The wind stank of sulfur and wet ash.
Darion stood at the prow of the sloop Grinning Widow, eyes locked on the horizon where a massive, broken spire jutted from the sea like a tooth from a drowned god's mouth. Around it clustered rusted ships—some afloat, others barely clinging to the waterline.
"That's the meeting place?" Mara asked, squinting.
"The Maw," Rourke answered behind her. "Where the last Pirate Kings swore blood oaths to bind the Abyss."
"Looks like it's falling apart."
Rourke snorted. "So are the ones who swore it."
The spire, once a naval fortress, had been gutted by cannon fire a century ago. Now, it served a darker purpose. Only the most ancient captains—those who'd stared into the depths and survived—were allowed to gather there.
Darion had never been inside. Not as a member.
But now he carried a blood compass. And Mara—whether she admitted it or not—was no longer entirely human.
That made them valuable. Or dangerous.
Maybe both.
The Maw
A dozen skiffs and sloops were anchored at the base of the Maw. Their flags were tattered, some marked with old insignias: bone krakens, hollow anchors, red knives.
Darion saw faces he recognized—most he'd rather forget.
They ascended rusted iron steps that spiraled up the inner wall of the Maw. The air was damp, the stone slick with moss and something that glowed faintly blue in the cracks. Mara stared at it.
"Is that… alive?"
"Probably," Rourke muttered. "Try not to lick it."
As they entered the main chamber—once a throne room, now a scarred shell with sea wind blowing through broken archways—six figures waited around a half-circle stone table.
Each bore the look of someone who'd bled for every coin and breath they'd ever had.
The Black Tide Council.
At the center stood a woman with iron-grey hair braided tight to her scalp, her coat black as pitch and her eyes like shattered glass.
Captain Syra Vex.
Darion stiffened.
"Your name wasn't invited here," she said without looking at him. "And your blood's not thick enough to sit."
"Nice to see you too," Darion muttered.
Syra's eyes moved to Mara. "But the girl… that's different."
"She holds the compass," Rourke said.
Murmurs.
"And something more," Syra said. "Step forward, girl."
Mara didn't hesitate. She stepped up and placed the compass—and the veiled crown fragment—in the center of the table.
The table darkened. Water bled from its cracks. A cold breeze blew, though no window stood open.
"Blood of the sea," one captain whispered. "By the Deep…"
"She's marked," Syra said. "The Queen's scent is on her."
"I'm not hers," Mara snapped.
"No," Syra said. "Not yet. But she's watching through you. Listening."
Darion stepped beside her. "She didn't choose this. We went to Serpent's Tail to stop something, not start it."
Syra finally looked at him. "And failed."
Broken Oaths and Blood Debts
The Council convened around the table. Rourke remained silent, watching everything. Another captain, a tall, skeletal man named Gort, slammed a rusted dagger into the wood.
"We swore not to touch the Queen's relics."
"And yet it called to them," another said.
"She didn't awaken by accident," Syra growled. "Someone fed blood into the wrong lock."
Darion's face tightened. "So what now? You argue until the tide turns black and the world drowns?"
"We act," Syra said. "But with care. If the Queen marked the girl, then she's our key—or our curse."
Mara's jaw clenched. "I'm not your puppet."
"Nor a member of this Council," Gort snapped.
"She's more useful than any of you," Rourke said. "She faced the Undrowned. Bound the fragment. Held her ground."
"She's a child," Gort said.
"She's a survivor," Darion shot back.
The silence that followed felt like a taut rope ready to snap.
Then Syra sighed. "There's only one path forward."
She turned to Mara. "The Queen's relics were scattered across five cursed islands—each one locked behind ruin codes. The compass can locate them."
"And I'm guessing you want me to collect them," Mara said flatly.
"No," Syra said. "We want you to destroy them. Before someone else assembles the full crown."
Darion frowned. "Someone else?"
Syra's fingers tapped the table. "There's a faction among the old tides—those who want the Queen to rise again. They call themselves the Drowned Court."
Rourke cursed.
"They believe she'll grant dominion of the seas," Syra continued. "Immortality. Power beyond nations."
"She'll destroy everything," Mara said.
"They don't care," Darion muttered. "Or they think they'll control her."
"The next fragment is on Griefwater Atoll," Syra said. "But you won't be alone."
She nodded toward the shadows.
A figure stepped forward. Long, pale coat. A sword that looked too ancient to remain whole. And eyes that gleamed silver-blue.
Abyr of the Knives.
A legend. A killer. A man who'd once murdered a sea god's avatar for fun—or revenge. No one was sure which.
"I don't need a babysitter," Mara said coldly.
"You need a shield," Syra replied. "And he follows orders."
Abyr inclined his head. "So far."
Darion's hand went to his belt. "You sure about this?"
"No," Syra said. "But I'm sure of what's coming."
Ghosts in the Hall
That night, as the sea slammed against the Maw's foundation, Darion stood on a ledge overlooking the ship cluster. Mara sat nearby, arms wrapped around her knees.
"She wants me," she said quietly.
Darion glanced at her.
"The Queen. She's in my head. Not words. Just… warmth. Like sinking. Like giving up."
He sat beside her. "You're stronger than that."
"I didn't ask for this."
"No one asks to be chosen by monsters," he said. "They just endure them."
She looked at him then. "Why did you leave the Iron Tide?"
Darion's face darkened. "Because I saw what they became. We started as pirates. Thieves. But then we began believing in legends. Worshipping things beneath the waves."
"And you defected."
"I ran. Took the compass. Hid it. Thought I buried the past."
He looked her in the eyes.
"But now the past wants blood."
Council Betrayal
Back in the council chamber, Syra met privately with Rourke.
"He won't stay loyal."
"Darion?"
"No. The knife."
Abyr.
"He'll follow the girl if she becomes Queen."
Rourke nodded. "Then we make sure she never gets that far."
Syra slid a sealed scroll across the table.
"You'll deliver this to the Atoll's guardian. If the girl fails to die naturally…"
Rourke took it. "Understood."
"She's strong," Syra said quietly. "But strength's never enough when the sea wants you."
And far below the Maw, in the cracks of the ocean floor, something laughed.