Page 20 of Daughter of the Dark Sea

Kora gently thumbed the stinging edge of her sabre daggers as Erick set up the target practise dummies in the gardens. Murky water churned her memory, the scent of mint lingered in her nose, and the faintest trail of fingertips crossed her skin, making her thighs clench.

She’d never dreamt of her voice before. Or magic. Years of law ingrained to her that mages’ powers crippled society, debasing humans to animalistic urges that'd caused Devania to topple. A shiver ran through her as sweat dripped from her neck, eerily like the droplets of water from her dream drenching her.

Erick had awoken her at dawn—after a measly few hours of sleep—and dragged her outside for a five-mile run. Who even runs at the crack of dawn? They’d followed the looping cobbled streets of the mid-district, near the residential outskirts behind the fortress. Every fibre of her muscles had screamed from her restraint on her stomach to quash the hangover from the pits of Umbra.

Vomiting in a neighbouring manor’s gardens would be frowned upon, and she couldn’t embarrass Erick. Yet, sweet relief would not grace her as she trembled in the gardens of Cadell Manor, desperate for him to quicken his haste preparing the dummies.

The sun loomed high in the sky as the summer heat scorched the land, and the dry grass had faded to wheat yellow, cracking beneath her boots. Cadell Manor nestled amongst the mid-wealthy district of homes, protected by the fortress. All were spaciously spread apart, containing their own extravagant gardens and courtyards for hosting, including stables.

Except for Cadell Manor, which contained a variety of assault weapons, target practices, and a training ring. How homely.

Behind them, towards the east, sat lush green rolling hills, dotted with far more wealthy, grand manors, fit for noble families in the upper district. Towards the west and south, the manor homes faded to the poorer, lower districts, containing tiny cabin houses and shacks. Built upon narrow cobbled streets that disintegrated into sandy paths the further away they were from the fortress.

Many families from those districts worked in the port town, or for the Blackstone family, or became travelling merchants, toiling in Scarlet Bay.

Kora was certain whichever family Blake hailed from still lived in those slums, his past tied to one of those tiny cabins. She dreaded to think which shack contained stains of his blood, drawn from his father’s punches. How many times had he wandered the streets as a scrawny child, seeking herbs to patch himself up?

She’d tried countless times to encourage him to open up about his family, his past, but his eyes would always glaze over, turning to hard emerald before he distracted her with delightful, forbidden kisses. All she knew was he’d been the poorest of the poor, and used as a punching bag whilst his mother had been in a self-induced haze, oblivious to her own child’s suffering.

No wonder he’d entered the trials. Now, he was a champion.

“Show me your knife throws,”

Erick commanded.

Shaking herself awake, Kora surveyed the four wooden-and-straw target dummies placed dozens of feet away, by the grey stone wall encircling their manor. Sheathing her precious daggers in her scabbard, she collected four small, yet sharp, throwing knives from the marble table by her side.

Wearily positioning before the first target, sweat poured from her brow, soaking her shirt from their run. She hissed at the blinding light of the sun, her head throbbing with pain as she raised her right hand and pivoted her feet, lunging into her throw.

And missed. Shit.

She nearly threw up there and then.

The blade bounced off the stone wall, and Kora winced as it sliced into the hardened, dried earth. Erick stood calmly, his arms crossed, not a flicker of emotion on his face. His warm, brown hair stuck to the sides of his face with trickling sweat, and he silently met her gaze and jerked his chin at the scattered knife.

Hanging her pounding head, she strolled to retrieve the weapon, each step threatening to split her in two, and returned to her starting position. Loosening a breath, she re-aimed her throw.

Missed. Double shitting shit.

After several more frustrating failed attempts, Erick peeled from his position, motioning to her to remain still as he retrieved the fallen knife. His silence was loud enough.

What was wrong with her? She’d won half her trails in the Darkoning intoxicated—it was the only way for her to survive her stubborn choice. To forget the souls she’d reaped, seeking a title that’d never been in their reach. Except for the males bred for it. She’d had no issues disposing of them.

But she’d left the trials a different person. Tainted by the blood of those who were buried deep underground. It was how she’d learnt to slip on a mask, to allow the red haze to consume her body, mindlessly flowing to the rhythmic music of slaughter.

Kora’s speciality in her training had always been wielding daggers—even going as far as throwing an axe or two. But now, she could barely pitch a throwing knife with a little, inconsequential hangover.

Frustration and disappointment boiled within her as she furiously gripped a steel knife within her palm. She’d expertly struck Cannon down with an envelope knife of all things, had impaled Silas with the daggers strapped to her back, in the fury of grieving heartbreak.

Her stomach clenched, mind roiling at her failure.

As Erick knelt to reclaim the knife from the parched ground, Kora’s grief swelled like a tide and her hands shook from the reverberating sound of Finlay’s neck snapping, vibrating through her, down to the soles of her feet and into the earth.

“What’s Marwood been teaching you on that ship?”

Erick muttered.

“Have you been practising at all like I—”

Two of the knives soared as he began to rise, Kora pouring her anger into the throw as they ferociously embedded into the misshapen head of the dummy. She instantly followed with the third to the heart, a mere inch away from Erick’s head, slicing the top of his hair. He raised a brow.

The burning urge to fight, to expel the grief pummelling her organs, was overwhelming. Kora whirled, grabbing another two knives. They struck true in the head of the second dummy. She swung an axe, cleaving through the chest of the third.

A raven-steeled lance, propped against the marble table, beckoned her. She twisted, leaping forwards, using the force to propel the spear straight through the heart of the fourth target and into the sturdy, stone wall behind.

Erick quietly assessed her marks as she panted, hands on her knees, and retched on the grass. The contents of The Abandoned Barnacle spewed all over the earth, followed by her breakfast porridge. Appearing by her side, he lightly stroked her back as she gasped for breath, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

Because she had been practising. But with Finlay, and not Blake.

“Tell me what happened,”

he quietly murmured. He’d always been so observant.

Kora straightened, shakily wiping her mouth with a grimace.

“I had . . . a friend. He died. On the ship.”

Saying it out loud, on Aldarian soil, suddenly made it all too real.

“Silas killed him.”

She met Erick’s warm gaze.

“And I killed Silas.”

Her voice was so quiet, she wasn’t even sure if she’d spoken out loud. In all her years of hunting pirates, she’d never once executed one through blind rage. She refused to stoop low to their level of mindless killing. She felt disgusting.

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t mistake me for a fool, Kora. I know it was Jack that we sent to Deadwater Prison.”

“Then why make me decide? Jack had begged Silas to stop. We made a deal that he’d be fairly trialled in the courts. I wagered a lighter sentence for him.”

“A pirate is a pirate. The council declared he’d be incarcerated to the prison. Does it matter which one?”

Erick’s questioning gaze returned.

“He’s where he belongs. If you wish to be admiral, these are the kinds of the decisions you’ll have to make.”

Kora then realised what else ate away at her. The guilt of committing Jack Flint to Deadwater Prison. He was doomed to live in the skin of his dead identical twin. All because of what she did. Even if she hadn’t have hunted down pirates, lured by her secretive voice, she still could’ve saved Jack from his twin’s noose.

And when she became admiral, she would change all of that.

“Why are the council enforcing sentences without proper trials?”

“Why are you sailing after pirates during a scouting mission?”

he countered.

Ice crept into Erick’s consistently calm stare, his jaw clenched so hard he could cut boulders on it. She bit her lip, refraining from admitting that a voice she’d heard for ten years told her to sail west. She’d end up in Deadwater Prison right alongside Jack. Mateys for life.

“There’re things we need to discuss, but not here.”

He glanced to their right.

A grey stone wall intersected the gardens, separating the training grounds from a courtyard adorned with lemon trees. An archway loomed in the centre, breaking up the simple brick work, with a lone figure lurking within.

Blake Marwood curiously glanced from Kora to Erick, to the pile of sick at her feet, to the destroyed target dummies. His eyes widened at the lance piercing through the fourth dummy, cracking the solid wall behind.

“Am I interrupting?”

He audibly swallowed as Erick stepped forward, half blocking Kora—and her lump of vomit. Her muscles relaxed at Blake’s presence, the individual fibres sighing with relief after clenching for so long, yet her gut still roiled.

A light sheen of sweat glistened underneath his swept-up groomed hair, from walking here from the barracks. He bore no sign of pain, and stood miraculously straight as his forest eyes scanned her, desperately seeking for an indication of her wellbeing.

She reciprocated the look, eyeing his wounded side, as if she could peer through the fabric of his grey linen shirt. Tucked into black trousers, and paired with laced boots, he was still striking, even if he’d been on the edge of Thanos’ realm days ago.

“We’re just finishing up,”

Erick gruffly replied, and addressed Kora.

“Meet us in the parlour.”

He regarded her vomit-splattered state, and then her hair.

“It’s time for a haircut as well.”

She was never sure why Erick always urged her to trim her hair short. Whenever she’d challenged it, he always had a different reason. To prevent her catching lice from other crew members, to give her a masculine presence when commanding a ship, or to show off her scar and make her appear threatening.

She gently curled a short strand by her temple around her finger.

“I think I want to grow it out.”

Erick paused. His gaze lingered on the reaching scar flicking over her cheekbone and traced the curve of her brow. Icy brown eyes blinked, the edges crinkling with age.

“We’ll discuss it later.”

An exhale of disappointment was all she managed as he marched to Blake, directing him into the sweeping glass doors of the manor.

Once they disappeared, Kora passed through the archway into the tiled courtyard, her step wavering. Standing by the flowing, three-tiered fountain, she splashed water onto her face and neck, washing away the sickening heat coiled around her. The water was cool, crisp, with a scent of . . . mint.

She stilled, cupping her hands under the flowing water, and brought it to her lips, taking a deep gulp. Her knotted stomach finally eased, and she moaned as she devoured another cupped gulp. The depths of her mind tickled, and she observed the baying lemon trees, interspersed with large, vibrant green bushes. Prowling over to one, the minty scent overpowered her senses, burning her nose.

Her brows knitted as she peered back at the fountain. Dainty, green leaves floated on the surface. A warm breeze drifted through the green-and-white mosaic-tiled courtyard, ruffling her hair, and circling her body before wafting upwards.

Alright then, time to the follow the wind. Completely normal thing to do.

The current led her to the trellis attached to the corner tower of the manor overlooking the courtyard. Chunks of broken ivy and purple wisteria clustered on the ground by her feet. She craned her neck up to her bedroom window, the malachite-green shutters wide open.

“Remember.”

With a gasp, Kora’s hand shot to her chest, gripping the talisman resting underneath her shirt. It warmed at her touch. The sound of flowing water in the fountain roared in her ears, and she yelped as the water sloshed, spilling over the lip of the stoned fountain’s edge and spooling onto the mosaic tiles.

Something deep within her yawned, as if it were beginning to wake up.

Wake up from what? She had no idea.