Page 40 of Daughter of the Dark Sea

The Mist was thick, dark, and roiling.

Hell’s Serpent crashed along the surface of the Shaurock Sea. Kora scowled at the cream shipment sails that’d replaced her fine black ones, billowing in the strong gusts of winds terrorising the ocean. The bow dipped and swayed, and ocean water sprayed onto the foredeck causing sailors to slide across the slick wood as the ship rocked.

“This is an omen,”

Theron spoke darkly as she retained her grip on the helm, muscles barking in protest.

“I didn’t take you as superstitious.”

She steadied her legs, breathing into her core as Hell’s Serpent continued to lurch in the violent waters.

“You are telling me that this storm—and that,”

he pointed at the cold, growing Mist.

“isn’t a sign?”

“We’re captains,”

she exhaled a sharp, cool breath as she angled the ship towards Peril Cove.

“It’s a common hazard of the job.”

The Skytors hadn’t been lying. The Mist had grown—a lot. Tendrils of it seeped out from the main mass shrouding Galen, floating across the water like a weaved web waiting to catch its prey, all the way to Peril Cove. She’d prayed the whole voyage there in hopes of an easy journey.

The gods had ignored her prayers and sent a storm instead. Typical.

Shadows lurking in the Mist writhed, as if it were teeming with dark, unknown creatures. She shivered, and churning nausea rose in her gut. It left a bitter, bad taste in her mouth.

“We should’ve gone my way,”

Samuel muttered from behind. He stood with his brass spyglass glued to his eye as he surveyed the expanding mists.

“The Black Abyss would have been worse . . . trust me,”

Theron replied.

Samuel remained silent at Theron’s words and directed Kora as he scanned the Mist. Up ahead, Aryn perched at the top of the main mast, his arrow nocked for potential attacks, his archery squad strategically placed all around the ship. Blake was stationed in the brig, ensuring cannons and weapons were kept dry and accessible. She was sure Ivar had melted into the darkness of the ship itself. Always watching Theron like a hidden shadow.

Bree had taken residency in Kora’s quarters, deeming it suitable for her needs, so Kora had been slumming it in the crew’s quarters the past week, which had turned out to be jolly good fun. Who knew drinking and gambling every night would lift weary souls?

Her sailors had their hands on deck, pushing their lithe bodies to the limits as the relentless ocean crashed over Hell’s Serpent wave after wave after wave.

“Watch it!”

Theron grabbed the wheel, his strong dark hands spinning the spokes. She gasped as the ship lurched starboard side, circling around a reaching tendril of Mist she hadn’t realised she was drifting towards.

“We don’t know what happens if we touch it.”

His dark brown eyes scanned the Mist. Shadows rimmed his lids, bleeding into his skin like spiked veins and she gazed at him curiously—had his eyes always been that dark?

“It’s just mist,”

Samuel released a sigh of annoyance.

“Nothing bad will happen if we sail through those little tendrils.”

“I am not sure it is.”

She suppressed her shock as Theron stepped away, wrapping a hand around a green shroud, and he gazed out towards the Mist as if he could see something. Her neck strained as she craned her pale head to peer around his mass of muscle and glistening wet armour.

“Are we sure about this guy?”

Samuel whispered as he offered to take over the steering of the ship. His long blonde hair was soaked, and had been tied up on top of his head with a black bandana to keep it out of his eyes.

“If we have to avoid every scrap of mist, we’ll sail directly into Peril Cove.”

“He’s the royal sentinel,”

she quipped.

“As far as we’re concerned, he’s basically the king. And yes, avoid the Mist. I’m sure there’s a gap up ahead.”

Samuel rolled his eyes, his face hardening as his thick arms steadied the ship against the rolling waves. His navigational tattoos were stark against the gloom of the sky, matching the grey of his eyes.

As the storm surged, the Mist thickened, and Kora squinted against the dense air settling on the ship. The gap she’d spied north east vanished, overcome by the expanding tendrils. Why was it moving so much? She swallowed her unease as the thick mass over Galen roiled, churning out smoke that drifted across the sea.

Kora retrieved an old compass from her pocket. It was a simple black square, with golden painted edges and handles. In the heart of the compass was the empire’s four-pointed star. Her thumb brushed the worn edges. It had been on her when Erick had rescued her from the wreckage. The northern stretch of the star acted as the indicator of true north, and her eyes widened as it spun circles, never settling.

Shit.

A familiar burning tingle warmed her chest, and the thrum of power hummed from the talisman as the Mist stretched and pulsated. Tendrils snapped, writhing along the ocean’s surface.

“Sam . . .”

her voice faded away as sailors yelled, leaping away from the greyed Mist slithering over the deck.

“What the fuck!”

Samuel exclaimed, as the Mist swallowed Hell’s Serpent whole.

Kora’s senses were blinded. The muted light of the stormy sky vanished, and the density of the Mist was so thick she couldn’t see her own hands. Just endless, dark grey. Devoid of life or light.

“Kora!”

Samuel bellowed, his voice seemingly everywhere. It was odd to hear her name on his lips.

“I’m here!”

She reached out to touch the helm but her hand met nothingness. Fuck, where was she?

“Kora!”

Blake’s voice echoed.

“Kora!”

It blended into Aryn’s.

“Kora!”

Now it was neither male, nor Samuel, but something other.

“Blake? Sam?”

She stumbled blindly, following her instincts of the ship. She took two steps forward, and a spoke rammed into her ribs. Thank gods.

“Sam! I’m at the wheel! Where are you? Theron?”

Silence.

Her breathing quickened as she focused her hearing. It was as quiet as the Silent Tundra, in fact more so. There were no blasts of wind here. Even the ocean waters had stopped raging. The ship was eerily still.

“Sam . . .”

she wavered.

“Theron . . .?”

Tentatively gripping the wheel of the helm, Kora’s fingers brushed over the familiar grooves in the ebony wood. She continued moving her hands until she reached the malachite stone embedded in the heart of the wheel. Using it to centre herself, she spun the wheel with a deep exhale.

“Let me out . . .”

she willed the Mist, praying she could break through.

“. . . let me in,”

the voice replied.

A shudder rocked through the ship, the wood groaning. It fought to escape the invisible grip of the Mist as it listed, turning to what she hoped was north east. The talisman shone beneath her longcoat, and she jolted as a brush of wind caressed her face, a shock shooting from her scar to her dozing water beast.

“Let me in . . .”

The voice was male. It sounded so human, so real.

“Now . . . you need . . .”

“What . . . who are you?”

her voice broke, tears threatening to surface, confusion clouding her as she strained against the grey cloak enveloping her ship. Even with the talisman’s glow, she couldn’t see further than a foot ahead.

“Let us out!”

she begged.

“Do not . . . trust . . . him.”

The voice faded, along with the gentle brush of wind.

Kora’s ears rang with the deafening silence surrounding her, and she swallowed as she raised both hands and summoned the ocean waters. Her veins thrummed, energy pulsating from her core and cascading along her limbs. Her water beast purred, delighting in the chaos as the ocean crested.

The strain to break free from the Mist’s hold crushed her, as though heavy, iron anchors weighed down on her arms, forcing her to sink through the deck and into the ocean. Her neck arched, her jaw clenched as her legs trembled, her arms shaking from the force of wielding the seas against magical Mist.

“I am Captain Kora Cadell,”

she whispered.

“I will not be conquered.”

The ship lurched forward at her command, and the symphony of the storm restored. As the Mist waned, the sounds of her crew simultaneously returned all at once, and her talisman’s glow winked out.

“Captain!”

“Kora!”

“I can’t see!”

“Help me! Where is everyone!”

“Cadell.”

Theron’s voice cut through the wave of noise. Within a blink, Hell’s Serpent raced through the final dregs of the Mist, and Peril Cove came into focus. The storm had worsened, the skies cracking open with a downpour of relentless rain.

“Please tell me you saw that!”

She was rooted to the spot, her hands gripping the wheel so tight the wood splintered.

He nodded, his own face stricken. Samuel lumbered up the stairs to the quarterdeck with Aryn and Ivar in tow, both panting and pale.

“What . . . the fuck . . . was that?”

Samuel sputtered.

“The Mist,”

Theron summarised.

Samuel shot Theron a glare, his hand reaching out to the railing to steady himself against the storm. Do not trust him. Her gaze raked over the four males surrounding her.

“Where’s Blake!”

she shouted over a gust of wind. It was so strong and cold, and it whipped across her body leaving a trailing wet sting on her skin. The smell of salt water coated her and she licked her lips. The sea was unforgiving . . . but divine.

“He’s checking on Bree!”

Aryn winced as the winds continued to circle and thrash against the ship. Disappointment filled her, and she shoved the thought of them together—alone—to the back of her mind as she sailed Hell’s Serpent through the increasingly violent storm.

Samuel appeared beside her, placing his hands on the wheel with a nod. Together they navigated the crashing waves and howling winds, working in tandem to keep the ship afloat. To keep the crew alive. Aryn watched from starboard side, whilst Theron kept his near-black eyes trained on the Mist.

As they cleared the last archipelago of Peril Cove, Theron leapt back from the railing.

“Cadell . . . we have a problem.”

Kora propelled across the slick wooden deck and grabbed hold of the nearest shroud, hooking her feet into the ropes as she climbed a few feet. Across the unending tempest, ships emerged from the Mist. Her blood ran as cold as the rain pouring down her face.

Red, yellow, and grey sails.

Before them, an impressive vessel surged, leading with gleaming white sails that were dazzling against the gloom and grey. Lined with silver embellishments, an infamous, silver Pegasus figurehead glistened with moonstones.

Dread coiled within her gut.

Galen.

Galen had returned.