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Gods, his name again. It’s like being stabbed in the heart, but I force my voice steady. “Hmmm, I don’t like that. At all. I don’t like royals thinking they can come play in my town, on my island, without my consent. Especially if they think I’ve gone missing.” Even in my absence I should still be feared. It’s the only way to maintain order in this lawless land.
I push open the wooden doors to Pebble’s. The familiar scent of smoke, sea salt, and rum greets me, but it’s unusually quiet. Nyra follows me inside.
“Do you know if they made any deals while in the Underground?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. It sounded more like they were trying to win back the money they lost at the docks.”
My eyes narrow. “What were they losing at the docks?” I ask.
“I don’t really know what types of games they were playing, but I know they were with pirates,” she answers.
My brow furrows. That doesn’t make sense. How did they even know about the Underground? That information is earned.
The Underground is not for pampered royals. It belongs to pirates, mercenaries, slayers, and the kind of nobility with enough blood on their hands to understand discretion. Only the highest-ranking royals, the ones bound by my treaty, know it exists. And even then, they know better than to speak of it.
The treaty governs the waters of Coral Haven: trading routes, sanctioned slayers, pirate passage, and safe harbor agreements. They get some of the most skilled slayers, and in return, we get safety. It is the only thing keeping chaos from swallowing the coast whole. Hale nearly destroyed it when he shattered the original accords. Since then, I’ve been stitching it back together thread by fragile thread.
Maddoc was helping me from the royals’ side. He knew which houses could be trusted, which captains would honor their word. Now that he’s gone, I’ll need to find someone else to help make sure their side of the agreement is met. That is, if the king doesn't have his greedy little paws all over it yet. If he knew how much Maddoc meant to me then he surely knows of how we met.
“I have work to do,” I say finally, turning toward the bar. “I’ll check in with you later. Will you be all right?”
Nyra reels back, then scoffs.
“I finally see you, you answer all my questions halfway only to demand yours answered fully, and now you’re running off again? When will I see you next? Four weeks?” Her sarcastic tone masks an undercurrent of deep hurt.
“Gods, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound like an obsessive lover.” I let out a low laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but she doesn’t find it funny. “I’m joking. I’m sorry.”
I reach out, placing both hands on her arms to ground her. “I’m back now. I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon. And if I do, I’ll tell you. I swear it. I’m sorry for disappearing without a word, but trust me, I had no control over what happened.” I may look brand new right now, but I’m broken in ways I can’t explain. One day, I’ll be healed enough to tell her about it, but not now. It’s too fresh.
The memories hit me all at once. Silas’s body torn apart beneath my talons. Maddoc’s lifeless eyes staring up at me as the blade he forged for me found his heart. The glowing hands and amber eyes.
“Fine,” she finally says, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. “I trust you, Nessa. But no more fucking games, all right? Some of us actually care about you. This whole island does. Your disappearance complicates things.”
Her words land heavier than she knows. Sometimes I wonder if she understands how much the responsibility of Magda weighs on me. Does anyone? Do I? I manage a small smile, the kind that barely touches my eyes. “I know.” My hands drop to my sides, fingers brushing the edge of my cloak. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
She nods, the tension in her shoulders softening just a little. I slip past her, back through the doors we just came through, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing behind me.
Chapter eighteen
My Island
I climb the old, weathered ladder, each step groaning beneath my weight. When I reach the top, I knock on Zorren’s window once, twice. No answer. Strange.
Peering through the fogged glass, I spot the fire still burning, casting flickering light across a spotless room. The place is unnervingly tidy, boxes stacked neatly to one side, everything in order. A sharp contrast to the chaos I remember the last time I was here.
He’s not here. Unease surges through me. If he’s not home, then he’s at the Ring, either passed out, restless and training, or hurt. None of which explains the fire still lit. Maybe I’ve only just missed him.
I climb back down the creaky ladder, boots thudding onto slick cobblestone. I pull my hood up and head toward the lower side of town, the part of Magda that anyone with sense avoids after sundown.
The Academy may breed killers, but this district worships them. The Ring waits at the heart of it all. The infamous fighting pit is where debts are settled without paper trails, where alliances are forged in blood, where men step inside for coin and leave in coffins.
No banners hang with royal insignias or signage of law. Here, there’s just roaring crowds and the promise that someone will die before the night is over.
I pull out my pouch of tobacco. Pinching some between my fingers, I expect it to be dry from sitting in my pocket for a month. But it’s fresh enough. Unease stirs in my gut as I pack my pipe. Little ember, his voice whispers in the back of my head as I strike a flame and watch it flare to life, deep oranges, burning golds. The memory sends goosebumps crawling up my arms and down my spine. I roll my eyes and take a shallow inhale, letting the smoke fill my mouth. The exhale unfurls steadily, curling into the air as the golden morning light fades beneath creeping clouds.
I look up. The sky has darkened, clouds heavy and swollen. A storm is rolling in. As I make my way toward the Ring, my pipe between my fingers, a strange prickle runs up my spine. Something’s wrong.
That ship I spotted on the horizon this morning flashes through my mind again. I walk past the docks, careful never to step too far onto the planks. Then I spot it, finally close enough to make out the crest on its sails. It’s a royal ship. What the fuck are they doing here? What makes them think they can dock here without permission?
