Page 83 of Crownless Heirs

Niall nodded slowly “I think I know the place.”

Sorcha said nothing. Her eyes were on the sea again. She swore she could see something moving beneath the waves.

35

Survivor

Sorcha walked beside Kyron as Maelan and Niall walked behind, their boots crunching over broken shells and dried salt.

The wind still carried the ocean, but it was buried beneath sweat, stale beer, and the reek of fish that had been dead too long. It clung to the rock walls, soaked into the boards, and twisted in their lungs. The closer they got, the worse it became.

A narrow stair carved into the stone led them down toward the edge of the cliff side. Faint light flickered through an opening below, a warped wooden door wedged into the face of the rock. Just outside, two men were locked in a drunken wrestling match, rolling through muddy puddles and laughing like they didn’t care who was watching. A third leaned against the wall, swaying slightly, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Sorcha wrinkled her nose as they passed. The air was thick with unwashed skin, soaked linen, spilled drink, and something sour that had sunk deep into the earth.

“This must be the place,” Maelan muttered, voice low.

“Ey, this is the place,” Niall added.

No sign hung above the door. No name carved in wood or scratched into stone. Just a place men crawled into when they didn’t want to be found.

Kyron glanced at Sorcha. “Ready?”

She didn’t answer. She just pushed the door open. The door groaned open on rusted hinges, and heat poured out to meet them, thick, wet, and awful. Sorcha stepped inside first, and the wall of scent nearly knocked her back. Sweat. Piss. Spilled beer soaked into wood. It was worse than outside, which she hadn’t thought possible.

The tavern was packed, shoulder to shoulder. Men shoved past each other, slamming mugs on warped tables. A group near the hearth bellowed out a song three verses too long, all off-key. One sailor barked out a laugh just as a barmaid threw a tankard of beer full in his face. He staggered back, sputtering, while she grabbed another and kept moving.

The three of them split up, slipping through the crowd. Sorcha moved left, weaving between tables and sidestepping a falling chair. Kyron kept to the right, eyes scanning faces, shoulders squared. Maelan and Niall went straight ahead, brushing past a man who reeked of rot and bad decisions.

When suddenly they stopped. Near the farthest wall, almost swallowed by shadow, a man sat alone. Hood low, shoulders hunched, drink untouched. Maelan glanced back and caught Sorcha’s eye and gave the smallest nod, they’d found him.

“Mind if we sit here?” Niall asked, sliding into the seat closest to the wall.

“Theres plenty of other seats,” the man muttered, not looking up.

“There actually isn’t,” Sorcha replied, calm but firm.

The man looked up from his drink, eyes sweeping the room. He realized she was right, every table was full, the place packed and loud.

“Sure,” he said dryly.

“Thank you,” Sorcha murmured as she slid into the seat beside him.

Maelan and Kyron pulled over a pair of chairs they’d grabbed mid-step from a table where two sailors were too deep in a shouting match to notice. They settled in around the table without a word.

No one moved to speak at first, unsure of how to start the conversation. It was Maelan who broke the quiet. “You from around here?”

“Mm-hmm,” the man answered, eyes still on his drink.

“Then you must’ve heard the stories,” Maelan said, voice light as he waved a barmaid over.

The man didn’t respond. His silence was louder than the tavern around them.

The barmaid arrived, wiping her hands on her apron. Maelan ordered a bottle of whiskey and a tray of glasses.

“We’ve heard about a ship being swallowed whole,” he continued, as the barmaid returned “Only one man made it out.”

The man’s eyes lifted.