Page 85 of Crownless Heirs

They stepped out into the alleyway, the tavern door groaning shut behind them. It felt like night.

The cliffs rose high on both sides, turning the narrow path into a tunnel of damp shadow. The smell of old beer and ash still clung to their clothes, thick in the quiet that followed them.

Their boots echoed against the stone as they walked. Far below, waves slammed into the rock face, distant but steady.

When the alley opened, the light hit hard.

It was sudden, the sunlight pouring in from above, bright and after the dark. Sorcha blinked against it. Her eyes needed a moment to adjust. Ahead, the town had returned to life. Voices shouted from rooftops. A cart creaked past with sacks of flour strapped down in twine. The breeze carried the scent of spices and sweets baking nearby. And beyond all of it, the harbor. Ships bobbed gently at anchor. Sailcloth flapped and ropes groaned under the shifting of the tide. Sorcha stepped forward and slowed near the edge of the dock. Her eyes caught something farther out, just beyond the outer line of boats. At first, it looked like a shadow in the water, nothing more than a patch of sea caught in the wrong light. But it moved slow and unnatural. The shadow rolled just beneath the surface.

She stared at it for a long time, lips parted, not speaking. Then she turned to the others.

“I have a bad feeling.”

Kyron watched her, but didn’t say anything. Maelan shifted his weight, glancing toward the water.

“That thing Cavan spoke of,” Sorcha said, her voice low, “I don’t think it ever left.”

She looked back at the sea.

“It’s out there. And it’s waiting for us.”

36

Citrine

About damn time!” Fergal’s voice carried over the docks, loud and easy. He stood near the railing of the Mara’s Mercy, one hand on the rigging, the other raised in a lazy wave. The morning sun caught the edge of his grin. He looked like he belonged there, boots braced, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Wind tugged at his sandy blond hair, pulled back from his face. He couldn’t have been more than his mid twenties, but there was a steadiness in him, the kind that only came from time at sea.

Sorcha watched him from the dock, just for a moment longer than she meant to. She adjusted the strap on her bag and kept walking.

The four of them crossed the dock in silence and made their way up the gangplank. The ship rocked beneath their steps, boards warm from the sun, sails pulled tight and ready. The Mercy creaked like she was stretching her bones.

Behind them came the steady rattle of a handcart over the planks. Aiden pushed it toward the ship, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sleeves rolled high. The cart was loaded with what they’d need. Bundles of dried meat, loaves of dense bread, cloth-wrapped fruit, and rows of canteens.

“We’re going to be at sea for a while,” he said, nodding to the stack. “We’ll need every bit of it.”

Fergal hopped down to meet him, grabbing the edge of the cart.

“Help get it below,” he called over his shoulder, and one of the crew moved fast to obey.

Fergal leaned against the railing, watching as the cart disappeared below deck. A few moments went before he yelled.

“Alright, lads!” he called out, voice lifting over the creak of the deck and flap of sails. “Get up here and meet the people we’re sailing with!”

Five men made their way over, moving with the kind of confidence that came from real time at sea. Their boots hit the boards hard. Rolled sleeves, worn weapons, sun on their faces. They looked rough, capable, and at home on the ship.

“These are my people,” Fergal said, glancing at Sorcha, Kyron, and Maelan. “Crew, fighters, and some of the best bastards I’ve ever bled beside.”

He pointed first to the broad-shouldered man already resting against the mast. His fiery auburn hair was messily tied in a bun on the top of his head, some of the strands falling across his face. Scars adorned his skin, he had seen many a fight, and it showed.

“That’s Aiden. Strong enough to carry a cannon if he wanted to. He’s the quiet type but don’t test him.”

Aiden said nothing, but gave a slow nod.

“Eoin,” Fergal continued, motioning to the youngest of the group, lute slung across his back, a cheeky grin already forming. “Cook, supply master, and gods help us, our entertainment. You’ll either love him or want to toss him overboard.”

Eoin gave a dramatic bow. His sun bleached hair fell over his eyes and as he brushed the hair back, he exposed lapis blue eyes that sparkled with trouble “Usually both.”

Fergal shook his head but smirked.