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CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

DAX

I n his life, Dax had made only two choices that scarred his soul. The first was sending Irene to the ends of the world. The second was deciding exactly how to kill his father. Both had carved deep, jagged marks into him, scars he carried like curses.

Now, he felt the icy grip of a third choice closing around his heart. This one was colder, crueler, and far more final.

Six grueling hours. That’s how long he’d been at that cursed table aboard the Cordelia, listening to Keegan weave her web of words. She was relentless. Sometimes her voice was honeyed, dripping with venom, slipping effortlessly into the room. Other times, it was like she’d crawled into his mind, her whispers slithering through his thoughts like a shadow.

He hated how it made him feel. Green with envy. Red with rage. Dark with doubt. He could still hear her voice echoing in his mind. “You could break Irene so easily. Prove to her—and to yourself—that you’re more than a man with a scarred past. Make her regret ever doubting you.”

But the worst part? He couldn’t stop her. And, in truth, he didn’t want to.

“She chose him, you know,” Keegan said. “That pretty prince. She chose him over you.” She paused. “You fought wars with her. Spilled blood for her. And for what? To be replaced so easily?

Dax’s fists curled tighter, the table groaning beneath the pressure. Keegan’s voice slithered through the room, sweet and venomous. Her lies burned because they carried too much truth, cutting him deeper than he wanted to admit. She turned sharply toward the commander, her movements serpentine, her gaze cold enough to pierce steel.

“And you, Commander,” she hissed, her words laced with contempt. “Your first mistake was underestimating her.”

Commander Roderick’s face darkened with fury. He slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing like cannon fire. “She’s nothing but a stupid girl who?—”

“She’s a woman with a broken heart,” Keegan snapped, her tone cutting through his rant like a blade. “Not even the devil himself would make the mistake of underestimating the wrath of a wounded woman. She has beaten you at every turn. Every trap you set, she dismantled. Every plan, undone. You didn’t see it because you refused to believe she could.”

Keegan stepped closer, her shadow stretching across the dimly lit room, swallowing the weak candlelight. Her smile curved into something almost predatory. “Your second mistake was letting the mastermind walk free—the one who planted this entire quest in her mind, who set every piece of this puzzle into motion. I’ve seen it,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the air. “In my waters. The woman who orchestrated the fall of your king. The capture of your prince. The doom now hunting us all.”

The commander leaned forward, his face red with rage and frustration. “Who?” he barked, his voice cracking under the weight of his desperation.

Keegan tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of delight. “The Peacock of the Slums,” she purred. Her words hung in the air like a curse, pulling the room into a heavy silence.

Dax froze, his breath hitching in his chest.

Jessalyn .

The commander’s face twisted with fury. “I should have known! Those pirate guilds are wretched to the bone! I should have convinced the king to raze the slums and take every damn pirate with it—including her! The captain of the Peacock Guild… the only woman. Of course, it’s her.”

He slammed his fist against the table, making the room quiver. “What would you have me do, witch?” he roared.

Keegan smiled, slow and wicked, her voice like silk dipped in poison. “Simple,” she purred. “Let me use my power. Weak as it is, thanks to your king draining it like the parasite he is, I can still manage a portal. But magic demands sacrifice. One innocent soul from this ship, and I will bring you Jessalyn.”

The commander hesitated only for a moment. “Do it.”

Keegan’s smile widened, a predator scenting blood. She began murmuring ancient words under her breath, her tone rising and falling like a song long forgotten by the world. Drawing her blade, she slashed it across the palm of a soldier they’d dragged into the cabin. He struggled, terror in his eyes, but the guards held him firm.

Dax turned away, his jaw tight, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. He could feel the magic swelling in the air, thick and oppressive, choking the room with its weight. It clung to his skin like damp rot, making his pulse stutter. He hated how unnatural it felt, how wrong. This wasn’t the magic of old tales and forgotten legends. This was something darker. Corrupted.

When the portal tore open, the air split like fabric under a blade, shuddering with a sound that made the walls tremble. It wasn’t just a portal—it was a wound in the fabric of reality, raw and throbbing like something alive. The edges pulsed with a sickening glow, bleeding shadows into the room.

Dax forced himself to look, his throat tight with revulsion. Beyond the portal’s jagged edges lay the shadowy interior of the Peacock Guild’s hall, faintly illuminated by the eerie light of lanterns swaying overhead. The commander exhaled sharply.

Keegan stepped closer to the portal, her voice still dripping with amusement. “Your prey awaits, Commander.”

“Commander,” Jessalyn said, her voice cool as steel. “You’ve come a long way to die.”

The commander barked out a harsh laugh. “Not today, pirate. You’re under arrest. This time, there’s no escape. You’ll pay for the chaos you’ve sown… for the blood on your hands. And when you hang, the rats you sent will follow you to the gallows.”

“Arrest me, if you must,” Jessalyn said, almost lazily. She didn’t struggle. She didn’t curse or spit or scream. Instead, she let them seize her, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. Her amusement was a living thing, coiling around her words like smoke. Low, dark laughter echoed through the empty hall as they shackled her, each link of the chain snapping into place like the teeth of a predator.

Dax hesitated, unease scraping its claws down his spine. He glanced around the room, the oppressive silence pressing against his temples. Something about this felt wrong. He knew it because he’d seen the first painting.

It was leaning against the wall, propped carelessly on the floor as if discarded—but there was nothing careless about it. The image hit him like a punch to the chest: a white peacock lying on the forest floor, its feathers pale as ash, oblivious to the inferno raging around it. Above it, a second peacock loomed, its wings brilliant blue, but its plumage was aflame. The older bird shielded the smaller one with its burning wings, its eyes fixed forward, defiant even in the face of death.

Dax’s breath hitched.

Lady Death’s words surged through his mind like a poison he couldn’t shake: “The Usurper sacrificed my flesh and blood, and I suffered until my heart turned to stone. Through agony, I found strength, and through desolation, I became indestructible.” But it wasn’t the first painting that destroyed Dax. No. That one only pushed him forward, like an invisible hand gripping his spine. As the soldiers busied themselves chaining Jessalyn, he felt himself pulled down the hall where dozens of other paintings littered the walls. His breath hitched. His steps faltered.

And then he saw it. The portrait.

Dax’s heart stopped, then shattered.

Three faces stared back at him, and his soul crumbled at the sight.

On the left stood Keegan, her back turned but with half her face visible. That grin. He knew it too well. On the right stood Jessalyn, her proud head held high, her painted eyes piercing through him like knives.

But it was the one in the center that wrecked him.

Her.

Months ago, she had whispered the words that rewrote his fate.

“Let her go,” the fortune teller had told him, her voice curling like smoke through the cracks of his ambition. “Free yourself from her weight, and the world will open to you. Every treasure. Even the divine sapphire of the fallen goddess you seek.”

The memory clawed its way to the surface as he stared at the woman in white feathers. The fortune teller he had trusted blindly. The one who had woven his ruin with her soft-spoken lies.

And all it had taken was a single card to be drawn: The Siren.

Keegan. Jessalyn. And her.

They had all played him.

And staring at the portrait now, Dax could feel the web tightening around him. Every thread, every knot, tangled by his own foolish hands.

His chest tightened. His breath came in short, frantic gasps, as the truth buried itself deep into his ribs. He had torn his life apart. He had chased a treasure that was never meant to be his.

The greatest betrayal Dax had ever committed wasn’t in ruining Irene—it was in ruining himself. Tearing out his own heart, shredding his soul, for the promise of something greater.

Only for now, to realize he’d bled himself dry for nothing.

As Dax stumbled back through the portal, his head spun and his chest tightened. Jessalyn’s laugh rang out again, sharp and slicing through the air like a blade. He could have sworn he heard Keegan sneer under her breath, “It’s been a while, Sister.”

Dax whirled around, his heart racing. Had no one else heard that? Were they all deaf—or had he gone mad? The portal snapped shut behind them with a bone-deep crack, leaving only the groaning hull of the Cordelia and the dim, swaying glow of the lanterns.

“Commander,” Dax called, his voice taut with alarm.

Roderick glanced over his shoulder, irritation plain on his face. “What is it now, Captain?”

“Where will you take her after this?” Dax’s voice dropped, tightening.

The commander raised a brow, his tone cold and dismissive. “To Eldoria. To hang.”

Dax stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’re not taking her to the Ildomir prisons?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, a chill creeping down his spine. He had heard the stories—those horrifying prisons where the king sent his prisoners to vanish, swallowed by salt and shadow.

Roderick stilled, his eyes narrowing. Then, with a humorless laugh, he shook his head. “The Ildomir prisons,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Those salt mines? Ghost stories, Captain. Tales we spread to keep the people trembling under the king’s grip.”

He paused, his jaw tightening as something flickered behind his eyes—something dark and unsettling. “At least… not officially. The king doesn’t control them.”

Dax’s breath caught. “Then who does?”

Roderick ignored him and turned, his steps faltering, but Dax caught his arm before he could move away. “Then who does?” he repeated, his tone urgent. The commander glared, yanking his arm free, but his expression betrayed him. There was something haunted in his eyes, something unsaid clawing at the edge of his composure.

Finally, in a low, clipped tone, Roderick muttered, “The Hive keeps the rumors alive. They let the fear spread. But the prisons themselves?” He hesitated, the weight of unspoken horrors hanging heavy in the air. “I’ve never been. No one has. No one comes back.”

The silence stretched, brittle and suffocating, before Roderick added, almost reluctantly, “But there are some stories. Whispers of religious mercenaries who rule the mines. Fanatics.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a near growl. “Strange ones. They kneel to no king, and their prayers are older than the crown.”

Dax’s throat tightened. “Then who do they pray to?”

The commander’s face twisted, as though the answer itself tasted like poison. “Birds,” he muttered. “Old gods. Gods of Death. It’s ridiculous…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head as if ashamed to have spoken at all.

But Dax barely heard him. His stomach churned, the bile rising as the words drilled into his skull.

Birds. Birds. Birds. Death. Death. Death.

“So, Captain?” Keegan’s voice slithered through the tension, her smile twisting into something cruel and triumphant. “Shall we call the attack we agreed upon, you and I? You sealed it in blood."

Dax’s fists tightened, his nails digging deep into his palms until it felt as though the skin might break.

The weight of the blood oath wrapped around him like iron chains, suffocating, inescapable. Regret boiled in his chest, thick and relentless, but it was far too late.

“Call the attack,” he said.