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CHAPTER FOUR

IRENE

S omeone else’s blood had paid for Irene Delmare’s freedom, but her ribs still burned like she’d been the one condemned.

Irene staggered forward, limping, each step wrenching a wince from her lips, her breath short and shallow. Behind her, Eldoria was still screaming: soldiers hammering the cobblestones, chasing people through the market, striking to assert their authority. Overturned stalls, food crushed into the dirt, lives broken in the chaos.

She’d escaped—barely. Teeth clenched, with the metallic taste of blood still on her tongue. She hadn’t seen the punch coming. A massive man had blindsided her mid-sprint, his fist crashing into her ribs like an iron hammer. She folded under the impact, a strangled cry caught in her throat. It took her minutes to catch her breath, finally stumbling into the grimy shadow of an alleyway.

Pain radiated through her body, sharp and unrelenting, each breath a cold blade stabbing between her ribs. She pressed herself against a wall, one hand clutching her side.

“Damn it...” she hissed through gritted teeth, her legs trembling beneath her.

In her mind, the voices stirred like ravenous crows.

“YOUR FAULT!”

The hand clutching her ribs tightened as Irene bent double, a choked whimper escaping her. “Damn it...” she muttered again, her voice frayed and cracking. The pain was unbearable, a searing blade lodged in her side, each inhalation pure agony.

“Everything’s falling apart,” shrieked one voice, sharp and suffocating. Another burst out in cruel laughter, mocking her. Irene clenched her eyes shut and bit the inside of her cheek, her teeth slicing into the tender flesh until the taste of iron filled her mouth. She let the blood coat her tongue. At least it kept her anchored to the present.

But the voice returned, furious. “Everything’s ruined because of you.”

No. That wasn’t true. Irene shook her head sharply, her jaw tightening in defiance. “It’s not my fault. It’s hers.”

That girl. That... that Tuli. The moment Irene had seen her, she had known. The shaking prayers, the clasped hands, the soft light radiating from her dusky brown skin—so perfect it was unbearable. A Tulindorian girl.

Rage burned in Irene’s throat, a searing wave on the verge of exploding. A flash cut through her mind, like a strike of lightning: it was her. Irene. Hunched in the salt mines, her bones broken, her hands raw and infected. The rot. The stench. The madness.

The warning was clear: if she didn’t retrieve the ashes, there would be no revenge. No escape. Nothing. And the ghosts she’d left behind in hell would come back to drag her down again.

“One moment,” she murmured to herself, as if those words alone could hold back the chaos spiraling inside her. “Just one moment.”

She didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. She had to find the bastards who had stolen her pendant—the one that held her ashes, her vengeance, her future.

Irene lifted her eyes.

The sun was dipping behind the jagged rooftops, painting the city in a mix of deep pinks and shadowy orange. A cruel beauty, rivaled only by the violence unfolding below.

Irene gasped for air, the oppressive heat clinging to her like a second skin. She ripped off her cloak and let it fall to the ground. With a sharp tug, she tore open her shirt, the fabric ripping to expose her collarbone and part of her chest. She didn’t care. She needed to breathe. She needed to survive.

She closed her eyes for a moment. The cool breeze kissed her bare skin, light and fleeting, almost unreal. It was one of the things she’d missed most in the suffocating hell of the mountain prisons.

A drunken man stumbled past her, humming a tuneless song. He swayed, his glazed eyes lingering on Irene with lust. Then his neck twisted too far, and he tripped.

At his feet, a small pouch of silver coins hit the cobblestones.

Irene laughed, despite the sharp ache in her ribs. “Lucky me,” she murmured, her voice laced with bitter irony. Lucky. She used to be, once. Before everything had turned to ash. A voice in her head—perhaps her old captain Lorax’s—whispered again, the way it always did: “You’re a lucky brat. Born with a damn star over your head.”

The proof? She’d just dodged a hanging. And sent someone else to it in her place. A twisted kind of luck, maybe. But luck nonetheless. Irene scooped up the coins and slipped them into her pocket.

She pushed herself off the wall and disappeared into the maze of alleyways. Each step tugged painfully at her bruised ribs, but she kept moving, her eyes locked on a distant goal: The Hollow Cup. The last place before the slums—a grimy tavern perched near the gutter, that foul body of water separating the port from the Wreck. A filthy hole, but a place where she would find answers.

The closer she got, the louder the noise became. Shrill flutes, heavy drums, the raucous laughter of drunks. The air reeked of alcohol, sweat, and rotting wood. Shapes blurred past her—some staggering, some brushing against her—but no one paid her any mind. Not this time.

Then, she arrived.

Before her stood The Hollow Cup, loud and alive, as though the years had left it untouched. The sign still hung there—a rum jug etched into the weathered wood. People jostled to get inside, eager to drown their ghosts in the oblivion of a drink.

Irene stopped.

She froze, her boots rooted to the grimy ground as if invisible chains had locked her in place. Her ribs screamed with pain, but that wasn’t what held her back. This was something else.

The voices in her head had finally fallen silent, but the quiet brought no relief. It only made space for something worse.

Memories.

They surged upward, clawing their way to the surface of her mind, like blood welling from a deep wound.

Irene trembled. She’d spent months erasing it all, burying it. Eleven years of memories ripped from her mind one by one. She’d sealed those fragments deep within herself, burying them beneath a burning rage. She’d banished even his name, refusing to let it touch her tongue, refusing to hear its echo in her thoughts. Three letters she’d tried to scrub from every crack in her brain.

And yet, standing here in front of this tavern, it all came rushing back.

All of it.

Every stone of these streets, every sound in the alley, every shadow brought back the eleven years they had shared.

Her breath hitched. She felt stupid. Stupid to think she’d ever been strong enough to forget. Stupid to have trusted him. Stupid to have… what? Given him a place in her mind? In her heart? A place he had burned, betrayed, and reduced to ash.

But it wasn’t just the betrayal that broke her. No.

It was worse. It was the fact that she had loved the rivalry. The bitter memory of burning with him. That was the deepest wound of all.

A flash. Then another. Fragments. Blows. Like shards of glass driven beneath her skin.

Heat. Adrenaline. His name.

Dax. Dax. Dax. Dax. Dax. Dax. Dax.

The tavern twisted around her, and the memories poured in, devouring her:

Two kids—him and her—screaming at the top of their lungs, darting between tables to gather intel for their captain. The nervous laughter of fear, the triumphant roars of victory.

Teenagers, their hands still stained with blood, striding back here after a pillage, bursting with pride as though they owned the world.

Their reckless dares. Their fiery arguments. Words spat like weapons. Their eyes, blazing.

Their skin brushing, breaths colliding, the heat of their bodies pressed together against barrels after an ambush.

Always rivals. Two hearts beating faster, harder, with every blow.

They had burned together. For eleven years, they’d bled, pushing each other to survive in a world that killed the useless.

Because in pirate guilds, there was only one rule: Impress, or die. If one bled, the other bled twice as much.

And now, Irene could feel that burn again. That fire she thought she had extinguished. That fire she had tried to bury beneath layers of darkness.

A shoulder rammed into her, jolting her.

The impact yanked her back to reality. The tavern snapped into focus—loud, oppressive. The screech of flutes, the pounding of drums, the jagged laughter of drunks. It all crashed down around her.

Irene clenched her fists and shoved the images from her mind. She couldn’t falter.

He had moved on, lived his life as though nothing had happened, while she had shattered rock, worn her bones down to nothing but rage.

The past was dead. The streets they had run through. The city that had devoured them. All of it was gone.

Irene blinked, lifted her head, and pushed open the tavern door.

Heat, noise, and stench hit her like a fist. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and alcohol, pulsing with the clink of mugs and the raspy tune of a bard, joined by the rhythmic pounding of hands on tables. Women laughed. Men barked out stories. Dice tumbled, bets flew, and the room roared in a chaos so loud it almost drowned out the weight of the world.

No one looked her way.

She drifted forward, unseen, like a shadow. She felt detached, as though her body moved without her, led by a force she couldn’t name.

Coming back here, to a place where she’d spent so much time, should have felt familiar. But it didn’t. It felt strange.

She knew she should have been more careful. Walking into such a crowded place with her face uncovered was reckless. But the answers she needed were here, hidden within these sticky walls.

At a glance, it seemed like everyone was just drinking and laughing. But Irene knew better. Beneath the spilled ale and grime, secrets coiled like smoke. That’s why she used to be sent here—to hunt whispers, legends, and curses traded like coins among thieves.

And at the heart of it all, like always, was Dom.

His laugh carried over the chaos, bold and triumphant, as if the world itself couldn’t touch him. Same smile. Same air of self-importance, like he was the king of his own filthy little kingdom of secrets, surrounded by his fanatics—or rather, his loyal drunks.

She reached the counter, moving like a ghost. No one saw her as she leaned over, her hand sliding across the bar with deliberate care, seeking something she knew would still be there. Nothing had changed here, least of all Dom's habits. Her fingers found the blade, tucked just where it always had been.

She pulled it free, quietly, and settled into a seat. Elbow on the counter. A group of men roared beside her, their laughter rising and falling like dogs howling at the moon as they soaked up Dom’s every word.

Dom’s voice rose above the clamor:

"Three bloody shipments—saffron and gunpowder! Raided! And guess who let it slip where to find 'em? "

The men pounded the table in a roar of drunken applause.

“That’s our Dom!”

That's right, me! Told the pirate guild myself. Easiest coin I ever made!"

The counter rattled under the force of their blows, but Irene didn’t react. She yawned, tired, hungry, thirsty. But more than anything, she felt numb—hollow, as though something had been carved out of her chest and gut. Slowly, she leaned forward, resting her head on her folded arm, turning her back to the men.

Irene waited. Cold as a corpse. The salt prisons of Ildomir had taught her that: how to leave her body, vanish, and bide her time.

She exhaled sharply and let her grip on the blade loosen. A plate sat nearby, forgotten, with a lump of cheese left behind. She picked up the knife, cut the cheese, and ate it slowly, her movements cold and deliberate.

Dom’s voice rose again. “The guilds over in The Wreck, they’re stuffing their pockets! Making a killing! And you lot—what are you doing? Selling fish? Swapping scraps?” He barked a laugh.

Dom’s voice dropped lower. “Ever since the Vipers got rid of you-know-who...”

The word Vipers hit her like a fist. Her old guild.

Irene kept toying with the dagger she’d sunk into the counter, turning it lightly between her fingers. Her eyes stayed closed. Don’t lose control, she told herself. Not yet.

“That filthy whore of a traitor,” someone hissed, venom dripping from their words.

“Ever since then, everything’s been running smoothly. Three shipments in just a few days. Even the guards are on it now.”

The words pierced Irene’s skull, shattering like shards of ice. Voices clawed at her mind— Hypocrite. Ungrateful. The whispers twisted into hisses, slithering through her thoughts like snakes.

Yes. Dom was a hypocrite. If he was still alive tonight, it was because of her. Three years ago, Dom should have died—the guild captains had voted for his execution. But Irene had stopped them.

She’d thought he was useful.

She’d bargained so well to save him that Dom survived. And all it had cost him was a leg.

And it’s real simple!” Dom slurred. “You hand over your silver, and the captain—he’ll turn it into gold! Don’t got silver? No problem! He’ll lend you some. No debts, no strings… just opportunities! ”

She let out a bitter smile. These men drank in Dom’s words like children suckling at their mother’s milk. But she knew better than anyone: with the guilds, everything came at a price—in coin, in flesh, or in blood.

Dom finally approached, his laughter dying in his throat, the thud of his wooden leg echoing behind the bar. Irene didn’t lift her head—not yet.

He stopped just a few steps away, his voice overly cheerful. “So, what can I do for you, sweetheart?” he asked, clueless.

“Sweetheart? What are you?—”

She slowly raised her head, and the words caught in his throat.

Irene stared at him. Her red, raw eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her lips shaking just enough to unnerve him. Dom instinctively stepped back. Slowly, her head tilted, her gaze sharpening like a blade. She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Her focus stayed locked on Dom, who staggered back again, the nervous retreat of prey sensing a predator.

He opened his mouth, but no sound escaped. His hand twitched behind the counter, fumbling blindly, clawing for something.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Irene’s voice came soft as a breath.

She spun the dagger she’d stolen earlier between her fingers.

Dom struggled for words, but Irene didn’t give him time.

“How many times have I told you, Dom? This knife is garbage,” she said, her voice rough, dripping with disappointment—almost amused. “It’s a toy.”

“Irene…”

He turned his head, as if to run or scream, but before he could move, her hand shot out, gripping his arm with a vise-like force.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice a broken thread. “Don’t do that.”

He froze, his breath hitching as she leaned closer, her eyebrows arched in a mockingly tender expression. “I just want to talk,” she murmured, her voice soft—almost sweet.

Dom hesitated, his eyes snapping to the pouch Irene dropped on the counter. With a flick of her wrist, she spilled stolen coins, the metallic clatter dragging his gaze.

“The Wasp Tower,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “Guild kids hit it, didn’t they?”

Dom shifted, wiping the counter, his eyes avoiding hers. “Maybe,” he said with a shrug, feigning indifference.

Irene’s lips curled into a slow smile. “Then, it’s true.”

Dom’s face twitched, his unease deepening.

“Which one?” she asked, her eyes pinned on him.

“I… how should I know? I’m not sure. I’ve heard things, but… you know how it is in the slums. It’s Full of kids. Just rumors.”

Dom was a bad liar.

Irene’s eyes narrowed, her mouth twisting in something between disgust and a smile. “So, you do know.”

The silence thickened. Here was the truth about Dom: he wasn’t a King of Secrets. He was a scavenger, feeding on drunken scraps and spitting them back out at the right moment—for the right price.

“Why do you care?” he blurted, his voice rough.

He leaned in, his tone sharp. “Do you even realize the mess you’ve caused?”

Irene cut him off, her voice colder, sharper. “They stole something from me. So tell me—which one?”

Dom shook his head.

“Your head’s worth more than that pouch of coin, Irene,” he said, gesturing at the silver with thinly veiled disdain. “If I help you, they’ll kill me. He’ll kill me. And you know what? Maybe I deserve it—but not for you. Not after what you’ve done.”

He stepped back. “I’ll give you one last chance. Walk away.”

But she didn’t move.

Her chest felt heavy, but it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger. It was deeper than that. More insidious. Like a needle, cold and slow, driving into her pride.

Dom had dared. He had dared to disrespect her.

She didn’t even blink. Her fingers brushed the edge of the counter, tapping softly. Her head remained still, but her eyes slid sideways, sharp and cutting, locking onto him.

She watched as he tilted his head slightly, whispering something into the ear of a man nearby. The exchange was quick, furtive. The other man nodded before walking away—but not without throwing one last glance in Irene’s direction.

With a flick of her wrist, Irene pushed Dom’s dagger across the counter, her gesture dripping with disdain. He frowned, leaning forward to retrieve it.

She drew her own.

Sharper. Deadlier.

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her muscles tensed, as if they were acting on their own, overriding her mind.

Dom had his back to her, talking. Laughing. Too relaxed.

Irene tilted her head slightly, watching the bare stretch of his neck. She wondered what it would feel like—what it would do to her—to plunge the blade straight into his throat.

She pictured it. The blade sinking into his flesh, tearing it open. The suffocating heat of sticky blood spraying, seeping under her nails, setting her skin on fire. His fingers clutching at his neck, desperately trying to hold his life together as it dripped, drop by drop, onto the floor.

The euphoria was already thrumming in her veins.

The beast inside her growled, hungry, clawing for something—anything—to fill the void. It wanted blood. Pain.

She leaned forward slightly, knees bending, her body coiled tight like a predator about to strike.

But a voice shattered the moment.

“JAVIER! My favorite pirate!”

No. No. No.

Irene’s expression darkened. She turned her head, her brows knitting together in a sharp, irritated line. Not him, too.

“Shout louder, Dom,” came the rough voice behind her, laced with dry sarcasm. “I think the whole port didn’t hear you yet.” Javier’s voice rose above the noise like a wave crashing against the shore, salty and unyielding.

Irene recognized that mocking tone immediately, that familiar bite of sarcasm. She felt a lump form in her throat. Silently, she slid the dagger back under her belt.

His sun-kissed skin, worn and roughened by salt and wind, gleamed faintly under the dim light. And his eyes—those amber eyes, like a sunset clinging stubbornly to the horizon—swept the room, cutting through every shadow. He smelled of the sea and rum. Always the sea and rum.

Irene averted her gaze.

“Here’s your cargo,” Javier said, his voice slightly breathless. His scent hit her again—salt and alcohol, thick and maddening. “My payment?”

Dom answered with a wink. “Let’s drink first! I’ll hand you your silver later. Maybe even a few bottles of rum, on the house.”

“Wait for me here, I’ll be back!” Dom shouted as he scurried off, leaving Javier and Irene alone.

The silence between them pressed down like a heavy weight.

Irene refused to look at him. Fixing her eyes on a point in the distance, she clung desperately to the hope that, by ignoring him, she might somehow disappear.

“So?” he said, his tone light. “Where have you been?” She could feel his smile without even looking.

She clenched her teeth. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, a low, raspy sound that grated on her nerves.

“What? I can’t ask an old friend where she disappeared to?” His voice was playful, almost sing-song, like he didn’t already know. Like he hadn’t heard the rumors. The insults. “Where have you been, Irene?”

Javier was always like this. Too curious. Too cheerful. And far too comfortable tossing around the word friend.

Irene turned to him, her eyes burning with restrained fury. She wanted him to shut up, so she decided to silence him.

“Prison,” she said, her voice flat. “In Ildomir.”

Javier’s smile faltered, slipping into something closer to disbelief.

“Impossible.” He shook his head, but his voice softened, almost worried. “You wouldn’t be standing here in front of me if you’d been locked up there. No one gets out of Ildomir, Irene.”

It was said the secret salt mines belonged to the king, a place where no one left alive. The prisons of Eldoria were where the unwanted vanished—those who knew too much or cost too much to kill. Irene didn’t care about the rumors. She’d gotten out. She’d seen the truth. And she’d buried it with her.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, something flickered between them. A memory.

She was twelve again. A year after the vipers had ripped her from her father and dragged her into the guild. She remembered standing on the docks of the slums, preparing to board a ship for a mission. That was when she’d seen him for the first time.

A skinny boy sitting against a wall, his clothes soaked through, his bright eyes shining with the kind of hope that came from waiting for someone who was never coming back. She’d rummaged through her things, pulled out a loaf of bread and some rations she’d packed for the journey, and tossed them to him.

He’d taken the food. And he’d smiled at her. The same smile he wore now.

That had become their routine. Every time she returned to the slums, she’d share what she could with him. Bread. Stories. Sometimes she even recruited him for small jobs. He was quick. Clever.

And then one day, after a long journey at sea, she came back. Javier wasn’t the skinny street kid anymore. He had joined the Jackals.

The memory vanished as quickly as it had come.

“What are you doing here?” he asked softly.

Irene opened her mouth to respond, but he raised a hand to stop her.

“Actually, no. I don’t want to know. Whatever you’re here for, Irene, just do it. And leave.”

His voice was serious. Javier was never serious. That alone told her how deep in the mud she was.

“I don’t think you get it… but in the slums, they’re furious with you,” he said. “Some think you’re dead—and they celebrate it. The others? They hate you. They pray for the day you show your face again, just so they can take their revenge—for the pirates who died that night at sea.”

She shook her head, her pupils wide, her breathing uneven. “I didn’t betray anyone. He’s lying.”

Javier sighed, his amber eyes softening as they rested on her. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “Dax is in charge now. His voice carries weight. Keep your head down.”

He smiled at her—a sad smile—and threw in a wink for good measure.

Dom reappeared, arms loaded with bottles and Javier’s payment. The latter took his things without another word, his broad shoulders tense as he turned away from Dom.

“Leaving already? No… I missed you!” Dom shouted after him.

Javier kept walking, his muscles taut beneath his shirt. “You’re a bad liar, Dom,” he called over his shoulder, a mocking laugh slipping from his lips.

Irene’s heart pounded in her chest. Her throat felt dry. She understood now.

She wouldn’t take another step in this city without setting off a storm. Dax’s lies had followed her here, infecting the minds of everyone she’d ever known.

“You’re still here?” Dom spat, stomping back to his counter.

Irene rose slowly. Her gaze was cold.

Behind her, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps.

In front of her, Dom crossed his arms, raising a smug eyebrow. That expression—she hated it. She turned her head left, then right. Three men stood posted on either side of the room, their stares sharp and unrelenting. Waiting.

The bastard had sold her out.

She turned her attention back to Dom, betrayal coating her tongue like ashes. She was tired. Exhausted. Of everything.

“Really? You too, Dom?” she asked, her voice shaking with restrained fury.

Dom stepped forward, planting both hands on the counter. His lips curled into a twisted sneer.

“Gotta clean out the filth, don’t we?” he said, his contempt barely masked. Then, leaning closer as if he were about to share a secret, he added, “And honestly, I’ve always known there was something wrong with you. Dax is captain now. It’s better this way. The natural order of things. You know why?”

Irene’s eyes stayed fixed on his mouth—the mouth that spat venom like a snake. Her hands trembled.

Dom leaned in closer, his rancid breath washing over her face. “Because you’re insane…”

A haze of tears clouded her vision, but her voice stayed calm. A whisper. “You shouldn’t call me insane.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder. The men were closing in, shoving through the chaotic crowd of the tavern. Their eyes burned with the promise of violence. They were going to take her. Break her. Just like everyone else had.

“Why?” Dom asked, his grin widening like a predator’s.

Irene lifted her head, her gaze hardening despite the tears threatening to spill. “Because it makes me worse.”

Before Dom could react, Irene drove her dagger into his palm, the blade punching straight through his hand and into the counter. He screamed, but she didn’t stop. Her free hand shot out, grabbing his head, and she slammed it against the wood with a sickening crack.

In one swift motion, she tore the dagger free, and Dom collapsed, cradling his mangled hand and howling in pain. Irene turned toward the men advancing on her.

She sighed, weary.

Three of them. Big. Slow. She knew she didn’t stand a chance against all of them—not like this, not in her condition.

But that didn’t matter.

Her grip on the knife tightened, her fingers curling around the hilt like a lifeline. If she couldn’t take them all down, she’d start a chaos so wild the tavern would fight in her place.

Irene inhaled deeply and began a slow, measured walk across the room, her eyes fixed on the men at the far end. Around her, people drank, talked, and laughed—completely unaware. Each calm, deliberate step she took was a silent challenge.

He glared at her with the rage of a predator, but the crowd between them was a wall too thick to break through.

Irene didn’t blink. She wanted them to see her.

She stopped at a table, tapping the shoulder of a drunken man slumped in his seat. When he turned, she drove her fist into his face.

He staggered back, groaning, and swung at her in anger. But Irene ducked low, and his fist missed—slamming into the woman behind her.

The woman’s response was immediate—a sharp slap across his face.

And just like that, the tavern erupted.

The drunks took it as an invitation. Tables flew. Bottles shattered. Screams and fists filled the air. Irene slipped through the chaos, throwing punches at random, ducking under tables, shoving bodies aside.

A hand reached for her, but she dropped low, slicing her dagger across the man’s ankle before disappearing back into the confusion.

Her pursuers were relentless. She spotted them, their eyes scanning the chaos, searching for her.

One of them finally caught her.

His fist slammed into her stomach, driving the air from her lungs. Another blow followed, snapping her head to the side. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

She spat the blood onto the floor and dodged a third swing, slamming her knee into his groin. As he doubled over, she grabbed a bottle from a nearby table and smashed it over his head.

But before she could step back, another hand closed around her throat.

He lifted her clean off the ground and threw her against a table. Pain exploded through her body as she hit the wood.

His grip tightened around her neck, cutting off her air. Irene struggled, her hands clawing desperately. Then she saw it.

The tattoo on his forearm.

The symbol of the Vipers.

Dax didn’t even have the courage to come kill her himself.

Irene’s eyes burned with fury. Her hand reached out and found her dagger.

Without hesitation, she drove the blade into his chest.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Her arm trembled with exhaustion, yet she pressed on. At last, she fixed her aim on his throat and plunged the dagger deep.

Blood erupted, splattering her face and hair. The man choked once before collapsing.

Irene rolled to the side just in time. She lay there for a moment, her chest heaving, the blood-soaked dagger still clutched in her hand.

When she looked up, the tavern was a battlefield. The exit was blocked by a mass of brawling bodies.

Irene gathered her strength and sprinted toward the window as fast as her battered body would allow. One glance over her shoulder—the two remaining vipers were closing in, relentless.

She ran, dodging fists and shoving through the chaos. She vaulted over the counter, her back pressed to the worn wood as she crouched behind it.

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. If she stood up, they’d see her. And kill her. If she stayed here, they’d find her. And kill her anyway.

Irene slammed her head against the wall in frustration, a low growl escaping her lips. How the hell had she ended up here?

She glanced at her thigh. Blood streaked down, dark and slick, the shards of glass buried deep in her flesh. Her trembling hand gripped one of the larger pieces. She took a sharp breath—and yanked it free in one swift motion.

Pain exploded through her leg, and she let out a bitter, rasping laugh. The irony of it all.

She had really thought she could come back here. Gather the ashes, build a crew, hunt down the Sapphire, and get her revenge. Claim glory.

But all she’d found was this: pain. A searing, burning pain that drowned out everything else.

A groan nearby pulled her from her thoughts. Irene turned her head and saw Dom, curled up on the floor. His wooden leg jutted awkwardly in front of him, and he clutched his bloodied hand to his chest, sobbing like a child.

Their eyes met. For a moment, everything froze. Just their uneven breaths cutting through the chaos.

Then she saw it.

That glint in his eye. That malice.

Irene shook her head, refusing to believe it.

“She’s here! She’s here!” he screamed suddenly.

Bastard.

Rage detonated inside her. Irene crawled toward him, shards of glass crunching under her knees. Above them, bottles shattered, knocked off shelves by bodies crashing into the walls.

Dom saw her coming and tried to scramble back, terror in his eyes. Too late. Irene grabbed him by the collar.

“You want to be useful?” she hissed, a twisted smile curling her lips.

With one violent yank, she forced him to his feet, ignoring his screams. She moved behind him, using his body as a shield. Fists flew, shouts cracked the air, and Irene hauled Dom toward the window.

She slammed his head against the glass.

The glass cracked, then shattered under the force. Dom howled in pain. Irene slammed her forearm against the frame, knocking loose the remaining shards. But before she could leap through, a dagger hissed past and buried itself in the window frame, inches from her head.

Another followed. Then a third.

Irene recoiled, ducking behind Dom’s half-conscious body. He whimpered weakly as she shoved his dead weight toward their attackers, buying herself precious seconds.

Then she launched herself out the window.

She hit the ground hard, the impact slamming the breath from her lungs. Her back burned as she rolled onto the wet cobblestones. Damn it. It was raining.

Irene groaned, dragging herself upright, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. Shouts rang out behind her.

She staggered to her feet and ran, her boots slipping on the rain-slicked stones. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw them.

They were closing in, their shadows long and sharp beneath the falling rain. Irene’s lungs burned as she plunged into the dark alleys, water streaming down her face, chaos chasing her.

She ran, her legs aflame. The labyrinth of alleys twisted and turned, slick mud clinging to her boots. Every time she rounded a corner, they followed. Always behind her.

She could hear everything: their pounding footsteps, their ragged breaths, their growls of determination. They weren’t chasing her. They were hunting her.

Eldoria had become a hunting ground tonight.

A reckoning. A blood debt. Irene had committed crimes—dozens, hundreds—but not the one they were chasing her for. The one for which they wanted her dead.

That one wasn’t hers.

Her body screamed in protest, her muscles straining as she pushed forward, her mind a blur of adrenaline. They weren’t trying to flank her, to trap her. No, they stayed behind her. It was strange, but there was no time to think. No time to figure out why.

She skidded to a stop, gasping for air. Her hands braced on her knees as her chest heaved. Her eyes darted around. The alleys had changed. They were narrower now. The city itself seemed to dissolve, melting into shadows.

No.

A scream cut through the rain.

“Get her!”

Irene snapped her head up and saw them emerge from the darkness. She bolted, her boots splashing through the thick mud.

The streets warped around her. Houses crumbled into hollow husks, streets turned into yawning voids, and the air grew heavier, filthier.

And then, everything fell apart.

She burst out of a narrow alley, her body still trembling with adrenaline. She came to a halt, her boots screeching against the wet stone.

In front of her stood the bridge.

Dilapidated, sinister, a jagged scar stretched across the void. The bridge to the slums. To The Wreck.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She turned on her heels, panic clawing at her chest. But it was too late.

They were already there, their figures outlined in the dim light, waiting for her.

She was trapped.

They had led her here, like a cat playing with a mouse. Manipulating her every move. And she, blinded by fear and urgency, had charged straight into their trap.

A shiver ran down her spine.

Two men. Just two. On any other night, Irene would have torn them apart, but tonight, she was the prey.

If she stepped back, the jaws of the slums would close around her, ready to devour her whole. If she stepped forward, they would kill her. No duel. No honor. Just an execution.

Their lips curled in feral grins, their eyes glinting with a cruel hunger. One of them spat on the ground, his twisted smile widening.

“Justice will be served,” one of them said, his voice dripping with mockery.

Justice.

Irene let out a bitter laugh, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through her ribs. She knew exactly what that word meant here. In the slums, justice spoke only one language: blood.

She was accused. Of betraying her crew at sea. Of selling out her brothers-in-arms to mercenaries to buy herself a captain’s title. Of killing them all.

Accusations. Lies.

But here, the truth didn’t matter. Facts didn’t save anyone.

And tonight, Irene would pay for a crime she didn’t commit.

Unless fate intervened.