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E SME READIED HERSELF to make the leap. She stared across the gap to the open hatch of the mizzen hold. Earlier, she had heard the bells clanging in alarm throughout the massive ship. The frightful noise had driven her down the tunnel. She had intended to obey the grizzled knight’s instruction, to carry word of defeat to the Fyredragon.

Still, as she had fled, she could not escape the ringing, even as shadows closed over her. In her gut, she knew such a trek was pointless. The captain of the Fyredragon had shown himself to be practical and farsighted. He didn’t need her rushing in and warning him to ready his ship for battle. If the others never showed, he would take those measures anyway.

So, her feet had slowed to a stop in the tunnel.

In the dark, each sharp ring of the bell had struck her heart, spiked her guilt. It also stirred memories, of hiding under a wagon as her clan was slaughtered, of a mother strangled and a father gutted. All the while, she had remained buried.

She refused to hide any longer.

Even her time in Seekh was just another form of burial. While she had sworn an oath to return to the desert, to hunt for Arryn, she could have trekked out there on her own at any time. She had used the excuse of gold, of needing enough provisions, of honing her skills, but down deep she had simply remained buried, as surely as the dead who haunted these necropolises.

But no more.

Esme studied the towering ship. Though the bells had gone silent, her heart had taken over, pounding with warning. Upon returning here, she had raided the others’ abandoned packs. She stood with a coil of rope hung over one shoulder and a heavy bag that clinked softly at her hip.

Ready, she stepped to the ledge, needing only one last bit of outfitting.

“With me, Crikit.”

She craned her neck. Harsh voices echoed down to her from the open deck. While the storm winds ripped away any words, she recognized the familiar rub of sandstone that marked the grizzled knight.

He was up there, angry, denying some demand.

Hopefully the others were there, too.

Before she could glance down to the open hatch, a flash of brightness sparked across the black sky. From her long years in the desert, she knew Ishuka’s dark cloak often danced with lightning, as jagged and fierce as the goddess’s heart.

Esme clenched a fist, praying this was a small blessing from Ishuka, an omen cast across Esme’s path. Gathering this hope to her hammering heart, she crouched and leaped out of the tunnel.

She landed deftly atop the open door, but rather than ducking inside the mizzen hold, she reached high and grabbed the scaling rope that the thief had left behind. She hooked a toe into the line’s loop and pushed herself up with one hand. At the same time, she fished a climbing peg from her bag and placed the spiked steel between her lips. Reaching higher, she searched with her experienced fingertips for a split board or a crack between planks. Once she found it, she slammed the spike home, anchoring it deep, then cinched her rope over its hook.

Over her years in Seekh, she had scaled countless sandy cliffs and crumbling walls. This was no different. Slowly, spike by spike, she worked her way up the ship’s hull.

Another wondered at her dusty pace.

Crikit stuck to the planks above her, as if glued in place. One jointed leg tapped against the wood, the meaning clear.

Hurry up.

As if to encourage her, the molag skittered upward.

Esme gave chase, all the while searching the sky, looking for another sign from Ishuka, another bright flash to inspire her, but the goddess’s mood must have darkened.

And not just Hers.

Above, angry words flared with furious fire.

Cut through by a scream of pain.