward Bashaliia, pushing Kalder ahead of her. She reached deep inside herself, down to her diaphragm, trying to dredge up as much strength as she could muster. She needed to ready herself and those in her charge. Terror—amplified by the dark, by her lack of sight—bolstered her golden strands to a brighter shine. She cast them toward Bashaliia.

I need you.

Distracted by the panic in the raash’ke, Nyx had failed to note the emerald fire smoldering at the core of Bashaliia’s glow. It marked the residual madness that her winged brother carried with him, born of the brutality that had been inflicted on Kalyx, the body Bashaliia now wore. That scar persisted, indelible, grained deep, calloused by fury and agony. The current fear in Bashaliia inflamed that madness, loosening its reins.

Nyx recognized this too late.

Before she could stop herself, before she could recall the golden chords from reaching out, they struck Bashaliia. Her own alarm, carried by her song, swelled into her winged brother. She had meant those chords to rouse him, to ready him to defend the hold and those within it.

Instead, emerald fire burst brighter, flaring through her shroud.

Bashaliia screamed in fury.

“No…”

Nyx let go of Kalder and ran blindly toward her brother, seeking to tamp that fire—but again she was too late.

Bashaliia burst high, carrying that emerald fire with him. The edge of a wing, maybe a claw, struck Nyx across the chest. She flew back, both the wind and song knocked from her chest as she crashed down. Her head rang against iron-hard planks.

What little sight she had dimmed to blackness.

Bellows of surprise rose across the hold. The invaders must have finally spotted what nested here. No doubt appalled, struggling to understand. But these attackers were clearly battle-hardened, inured to any shock that could immobilize them.

A command confirmed this. “Ready yourselves, men!”

Raash’ke scurried back with a scrape of claws and keening calls, plainly unsure, confused. But behind them, a greater danger screamed madly, ready to lash out at anything that drew too near.

Nyx reached for any strength left to her but found nothing.

Another shout rose from the marauder’s leader.

“Slay them… slay them all!”